by Inman Majors
She was sorely tempted to execute a proper kick to the back of Megan’s head. Such a Chuck Norris stunt would be ironic after all the fun she’d made of Karate James, but who cared? This was intimidation pure and simple.
Before she could do something rash, the music stopped and Cheryl said: “Last break. Get water if you need it. We’re going to sweat it out these last fifteen.”
Penelope stalked to her water bottle—the one with the straw that Orca Boy had chewed to a nub—which she’d placed against the side wall. She stood there gulping and staring at this very rude person. Was she mental? The object of her scorn was talking to Mimi. There were several women around Grandma Newton John, all of them chatting and smiling away as they sipped from their own water bottles. It was clear Mimi was the Fonz of the class and that everyone wanted a piece of the fountain of youth she was swigging from. Seeing Penelope standing alone, the older woman hailed her with a “Come on over and meet the gals, honey.”
This invitation disarmed Penelope a bit and she strode over wondering if she’d overreacted to the stalker-trainer thing. Maybe being at the front was a Fitness Plus employee bonus. The women around Mimi were around Penelope’s age or younger and they smiled and welcomed her, got her name, and gave theirs. All except Megan.
“This new girl here caught on quick,” Mimi said, placing her hand on Penelope’s shoulder. “She might give Cheryl a run for her money.”
The dance leader was fiddling with the CD player but apparently overheard this, for she said, “Tell me about it. She’s like Mimi junior up there.”
Penelope’s irritation vanished at the news that she had been dancing as diva-fantastic as she thought. She knew she was smiling too much and should have begged off with a bit of self-deprecation but before she could speak, Trainer Megan said, “So Mimi, what are you doing this weekend?”
This turned the conversation away from the newest ass-kicking member of the dance team and back onto the jazzy senior, just—
Penelope suspected—as Megan had intended. The trainer was turned so that her back was to Penelope, much like one basketball player boxing out another. When the music started again, Mimi winked and said, “Get back over here next to me, Penelope. Megan won’t mind.”
Though Megan obviously did mind, she said otherwise. It was clear no one wanted to look uncool in front of Mimi. Penelope was back in her former spot but had no more room to work with. Trainer Megan was now giving the lady in green a wide berth and crowding the hell out of her from the left. She decided to just tough it out and ride that Mimi wink to the end of class. One day soon, she hoped, she and the older woman would be gym besties.
When class was over, Penelope was planning to talk outside the studio with Mimi, then maybe try out some new machines. She was standing next to the indoor track, waiting for the group of admirers around the geriatric marvel to disperse, when she was tapped brusquely on the shoulder. She turned to find Trainer Megan standing before her.
“I hear Brad asked you out.”
Penelope said, “What?”
“Brad said he asked you out, but you didn’t reply.”
Penelope felt no compulsion to verify this.
“Well, he’s a really good friend of mine. We’re in the same rock climbing group. Do you climb?”
Penelope gave her best indulgent smile and said, “Not at all.”
“I figured. He’s really into outdoor adventure kind of stuff. Mountain biking, rappelling, that sort of thing. I think he’s looking for someone who’s into extreme sports as well. Just a heads up.”
As she took all this in, Penelope noticed someone race across the training area, checking his watch as he did, stomp up the stairs to the cycling zone, and hop astride a stationary bike. Megan saw this and Penelope’s mystified look as well, and said: “He’s training for a triathlon next month.”
“That’s cool,” Penelope said. “I ran the Boston Marathon last year.”
“What was your time?”
Penelope realized this woman thought she was lying, and not just being an old-fashioned smartass.
“I don’t like to brag, but it was a personal best. Boston wasn’t nearly as tough as I thought it would be. I didn’t even train that much. It’s totally overrated.”
“Oh, come on. What was your time? I can look it up online, you know.”
Penelope was annoyed now and refused to give in. She could keep this going as long as it took. Unfortunately, she had no idea if a fast marathon runner should take two or four or sixteen hours. She walked plenty but couldn’t remember the last time she’d run. Probably that time at the park when Theo got chased by the ducks.
