by Josie Brown
Aunt Phyllis’s smile fades.
As does the caterer’s happy face.
Ouch.
The kids are no dummies. They skedaddle, plates in hand. Not to miss a crumb, the dogs follow at their feet.
Jack is right behind them, the coward.
“I would imagine that there’s a little bit of leeway...right?”—I hold up a hand, thumb and index finger separated by an inch.
Okay, maybe a couple of inches.
Penelope rolls her eyes. “This feast is over budget…but at least it’s tolerable.”
“Too bad. It’s already paid for,” Aunt Phyllis exclaims.
Reminded of that, the caterer tosses her cap in the air like a graduate freed from her studies. She practically runs to her van.
Penelope’s hand sweeps toward my house. “I’d hate for the neighbors to learn of all the ways you’ve gouged the school. Shall we go inside, ladies?”
My aunt’s walk of shame is a mere twelve feet: from the front foyer to our formal dining room table, where brochures, receipts, decoration samples, floor plan diagrams for the serving tables, and guest seating are piled up.
Impressive indeed.
But one long look at a whiteboard sitting on the easel beside my midcentury mahogany sideboard is all it takes for any awe of her diligence to sink like a boulder in a lake of red ink.
Scrawled in Phyllis’s frenetic writing, the event’s numerous expenses—catering, balloons, decorations, props, band, side entertainment, and on and on—total twice the allotted budget.
Triple yikes!
Penelope smacks the board with an open hand. “Do you see what I’m dealing with? While you’re off gallivanting, I’ve been trying to reign in this spendthrift nincompoop!”
“Let’s be civil, shall we?” Phyllis sniffs.
Penelope nods grudgingly, but only because my aunt is still holding the saber.
“Well, it is a bit disconcerting,” I admit. “Perhaps there are areas in which we can dial back some of these costs.”
“But the kids will be disappointed!” Aunt Phyllis protests. Ticket sales are through the roof! It will be the most successful prom in Hilldale High School history!”
“Oh well, then—that’s great!” I point out. “If the ticket costs are covering a lot of the expense—”
“Um…not really.” Aunt Phyllis grimaces. “Okay, yeah—there will be a significant loss even after the current ticket sales are added in.”
Penelope taps a French-manicured index finger on one of the line items:
MUGGALOS - TALON
“This item alone costs ten thousand dollars!” Her double take is accompanied by a frown. “What the heck is it, anyway?”
“The musical entertainment,” Phyllis replies.
“That much money—for a band?”
“It’s not just any band,” my aunt retorts. “It’s the hottest group in the indie-pop world! Talon has a cult following.”
“They’re a cult? And you’ve invited them on campus?” Penelope whips around, growling, “See? What did I tell you? Spendthrift lunatic!”
“Nincompoop—” I correct her.
Aunt Phyllis arches a brow.
“—Of which my aunt is neither.” With a pleading glance, I pry the saber from Phyllis’ hand.
“If you remember, Penelope, the last time you butted your nose into my position as prom committee chair, you insisted that we hire a band handled by one of your old boyfriends. His contribution—at a very steep price, I might add—wasn’t Taylor Swift as he’d promised but a female impersonator.”
“You have to admit, if one didn’t know better, one couldn’t tell the difference,” Penelope sniffs.
I roll my eyes. “The Adam’s apple was a glaring giveaway.”
Aunt Phyllis snorts. “And I got the real deal at the same price? Get outta here!”
I pull out two chairs, side by side. “Okay, ladies—enough already! It’s time for a little teamwork.”
Slowly, they take their seats. I drop into another chair on Aunt Phyllis’s other side. That way I don’t get caught in the crossfire of their angry glares. “Now, let’s be creative!” I declare brightly. “Considering the expansive amount of fun and games to be had, why don’t we consider ways in which the students can help out?”
Penelope frowns. “By that, do you mean pay for the privilege of attending their own prom?”
