by Kaira Rouda
“Paul, she’s a college student. We can’t ask her to do that.” The muscles on the side of her neck are taut, like rubber bands about to snap. I am wearing my calm, reasonable poker face again. Of course I knew the card wouldn’t work, but Mia is understandably surprised. I hope she keeps her head on. I cannot stand it when Mia starts whining and worrying. It’s beneath her, beneath us.
“When we get to the lake, I’ll transfer money to the card. It will work by this afternoon. Okay?” It is my turn to pat her leg. She ignores the gesture and conveys the message to the overtired Claudia. I watch as she presses End on her phone with an overt display of melodramatic disgust. Really? She’s acting like a child. It’s only groceries. Big deal. It’s not like the boys will starve. Our pantry is full of perfectly fine food. We have frozen organic macaroni and cheese lining the freezer. This is ridiculous. Neither the boys nor Mia understand what it feels like to be hungry, to be deprived: to open the door to an empty refrigerator, an empty pantry. So what if they don’t have their first choice of snacks for the weekend?
“Paul, honestly. That’s the only thing I asked you to do to get ready for the whole weekend. Leave enough cash, or enough credit at least, for the weekend. This is unacceptable,” she says. She is rubbing the back of her neck, trying to loosen the rubber bands, I presume. I imagine her shoulders knotted with worry. It’s sad, really, how the little things can get to her so easily. It’s not uncommon lately. She’s filled with anxiety these days, it seems. She’s worried about the boys, about her health, the gutters getting cleaned, the recycling being taken out, about, well everything. Wouldn’t it be ironic if all this worry is the cause of the weight loss? I’ve told her that’s my theory.
Nothing I can say will make the situation better, so instead I turn up the music as Amy Winehouse belts out “You Know I’m No Good.” I love this song, this whole playlist, and I know Mia does, too. Next up, Dinah Washington’s “Cold, Cold Heart.”
“Can we switch to the radio?” Mia asks. And then before I can answer, a static-ridden local station bursts into my ears, a country crooner hurting my psyche. No matter how often I explain to Mia that jazz is the highest musical form and country the lowest, still she tortures me.
The hairs on the back of my neck bristle as this stupid hick song fills the car. I’ll bear it, though. We’re in the middle of nowhere, about thirty minutes from the bakery where we’ll stop and check for croissants. It would be so wonderful if the universe leaves me some croissants today. It doesn’t seem that much to ask. I need Mia to relax and back off on the questioning. Perhaps baked goods will help. I’ll suggest she eat a croissant or two rather than saving them all for breakfast. There’s something to be said for instant gratification every once in a while. And then if she’s happy, she’ll turn my music back on.
I can’t stop myself. I reach for the radio, punch some buttons; this whining country music is all I can tune in. This will please Mia as she is a country music fan. I had my fill of it when I lived in Nashville, thank you very much. Right about now I’m wondering why I discontinued the Sirius radio subscription in the Flex, a bad move when it comes to the middle of nowhere. Now I’m at the mercy of whatever station comes into range unless Mia switches back to my lovingly made playlist. A shame, really.
The country singer is the only one making a sound. The silence between us is thudding in my head. I didn’t want today to be like this. It occurs to me that now would be a good time to apologize. The road is clear ahead, and I haven’t had to pass anyone for miles.
“Hey, Mia. I’m sorry,” I say. “That was my fault. I’ll fix it, pay off the card as soon as we get to the cottage. Claudia will be able to use it this afternoon, pick up the groceries. All’s well. In the meantime, relax. Enjoy the music. Everything is going to be fine.”
Mia has pushed her sunglasses up on her head. She looks over at me with squinted eyes, probably a defense against the bright sunlight. She is staring at me like you would a spider making a web at your doorway, with both amazement and fear.
“What?” I say, not liking the look in her eyes. She usually gazes at me with such confidence, such love. Something has shattered that; someone or something has changed her opinion of me, I realize. How did this happen and when? I knew things were going to change, had to change as a matter of fact. I have a plan to handle it, of course.
