Trouble Won't Wait (20 page)

Adam’s dishing up plates of spaghetti with sauce from a jar, and it smells delicious. At home, I would have barely nibbled at a corner of garlic bread with this meal, but with him my appetite is tremendous. For more things than food, obviously. He pulls out real shredded parmesan, instead of the powdery grated kind in the green shaker. Good boy. He nukes each plate to warm the sauce, and I swear the meal tastes gourmet.

After mopping up sauce with my third slice of garlic bread, I ask, “You’re not going to visit your parents for Christmas?” Odd, how he’s all alone for the holidays. He doesn’t seem like the type to have a long-standing grudge with his family.

“They’re coming out around New Year’s.”

“So you’re playing Benevolent Boss again, letting your guys off to be with their families while you work?”

He shrugs. “Somethin’ like that.”

“They better appreciate it, because one of these days you’ll have a family of your own to be with.” Shit, where did that come from?

His blue eyes rest on me, and I can honestly say I have no idea what’s going through his head. Whether it’s shock, fear, lust, joy, hope or hurt, I can’t tell. Maybe a combination?

“You think it’s pathetic for me to be alone and working on the holidays?”
That’s
resentment.

“No, I think it’s noble. Lots of guys would use their position as an excuse to take off while the underlings work.”

His jaw is still stiff.

“Adam, I know you have family, and I don’t believe for a second that you’re estranged. For whatever reason, you’re out doing your own thing, is all. I bet it kills them for you to be here alone. One day you’ll tell me about it.”

It’s not a request, it’s an expectation. My tone is light, because I’m not worried about it. In his own time, he’ll tell me his story, let me in. I know this because I’ve grown to trust him implicitly. The aquifer of sadness in him I sensed the first day is still there. Its level goes down and up, sometimes spilling out, like when I asked him why he’d been celibate for two years. One day maybe I can help lower it enough that he has to purposely draw some up to get at it.

Now he’s looking at me like I’ve seen into his soul, like I have magic powers of deduction. I like him thinking I’m figuring him out, especially since most of the time I wonder if I ever will.

“The only thing I’ve found pathetic in this house so far was those stiff sheets you were using. Hello, fabric softener is not a new concept! My God, I’ve felt softer burlap.”

“Yeah, we
men
don’t need all those wimpy softeners like girls do.” He flexes his bulging biceps, showing how tough he is.

“Whatever. Then why’d you use it on your robe, dork?”

He grins, caught in his fib, his dimples betraying his amusement. “Just wanted it to be soft for you, baby.”

I wince at the term and he notices.

He tries it out again, “
Baby?
”

I close my eyes, curling my lip.

“Got it.”

We roast marshmallows in front of his fire, competing to see whose comes out the best, and both claiming victory.

My phone rings. I answer, “Hi, Aunt Clara.”

“Amanda, it’s Aunt Clara.” Caller ID is an innovation she hasn’t picked up on.

I smile at Adam as I pull the phone back a safe distance from my ear.

“The kids are all done helpin’ me now. Markus said you’d be by to pick them up.” She must be ready for them to leave, and knowing her, she means
now
.

“Okay, I’ll be right there. You don’t need me to run any errands or anything?”

“No, honey, I’ve got Franklin to drive me around if I need to go somewhere.”

God, that guy is blind death with a steering wheel. Terrifying. And he’s not one of those pokey old geezers who putts down the road. No, Franklin’s average speed equals his age, and he’s an octogenarian–with an eyeglass prescription older than his ’75 Cadillac.

“It’s really no trouble, Aunt Clara. I have to go down the hill anyway. If you think of anything when I get there, I’ll do it.”

After we hang up, Adam is smiling, no dimples.

“It would really suck for her to make it to ninety in good health, and get killed riding around with Mario Andretti’s grandpa.”

“Do you take care of everybody?”

“I try, if they let me.” He’s moving toward me with that look, the one that gets us into trouble. “I have to go, Adam.”