“Phyllis has already created the template to make it a once-in-a-lifetime experience! If the event is leaps and bounds above the mundane gym dance, I’m sure the students won’t mind chipping in. We’ll take it out of them a few dollars at a time. For example, we can charge for the, er, battle competitions. We’ll crown the player with the highest tournament score.”
“Great idea,” Phyllis declares.
Penelope nods grudgingly.
“And why don’t we charge for desserts?” I suggest.
“But we must keep the main courses free,” Penelope insists.
“Deal,” I reply. I turn to my aunt. “If this band is as popular as you say, perhaps we can charge for reserved seating.”
“That alone should make our nut!” Phyllis exclaims.
Penelope shivers. “When pigs fly!”
I flinch, but manage to ignore Penelope’s sarcasm. Instead, I ask: “Aunt Phyllis, tell me about this, um, fire-eating dragon.”
She gives me a thumbs-up. “I’ve got one of the set designers from Game of Thrones working on it, so it’ll be an exact duplicate of the one used in the show! Speaking of a way to monetize this shindig: why don’t we charge for the honor of turning on its flame?”
Even Penelope is intrigued. “You mean, like, hold an auction?”
Phyllis nods vigorously. “We’ll make it something that only the female students can do, but of course their dates can bid for them too. That way, one lucky lady will be crowned Hilldale High’s ‘Daenerys Targaryen’—just like the character in G.O.T.”
“Well, now, I like that,” Penelope purrs.
“You do?” Phyllis and I exclaim in unison.
“Sure! Because Cheever—I mean, the male student who helps his date win the crown—will make it a memorable experience! And, not just for the lucky girl, but for everyone.”
Despite Penelope’s numerous attempts to help her son along on the path to popularity, invariably she fails.
In her defense, it doesn’t help that he’s a bully. Like mother, like son.
Penelope stands up. “Now that I’ve righted this ship of fools, my work here is done.” She saunters to the foyer. As she snaps her fingers, she bellows, “Cheever, dear—is that your fourth turkey leg? Put it down! Calories in, pounds on!” She lifts her eyes heavenward. “If only he had my svelte gene!”
“Well, he’s certainly got your bitchy one,” Aunt Phyllis mutters under her breath.
I nudge her into silence.
I wait until the door shuts behind them before asking my aunt the big question: “By the way, since I never requested a written agreement to chair the prom committee, how did you get Penelope to sign one?”
Phyllis grins. “I didn’t—but Cheever did.”
I lean back in my chair, surprised. “Why would he do that?”
“Get real, Donna! Does Cheever ever do anything for anyone but himself?”
She has a point.
I shudder, but I have to ask: “So, what did you have to do in return?”
“Hire the Muggalos’s favorite band. He’s obsessed with the lead singer, some guy named Talon.” Aunt Phyllis shrugs. “His followers paint their faces like a bunch of wild banshees. Some even shave their heads into mohawks. I guess, ‘to each his own.’” She leans in and whispers, “Word has it that the FBI has them on its cult list.”
I shake my head in wonder. “I’m sure Penelope has no idea about his fanboy crush.”
Phyllis giggles. “She’ll figure it out on prom night.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s going to be her little p
rince’s very public coming out party—as a Muggalo!”
I sigh. Yet one more reason for Penelope to hate me.
It’s only late afternoon. Still, I stumble off to bed.
4
Zodiac
The analysis of planetary movements is called the “Zodiac.” Those who study it—astrologers—believe it affects our behavior and future events.
Taking its name from the Greek word “zodiakos,” the word literally translates into “circle of animals.”
You’ll note that, like the constellation of stars continually moving in the cosmos above us, many of the zodiac’s sun signs are in fact named after beasts:
Aries (Mar 21st to Apr 19th) Ram.
Taurus (April 20th to May 20th) Bull.
Gemini (May 21st to June 20th) Twins; yes, they are humans; hopefully, not toddlers.
Cancer (Jun 21st to Jul 22nd) Crab.
Leo (July 23rd to August 22nd) Lion.
Virgo (August 23rd to September 22nd) Female Virgin; again, human—but much more impetuous than twin toddlers.