“I really hate to brag. It was a personal best though. By a lot.”
“You should sign up for the Hillsboro mini tri next month. Brad and I are both doing it. Let me get you a registration form from the front desk.”
Fine, thought Penelope. Knock yourself out. I’ll be there bright and early at never o’clock.
She was heading toward the free weights when Brad hopped off his stationary bike and dashed toward the track. He didn’t slow at all as he ran past her but did say, “Did you get my message?”
Penelope shouted at his sweaty back that she had. He sprinted past her twice more as she trekked over to the weights. She was moving more gingerly than usual because her butt and thighs were starting to hurt. She feared immobility in the morning as the price for showing off in class, but thought the pain well worth it. Brad seemed especially active and was dashing past seniors in the walking lane and shouting On your right! every three seconds. As he ran he would check his watch and then his Fitbit. The devices were on opposite wrists so as he swung them up toward his face he looked very much like a windup toy soldier on speed. It was quite the spectacle.
She’d already decided that she would agree to meet him for lunch or coffee. Maybe even a drink after work. But did agreeing to that—
alcohol in the PM—imply that hanky-panky was in play?
She went to a machine with a single bar hanging down. Who cared how it looked? She was a grown woman. She could have a drink whenever she wanted. It didn’t imply anything. Who’d brainwashed her to be so priggish about form? She sat down on the seat, unsure which way to face. It was the bidet dilemma all over again. Luckily, Mimi walked by and said, “If you want to work your shoulders, face away. If you want to work your triceps, face forward. It took me forever to figure out how all these work.”
“Thanks,” Penelope said.
“Don’t think a thing about it. I’m glad to have a smiley new gal in the gym. Too many grumps in here.”
Mimi gave a dramatic eye roll and a smile then went toward the free weights. After she was gone, Brad jogged over, checking his watch as he did.
“Hey,” he said, with sweat streaming off his gleaming dome. “How’s it going?”
“Good. I’m not working nearly as hard as you.”
“Yeah,” he said, starting a series of vigorous squats. “I’m racing around like a madman, trying out this total body circuit training. I get bored if I do the same thing over and over, so I’m always looking for new workouts. With this one, you do ten stations—or circuits—for three minutes each. Mix of strength, endurance, and fitness. It’s pretty fun. You should try it sometime. I’ve got burpees next.”
Penelope wasn’t sure what a burpee was but the name alone gave her indigestion.
“I’m just going to do a few machines then head out. Maybe some other time.”
“Sure,” he said, standing up and checking his watch before launching into another set. “No worries. And still glad to help you with a workout routine if you like. I can tailor it however you want.”
“That would be great. Maybe during a weekend sometime. Or after work? Then we could grab coffee or a drink afterwards?”
“Awesome,” he replied midsquat. It wasn’t the most attractive thing she’d ever seen while making a date but she supposed there were different rules in a gym. “Would Saturday work? An
d then maybe lunch?”
“I think so, but let me check my schedule. I can text you and let you know.”
“Sounds good. We’ll keep it casual.”
He paused at the top of his squat and looked over her shoulder with a furrowed brow. Penelope turned to find the obsessed trainer coming their way, brusquely waving a piece of paper.
“Hey Brad,” she said. “I was just getting a registration form for our new member. She says she’s really into marathons, so I thought she’d be interested in our little tri.”
Brad checked his watch. The burpee portion of his day was growing nigh.
“Really?” said Brad, looking at Penelope.
“She says she ran the Boston Marathon last year and it wasn’t that hard. Isn’t that right?”
Brad checked his watch again, and Penelope decided to stall.
“Well here’s the form,” Megan said, thrusting it toward her.
“You say it’s a mini triathlon?”
Penelope said this with a sour-pickle face to show that she found such an event beneath her talent and training.
“Yes,” said Megan. “So it should be a piece of cake. I think she should sign up, don’t you, Brad?”
“Sure. We could all train together. What do you say, Penelope?”