“I’m gonna take care of
you
, soon.” Adam’s hot mouth brushes over mine for too short a time, then he hugs me from head to toe, leaving the front of me much warmer than the back. He helps me into my coat, and gives me another peck before opening his front door, sighing as if saddened by my leaving.

I wave from behind the wheel, and he winks from his steps.

* * * *

The kids are playing tag outside Clara’s apartment, likely trying to escape her hot-house. She’s fed them lunch down in the cafeteria, which I’m sure I’ll hear bad reviews about on the way home. Clara grins at me as if she knows exactly where I’ve been, and I feel myself blushing and unable to meet her eyes. Each kid bears a small baggie of Nutter Butters and circus peanut marshmallows. They climb in my vehicle smelling of rose potpourri. I have to smile. Some things, at least, stay the same.

* * * *

My kids beg to have Jake come play, so I take him straight to our house. Ben uses my phone on the way to call Mark and Kenna to let them know Jake is coming home with us. I’m doing laundry while the kids play downstairs, when Ben walks into the laundry room. “Hey, Bean,” I chirp, ruffling his dark hair. He’s got my phone in his hands again.

“Mom, who’s this first number in your phone?”

My heart takes off pumping fast, and I’m tense, like when I’m running late for an important appointment. The first number in my phone is Adam. I didn’t enter his name. I was goofing with the symbols and uppercase stuff, and it came out #### somehow, so I just left it that way.

I concentrate very hard on the shirt I’m ironing. “Um, I was walking in the cemetery and I ran into this guy…and he was….” I try to get the sleeves lined up. “He had a, um….” I’ve ironed the crease off-center, and now I have to press it back out. Shit, what can I say?

Ben fidgets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, tired of waiting for my answer. “Is it something for sale, like the numbers Dad always saves in his phone?”

Mike is forever seeing For Sale signs on trucks and RVs, saving the numbers in his phone, and then forgetting to delete them.

I nod, hating myself for lying to my son. “Um, yeah, a…” Something I need, something people get rid of. Exercise equipment? “Treadmill!”

“Cute Mom. Pound, pound, pound. Like in the comics, from the sound of running. Is it a nice one?”

“Really nice.” At least that’s no lie.

“Okay! Bye Mom.” He leaves, and the guilt I feel over lying to him tightens around my chest like an enormous blood-pressure cuff.

* * * *

Mike comes home in a happy mood, trying especially hard to be nice to me. More flowers, this time a huge colorful arrangement from the florist, not the grocery store. He suggests we take the kids to a movie, and I agree. It beats trying to fill the evening by getting along. Jake decides not to join us–he has a not-so-subtle aversion to his Uncle Mike lately–so I run him home.

* * * *

Mark opens his front door, letting Jake and I in. After Jake has disappeared to his room, Mark asks, “Why’d you ask about hunting season?”

I’d forgotten how annoyed I was with Mark when he didn’t answer me. “No big deal, never mind.” Something inside is warning me I
really
don’t want to know any more about hunting seasons.

“Where’s the little mister today?” Mark’s figured something out. He’s wearing the same look as when he saw me stashing condoms in my purse for the prom date when I planned to lose my virginity.

“I gotta go, Mark.” I don’t want to know what he’s figured out. Why did I ever ask him about hunting seasons? I head toward the door.

He plants his oversized body between me and the door, blocking my escape to the Republic of Ignorant Bliss. “Dumb and Dumber and I were talkin’ earlier, about the new restrictions on water fowl huntin’, and how they shut down all the seasons for December on the western slope.”

Okay, so maybe Mike is out doing some secret thing, some surprise thing, trying to win me back. He can’t really be spending whole days out cheating, can he? Lord knows, he hasn’t had that kind of stamina for several years.

“Pheasant? Turkey? Grouse?” I’m grasping at straws, naming everything I know of Mike ever shooting in the winter.

Mark shakes his head with each guess.

“Well, thanks. You’ve been very helpful,” I snipe.