Libra (September 23rd to October 22nd) Scales, which are neither beast nor fowl, but somehow fairer than the rest.
Scorpio (October 23rd to November 21st) Scorpion.
Sagittarius (November 22nd to December 21st) Male Archer, which gives Virgo someone to pine over.
Capricorn (December 22nd to January 19th) Goat.
Aquarius (January 20th to February 18th) Water Bearer, mostly depicted as female.
Pisces (February 19th to March 20th) Fish.
* * *
If you’re born within the dates of a particular sun sign, you supposedly demonstrate some of the characteristics of your spirit animal. For example, someone who is Taurus may be stubborn and bold.
A Scorpio’s instinct is to wound deeply.
A Gemini demonstrates dual personality. A best-case scenario: she sees both sides of a situation. Worst case: she’s wishy-washy, or she flip-flops on issues.
Right now, you may be thinking: “Well, I’m a Gemini, and I stand firm on my beliefs! In fact, on most issues, I’m quite bullheaded.”
Gotcha. No problem. You see, astrologers have come up with numerous ways to cover their bets! Not only do you have a sun sign, but a moon sign, too. And if you’re “on the cusp” of a sign’s dates, your actions may also reflect characteristics of the neighboring sign.
In other words, nothing is written in stone, let alone in the stars.
In the dawn’s early morn, when I’m too tired to remember when my head hit the pillow, Jack knows how to bring me back to life.
It is a delicious form of torture: gentle kisses on eyelids shut tight against visions of all the things that could have gone wrong on missions past.
He doesn’t stop there. A light-as-air lick on one nipple followed by a gentle stroke on the other. My quickly beating heart, still connected to repressed memories of death and destruction, finally slows down as both nipples rise to attention, two sentries dispatched with an essential coded message: Alert! Alert! Pleasure at hand...
It’s fair warning. He follows this sensual wake-up call with a kiss.
My mouth opens eagerly, as if, had he not offered it, the heaviness of my dread would have stifled all desire for his love.
To take my mind off my anxieties, I trace the curve of his tricep with a finger. Its journey doesn’t stop until it has followed the main artery in his arm —the brachial—all the way to his palm.
Instinctively, he tenses at my touch. I don’t blame him. Had it been with a knife he’d be bleeding out by now.
I put his middle finger in my mouth. As I suck on it, his grin tells me his mind is now relaxed, but when I look down, I see that his cock has stiffened.
As I mount him, his pupils dilate in anticipation. One of his hands rests on my hip but the other cups the closest breast, as if he knows he’ll need to hold on for dear life.
When I contract around him, I feel tension once again building in him. I know better than to assume it’s just unadulterated lust or the primal elation over a conquest. If only it were a mindless joy! Its fierceness proves it’s anything but. Jack knows all too well that the best bouts of passion aren’t during times of innocence or leisure. They occur in times when too much is at stake.
My clenches, met with his grunts, push him deeper inside me. Our bodies sting from the frenzied slaps taking place as I rise and fall onto him, again and again—
Until we climax: me, submerged in a wave of elation; he, exploding, then convulsing, and finally shivering inside me.
Passion is a unique pain. Not, per se, physical agony but the ultimate emotional scar: a memory of joy as fleeting as all of human life.
So then, why test life’s boundaries when what you have taking place right now is the human ideal?
It is why I’m driven, at this moment to ask the man I love with all my heart: “Should we still be doing this?”
Even to my ears, my voice sounds husky and haunted.
Jack, who has been stroking my cheek gently, freezes as he considers my question. “By ‘this,’ do you mean having sex?”
I stifle a laugh. “No, silly. I mean…Acme.”
His head sinks into his pillow. When he finally speaks, I can barely hear his voice from deep in a cloud of Polish goose down encased in one thousand-thread count Supima sateen cotton:
“I’ll quit anytime you say.”
“But the Quorum is still out there, somewhere. Licking its wounds,” I argue—more with myself than with him.
“And it will always be there too, in one form or another.”
I know he’s right.