Penelope could tell she was on the verge of committing to something just to call a bluff but resisted. “I don’t know. I’m really busy with this situation at work, but I’ll have a look.”
“Great,” said Brad. “We can talk about it later. I’ve got to jet. Text me.”
And with that he was booking across the gym, heeding the siren call of a hundred burpees.
Megan said, “The form’s right there.”
“Thanks so much,” Penelope said, offering her most insincere smile.
Then she was pulling at the bar in a way that was supposed to work either her shoulders or triceps. She had no idea.
20
Penelope was back home after dodging triathlons at Fitness Plus. She’d gone to the mailbox first thing and discovered the usual heaping helping of bills. Visa, Verizon, and Hillsboro Utility all wanted her to pay up pronto. It would be tight, very tight, until her next paycheck, but if nothing unexpected came up, she could swing it.
There was also a letter from Theo.
Walking down her gravel drive, she reminded herself that the trash would come tomorrow and that she shouldn’t push it out to the road until in the morning. She’d received a call that morning from Chad, her landlord, warning of roaming dogs in the area who’d been tipping garbage cans. Thoughts of dogs made her wish for one.
A nice pet might keep Theo from getting lonely in his new house.
She entered the kitchen, fiddling with the letter, which, now that she examined it, looked as if had been used to scoop up salamanders. It was smudged all over with grimy fingerprints, dirt, and possibly peanut butter. Too anxious to open the envelope that would either alleviate her worries or expand them exponentially, she thought again of the feasibility of a dog. They had the perfect spot for a one if the landlords were cool with it. Of course there was the whole pet dander issue, yet another Bubble Boy trait Theo had gotten from his father.
She was thinking about dogs and bills and her ex-husband’s Anglo-Saxon frailties as a way to distract herself from the seven hundred dollars her creditors were requesting and from Theo’s lonely missive from camp. Able to stand the tension no longer, she flung the bills—fuckers—onto the kitchen table and ripped into the soiled envelope. In slanted print, the height of the letters varying from word to word as if it had been composed in the bowels of a rolling ship, Theo wrote:
Dear Mom,
Camp is okay. We fish and hike a lot. It’s hot. I lost my compass when I tipped over in the canoe. Don’t worry, I had a life jacket on. They are ringing the dinner bell so I have to go. Kids yell if you make your cabin line up late. First cabin gets to eat first.
Love,
Theo
Penelope didn’t like that part about kids yelling. Theo hadn’t mentioned that he was the tardy cabin member, but she’d bet money he’d screwed up the line at least once. It was virtually impossible to get him to move without vigorous prompting, unless continued video gaming power was involved.
Penelope let out a long breath she didn’t know she was holding. There was no overt bad news. Theo was fine. She should stop worrying.
She decided on a quick, light supper, a glass of wine, and a long, unhurried, candlelit bath. Then she’d finish the night with a healthy stretch of Unchaste Places. She’d reply to Brad, as well, but suggest lunch without the workout. Or just straight-up drinks and supper. Yes, that sounded better. She didn’t have to live vicariously through Miranda her whole life.
She awoke Friday morning from a dream that had begun auspiciously, with her entering a room with a brass door and discovering that what lay within was a sumptuous sauna that bore a close resemblance to Spa Helvetica. She was in the bubbly warm water with a man who was speaking French and offering her champagne. At some point, right when drink flutes had been flung without repercussions over her and the Frenchy’s shoulders and they were moving in for their first erotic embrace, the sauna had turned into her own bathroom and Henri had morphed into Active Brad. He seemed nude but Penelope couldn’t be sure. Two sweaty wrists, a watch, and Fitbit were clear but the rest hazy. Still, this was promising.
Unfortunately, Active Brad then turned into Theo. He was looking for his missing compass and had stumbled upon the complicated present hidden in her bedroom closet. His face was scrunched up and he was turning the green cylinder in his hand as if trying to get it to point due north. He said, “Why is your name on this, Mom?” And then her mother was there, too, though now they were in her high school bedroom. Theo handed the item to his grandmother with a puzzled look, but she shook her head and said, “No, Theo, this isn’t the trowel. Don’t you know your garden implements?”