Right at this moment I wonder what Mia sees in me. Does she still see the sophisticated older man of the world she pledged to love, honor and obey a decade ago? Does she still feel my experienced touch, does she remember everything I taught her about sex, about love? Does she still appreciate my encyclopedic knowledge of fine food and wine, does she dream of traveling with me to the exotic places I tell her I’ve visited? It’s too bad we didn’t make time to travel a bit, but the boys came along so quickly and, well, her place was in the home. I am no longer sure what she is thinking when she looks at me, not at all. But more than what she sees in me, it’s what I see in her that I do not appreciate. I shake my head. This was supposed to be the best day, and it’s deteriorating, decaying like the memories of childhood. You still have a sense of what it was like to be a kid, but the feeling of jumping into a swimming pool on a carefree summer day has faded. And you can never get that back.
Mia pulls her sunglasses back down and covers the squint. She folds her arms across her chest and says, “We’re almost to the bakery. Do you have money for croissants?”
Noon
5
The bakery is closed. Croissants sold out. Even from far away, I can tell Mia is fuming, her hands in fists on her hips, but as she turns back toward the car she forces a smile on her face. She’ll get over it, I remind myself. After I suffer through half an hour of hick country music for the remainder of the drive to the cottage, we’ll be back to being cordial again as we drive through the gates of Lakeside. She is happy there. Once we have arrived, she’ll forgive me for our late start. As we unpack, I will play some jazz, a far superior song structure than this simplistic insult to music blaring through the car radio at present. All will be well once we arrive. Marriage: it’s a give-and-take. One day, I get my way, the next, I do something nice for my wife. It’s how it goes. I reach deep into my patience well and find it’s almost dry. Almost.
It’s never ideal when I run totally dry, trust me. Plenty of people in my past found that out the hard way. But I’m more mature now, I don’t let myself get that depleted. I know how to soothe myself, I know what, and who, I need. And I usually get what I want. I’m sure you’ve figured that out already.
The good news with the detour to this strip mall in the town of Port Clinton is that I am at last getting to stretch my legs. When I finally parked the car and we climbed out, I realized my back was seizing up on me. I ignore this old-man type of physical pain, just as I ignore cashiers and parking lot attendants. They are all a bother, beneath my wasting a breath or thought on.
The fresh air feels good, crisp and clean. Although you can’t see the lake from here, you can feel the water’s presence like you do when it’s about to rain. There’s just something in the air that’s thicker, moist and heavy, like a humidifier on a dry winter’s night. There are cars towing boat trailers parked near us. Bumper stickers proudly proclaim the town as the Walleye Capital of the World, although I read they lost that distinction lately. Life: it’s transitory. And in life, there are always winners and losers. It’s nice to be a winner.
“How about getting some ice cream, honey?” I say as Mia returns with a frown on her face. She wanted to make certain the bakery was closed by walking across the parking lot, even though we could plainly see from here that nobody was inside and there were chairs on the tables. I guess she likes torturing herself, pressing her nose against the front window of the darkened shop, like a puppy hoping to get adopted at the shelter. Just like most of those puppies, the odds weren’t in her favor. She lost.
“We missed them by fifteen minutes. They close at 11:30,” she says. I don’t correct her and point out that it’s actually already noon. “I don’t feel like ice cream right now.”
“Not even Toft’s?” It’s a famous ice cream parlor from Ohio’s oldest dairy. I smile thinking about the bright blue Toft’s sign, the ridiculous sculpture of a cow wearing sunglasses inside a white wooden pen in the parking lot, the smell of vanilla beans and strawberries when you step inside the door. We have spent many an afternoon on the outside patio with the boys, ice cream dripping onto the round blue tables while they tried to lick every drop before it melted. My mouth is watering just thinking about a scoop of Java Chip. In a bowl, not a cone. With bowls, you’re always in control.