Seeing the sadness in my gaze, he cups my face in his hands. “So, what will it be?”
Good question. And frankly, it shouldn’t be hard to answer.
If we get out now, we can still enjoy our children before they’re adults. Instead of traipsing around the world, we’ll be here for them through the most difficult trials of their youth. We’ll be around to revel in their adult experiences: degrees earned, professions chosen, successes achieved. We will meet their life partners. We will dote on our grandchildren.
Jack and I can grow old together.
But if we choose to stay in the game, there may be a mission from which one, or both of us, never returns.
Family or country?
It can’t always be both.
Before I can answer my phone buzzes. Caller ID shows that it’s Arnie. I grimace at this interruption, but I’m relieved that I don’t have to answer Jack just yet.
“Talk to me,” I mutter to him.
“Well, good morning to you too,” he retorts.
“You sound cross.”
“You’d be grumpy if you’d been up all night after hacking an encrypted thumb drive and a week’s worth of surveillance footage.” He pauses. “Not to mention missing your lemon pancakes.”
“Okay, I can take a hint. Sure, okay. You’re invited over for breakfast.”
Arnie must have me on speakerphone because Emma shouts, “Can Nick and I come too?”
I laugh. “The more, the merrier.”
“Panty-cakes!” their three-year-old Nicky, squeals. At the same time, the front doorbell chimes. “Donna, let us in—puh-weeze!” the little boy wails.
I leap out of bed. “Arnie, you mean to tell me that you’re already at my front door?”
“Yes, but only because I thought you’d want to see the intel I’ve pulled up on Jonathan Presley’s thumb drive! Trust me, it’s worth a stack of hotcakes…or two…maybe three…with bacon?”
I sigh. “Jack will be right down to let you in.” I click off.
Despite having slung the pillow over his head, I hear Jack’s muffled plea: “Why me?”
“Because if I’m going to play short order cook and do it without burning down the house, I’ll need a shower first to wake up.”
As I head to the bathroom, Jack grumbles, “I was looking forward to joining you.”
We have a l
ong day ahead of us. Ergo, now is not the time to have that discussion, let alone the more serious one.
I’ll figure out a way to make it up to him later, when we don’t have company, and we’re not busy saving the world.
“—Aan…Wawaah! Denn I sahhh duh whumin!” Arnie jabbed his knife in the air with a flourish.
“Talking with your mouth full is bad manners,” I admonish him. I nod at Nicky, whom I’ve just served a Mickey Mouse-shaped pancake (blueberry eyes, a strawberry nose and a banana sliced lengthwise as its mouth).
The little boy looks at his dad expectantly.
Arnie freezes with his mouth open. Finally, he closes it. After taking a gulp, he sheepishly adds, “Oh…yeah. Sorry.”
“Now, repeat—without letting your food get in your way.” To make my point. I move his plate out of reach.
While tapping away on her computer, Emma gives me a thumbs-up.
Frankly, I’m doing Arnie a favor. By stopping now, he’ll avoid the inevitable bellyache that comes with finishing off a stack of pancakes the height of the leaning tower of Pisa.
I’m also doing my kids a favor. Although they’re still asleep, I hope he’ll leave enough syrup for their pancakes.
Arnie repeats, “I said, ‘And, voila! Then I saw the woman!’”
“Wha womam?” Jack garbles out before swallowing.
“E tú, Bruté?” I murmur, nodding toward Nicky.
Jack rolls his eyes, but gulps before adding, “Show us, Arnie.”
I sit down next to Jack while Arnie turns his iPad toward us.
“Jonathan Presley’s hit-and-run fatality happened in Irvine, California; on Thursday, a little after one o’clock,” Arnie explains. He then clicks his screen open to a video clip. The color footage is grainy, but you can still make out a clerk behind a desk—a man in his twenties, helping an elderly man with a shipping box.
“I take it Evan’s envelope originated from there,” I murmur.
Arnie nods. “It’s also where Jonathan Presley’s private mailbox is located: the post office for Avalon, California.”