“Don’t shoot the messenger!”

“Is this funny to you?” I want to fight. I want to yell at Mark, because
his
marriage isn’t falling apart. He must feel so superior. He’ll be able to look down on me and feel sorry for me the rest of our lives. I smack his chest, but he doesn’t even flinch. I get the feeling he’d let me pummel him as long as I’d like, if it would make me feel better. His pity angers me more.

“No, not funny.” His voice is past the Impatient Mark point. I look up to see he’s mad, and I hope it’s not because of me. “I got a notion to go bust his ass, Mand. If your kids weren’t home, I’d do it. Let him know he has it comin’, will ya?” He tugs me into a big bear hug, then sets me back on my feet.

With my hand on the doorknob, I turn back to him. I need to be certain first, but an idea, a plan, is forming far back in my head, in the place where my stories come from. “Don’t say anything about it yet, Mark. I’m working on something.”

“Yeah, like what?”

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, right bro?”

When I leave, both his door and his mouth are hanging open.

They say when life gives you lemons, you should make lemonade. I’m thinking more along the lines of lobbing those lemons right at a point between Mike’s eyes. Better yet, right between his legs.

* * * *

I want to get on the computer. I have “research” to do. But my family is ready to go to a holiday blockbuster, so we go. My mind churns like water at the base of a spillway. Ideas come up, I examine them, then they go down and others surface. I skim off what I like, making a neat mental stack of the things I can use. The kids enjoy the movie and pay little attention to Mike and me. When his arm is around me, I fight back the rabid shudders of hate and revulsion his touch brings on. I’ve gotta change my mind-set in order to pull this off successfully.

Chapter 12

At home, I carefully change into my sleepwear in my closet, as always, but I make sure Mike gets plenty of
unintentional
glimpses of me while I do it. And I’m not in my yoga pants. A long silk nightgown, now loose enough to barely skim my curves, still hugs my breasts nicely. I want him to see what he’s going to miss, what he’s thrown away in exchange for fast, dirty sex with Lana. As I pause to look for a minute at him alone in our bed, I allow myself to appear sympathetic. And when I exit the room, I even wipe at an imaginary tear, telling him softly, “’Night, Mikey.”

The door at the base of the stairs gets locked again, but instead of going right to bed, I log onto the internet. I’m the only one who ever accesses our cellular account on-line. Our paper bills don’t show call details, but our web account will. I’m holding my breath, thinking maybe this is all an overreaction and a mistake about Mike’s “hunting.”

Until I see who he’s been calling and getting calls from. Lana. I refuse to let this hurt. Mad, I have to be mad. Naturally, no calls between them on those Saturdays when he was out hunting. Not much of a hunt, really. More like
being
hunted. Can’t he see what a whore she is?

My grandpa used to say women are the only predators who use themselves as bait. I guess Lana’s a pro, because it seems like Mike doesn’t even care how many other guys are nibbling her at the same time. Eww. And to think I almost gave in and slept with him a little over a week ago.

Oh, no. Now I’m feeling sick. He spent Saturday with her, then came home claiming he thought of me all day. He was so happy–whistling, loving. Then he tried to force himself on
me
. I bet she’d hate that! No wonder his guilt is of record-breaking depth. The entire time he’s been begging my forgiveness, he’s been accumulating more sins. Jesus, what a sick bastard. Why does he want so much to reconcile?

How long was this going on before I found them out? I
will
be sick if I discover I slept with him after she had.

Even after going back another month in the records, I find no calls to or from her before Thanksgiving. Thank God for small miracles.

Upstairs, I’m in the kitchen under the pretext of getting a glass of water, and I locate Mike’s cell on the counter. He’s sleeping; I can hear the snores. I flip open his phone to the call logs. Sure enough, Mikey’s been covering his tracks as well as he knows how. The logs have all been purged. Good work, Mike. Way to cover your butt. Except you don’t know the little woman can see who you’re calling as soon as you do it.