“Not even Toft’s. Besides, dairy is bad for you, you know that. It’s mucus. Perfect for baby cows but that’s all,” Mia says, opening the door to the Flex. If the car hadn’t been between us, I know she would have shot a glance at my belly. I hate that. “I would like a salad or something, though. Do you think the restaurants are open in Lakeside?”
Our eyes meet across the top of the Flex. She looks small, and no longer as angry. I feel like a large disappointment. I hate that feeling. She is waiting for an answer. I am preparing for country music mush through the speakers as my penance.
“Yes, I checked. Everything is open. We can eat in Lakeside,” I say with gusto. I’m suddenly very hungry, and I hope food will fix the hollow feeling forming in the pit of my stomach. “I’m sort of craving Sloopy’s pepperoni pizza about now.” I open the car door and slide back behind the steering wheel.
“Pizza is a terrible choice, Paul.” Mia clicks her seat belt into place. I see her look at my stomach as she adds, “Processed meat, dairy—well, whatever. It’s your life.”
“They have salads, too,” I say. I know I sound defensive. I just can’t have her ruin my favorite pizza joint, too. I give her the freedom to eat as she pleases, so I deserve the same respect, don’t I? She gets to eat and do whatever she wants all day long, and all I ask for is just that: respect. “You are ruining food for me.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” she says. She thinks it’s funny. She finds another of her favorite country music stations and turns the sound up. I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Or punch the button to start the playlist, our playlist with the Police’s “Every Breath You Take” up next. That is the music we should be listening to instead of this. I keep both hands on the wheel but it takes willpower. Marriage, I remind myself again, is a give or take. I’ll give now, so I can take charge later. We’re so close to Lakeside. I can handle this.
Now I know who this new Mia is reminding me of: working girl Mia. The woman I met at Thompson Payne in the conference room. Confident. Sharp. Later, once we’d begun dating, she told me she’d never been in love before me, not really. And I told her what I told you: I knew we were perfect for each other from the moment we met. As long as she could become the wife I was looking for, of course.
She was the most beautiful person I’d ever met back then. Physical perfection she’s retained to this day, with the exception of the baby fat years, as I’ve noted. I poured on the Paul Strom charm, asking her to dinner that very afternoon. John had told me the company policy, of course. But no one paid any attention to policy like that, especially when it involved agency superstars like I knew I would become. I dropped by her office; it was a late afternoon in September and the sun was already making its way to the horizon. I knocked on her open door and she looked up. When a faint blush began circling her cheeks, I knew she was mine.
“Do you have plans for dinner tonight?” I said, leaning against the doorway. I was wearing a new designer suit, navy, with a crisp white shirt and a red power tie. I knew I looked good. Her office was messy, a typical creative desk, strewn with rough sketches and preliminary layouts for ads; storyboards for television spots were tacked to the cork-covered wall on her right. The only non-work-related item on her desk was a framed eight-by-ten photo of her parents, who were notable Manhattan movers and shakers I already knew from my research. The only surprise: her office had a window as big as mine. That meant the partners were wooing her, though not the way I was, of course.
Behind her desk, Mia blinked those big blue eyes.
“I was thinking Diamond’s, the new restaurant in German Village. I haven’t been yet, but I hear it’s fabulous. I should be able to get us a great table.” I managed to employ my smile-wink right then and I saw she was interested. It was the chemistry in the air, that zing of electricity rushing between us. And we had barely touched yet. I felt an attraction to Mia that was foundational, at some cellular level. I knew she sensed it, too.
“Sounds good,” she said. “I hope to be finished with this ad by six, seven at the latest.”
“I’ll make the reservation for seven thirty. Shall we meet there or can I give you a ride?” I was hoping she would let me pick her up and drive her to the restaurant. I had a sporty two-seater black Audi back then, a convertible. She would look fabulous sitting beside me, I remember thinking. And then there was the anticipation of walking her to the door, of being asked inside. But it didn’t happen.
“I’ll meet you there. Thanks, Paul,” she said, blinking again, the color still in her cheeks. She tapped a pencil on her desk. She needed to get back to work, I realized.