This is when Penelope woke with a start. It took her a while to extricate herself from her knotted and sweat-soaked sheets and she cursed herself for forgetting to turn down the air before turning in. Sleeping in a hot room always gave her crazy dreams. Head clearing, she recalled the specifics of the nightmare. The HHR would have a field day interpreting this one, but the dullest blade in the drawer could trace the source of this angst back to the gift in the closet. Having just freed herself from the fetters of her sheets, she bounded from bed feeling both embarrassingly Puritanical and firmly resolute. Sexual liberation or no, the inscribed implement would have to go.
She threw on her robe and slippers and procured the item in question, perplexed again by the color combination. The green was the color of Fitzwilliam’s ascot and the orange that of a plastic jack-o’-lantern. They didn’t match at all. And the font that spelled her name couldn’t have been less romantic, all blockish and techno looking. It was a sex toy for a computer. Sex toy. What a truly stupid name. And perverse too. Why did they have to invoke childhood? She associated sex toys with weird guys in sheds. Was the oxymoron supposed to be funny? It sure wasn’t enticing. Dildo? Dildo was a clown with a nose that honked and a lapel flower that squirted water.
Whether it was the unfortunate names associated with the gift or her worry that Theo would stumble upon it in a mad search for battery chargers that made her decide it had to go, she wasn’t sure. But go it did. Straight to the trash can under the sink in the kitchen.
There. It was done. Maybe one of these days when Theo was out of the house permanently she could be a bit more adventurous as a soloist. Besides, she’d managed fine in the alone-time department since her teenage years. Back then, all she’d needed was a shirtless Jim Morrison poster to get the ball rolling. Now, it was the occasional erotic novel. She wasn’t prudish, just weird about stupid names and answering questions from a nine-year-old boy about her private affairs. It was completely understandable.
Out the window, the sun was just peeking over the trees. It looked to be a hot day. She hoped
Theo would remember to put on sunscreen and wondered if he was peeling yet. He usually lost several layers of epidermis during the course of a summer and his shoulders were always a flaky mess. She started her coffee and placed a bagel in the toaster oven then took the bag from the trash can, tied it, and took it to the big bin in the carport. She could see the garish green through the thin white bag as she walked and make out the orange PENELOPE LEMON as well. On her way back to the house, she heard a dog bark from over the hill and recalled the landlord’s warning about marauding, trash-tipping canines. What if they got to her bin before the trashmen did? Her refuse would be all over the lawn where anyone could see. She couldn’t risk it.
Feeling paranoid and moronic but also cagey, she opened the big bin, untied the top trash bag, and removed PENELOPE LEMON. She shook off a few coffee grounds that had attached themselves to it then stuck the device in the pocket of her robe. She glanced furtively once toward the landlord’s house in search of witnesses and felt silly for doing so. The recycling guys came to Rolling Acres today. It was a safer way to go, and more environmentally friendly, too.
21
She got to the office fifteen minutes early on the off chance that Missy would show up before nine. The personal item was in her purse and wrapped in a cloth napkin. She wished now that she’d put it inside some other recyclable object as a better cover, but the napkin had been the first thing to pop in her mind.
Hillsboro Waste Management picked up behind the office, near Carl Jr.’s tool shed, so all she had to do was sneak the pleasure device into some empty vessel she found lying around the office. She went to the front window to ensure that no one was about, then to the back window, where she visually swept the street before settling on Dimwit’s trailer. Studying this for a good while, looking for a glint of sun off of binoculars, she satisfied herself that nothing was obviously amiss and went back to her purse. With her back to the far window and spreading herself as broadly as she could, she sank slowly and subtly into a semisquat, removed the personal hardware from her purse, and thrust it—still wrapped in the napkin—into the farthest corner of her bottommost drawer. She shut the drawer as quietly as possible, then resumed a standing position.