“See you tonight,” I told her, disappointed I’d be arriving alone. I was hopeful I wouldn’t be leaving by myself after dinner. I was officially smitten. I knew I would do everything in my power to make Mia realize what a catch I was, too. It was time for my best moves, my most charming seduction. Of course I would succeed, I always do. When you’ve got it, you’ve got it. I’m not bragging, really, I’m just telling you there are some things I’m really good at and this—women—is one of them.
At dinner, I continued my offensive. When the chocolate crème brûlée arrived, you should have seen her face.
“This is my favorite dessert,” she said, clapping her hands as they slid the decadent custard in front of her at the table. “How did you know?”
It’s funny the things you can learn on the internet, the little details that can betray so much about a person if only you know where to look. Like pictures on a society magazine’s website—a lovely young woman at a banquet with her wealthy parents, dainty dishes of a certain decadent dessert on the tables in front of them. I’ve never been one to pass up the opportunity to glean information on the people in my life—colleagues, clients, business rivals. Women. You never know, do you, when a trivial bit of background might turn the tide in your favor. But I could hardly tell Mia any of that; it was our first date, after all. Instead I smiled, gave her the signature wink and said, “A lucky guess.”
With the pleasant memory of a Mia who savored her desserts fresh in my mind, I have succeeded in tuning out the horrible country music bombarding my brain and focus instead on the happiness I feel driving into Lakeside without having to pay a fee. The gates don’t drop until Memorial Day weekend. I smile as I drive the Flex, too quickly per the posted 15 Miles per Hour sign, into our blissful little retreat. Whenever I drive into this place, with its charming cottages, most with rocking chairs dotting their porches, this community with its vast stretches of green-grass parks and big blue sky and water views, I’m reminded that I’ve made it. I know everything will be fine, no matter what the future brings. I’ve always believed that. Mia still loves me. I take a deep breath, sucking in pure Americana.
Enjoy the drive, I tell myself, noticing the little cottages in pink and white and red and green lining the street, with their tulip flags flapping, their cement geese dressed for spring. Enjoy driving through this picturesque Eden, heading toward Lake Erie, a lake so shallow all of the water turns over every two and a half years. Bet you didn’t know that.
Did you know if you didn’t put your foot on the brake as you came to t
he end of this street, you’d drive across some bright green grass, over the dark sand beach and into the water, ending up at the bottom of the shallowest Great Lake in the United States?
It’s still deep enough to kill you, of course.
12:30 p.m.
6
I turn right and, lucky us, find a parking spot, the universe making up for the croissants. This is the way this day is supposed to go, smoothly, joyously. Now that we are finally here in Lakeside all will be well. Except for the fact that it’s crowded. This is unexpected. I imagined we would find Lakeside deserted, like an old Western town after the gold rush. But that isn’t the case.
I can see from the street that Sloopy’s Sports Café is bustling with midwestern vacationers, no doubt mostly from Ohio, enjoying the first sunny weekend in May. On the surprisingly busy main street of town I see men wearing sports shorts and T-shirts, T-shirts that will change to wifebeater tank tops when the weather heats up. Many of the guys who vacation here love the Cleveland Indians and the Ohio State Buckeyes. They’ll tuck a football they carried to lunch onto the seat of the booth beside them, and play pass with their kids after lunch. They will be upset, very upset, if their sons don’t throw a perfect spiral by age ten. I know from experience, trust me.
The women wear stretchy yoga pants or tennis clothes, although I don’t agree with that look unless you are thin. If you aren’t a thin woman, you should wear a dress. A loose-fitting dress that will cover all your excess, that will hide your sins. The kids are hyper, just like my boys are when they’re here. They’ll agree to sit with their parents only long enough to gobble a pizza slice and then they’re off, enjoying the freedom of youth in a place where nothing bad ever happens. The smattering of youngsters I see on the sidewalk look sticky and sweaty, like they could use a long shower.
