Time Off for Good Behavior

by Lani Diane Rich

  He let out a small belch. I tried not to recoil. “You telling me you got six thousand dollars? Right here? Right now?”

  “If you’ve got the business license, I’ve got six thousand dollars. Right here. Right now.”

  Twenty minutes later Lyle was heading out the front door with a check for six thousand of my dollars stuffed in his pocket, and I was putting on an oversize Santa suit and introducing myself to my new employee, a teenage elf named Anne Marie.

  ***

  “You played Santa all day?” Kacey asked. Shed been sitting in the kitchen doing her homework when I came in at nine-thirty. I had my wine bottle opened and was pouring a drink before I even noticed she was there.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I was. How’d you know?”

  “Mom mentioned it when you weren’t at dinner.” She scribbled something in her notebook, then rubbed it out with the eraser. “How was it?”

  “Okay,” I said, “but there’s a lot of work to do. I need to hire some Santas and some elves, and then I need to do something about the camera.”

  “What’s the matter with it?” she asked.

  “It’s this crappy old Polaroid,” I said. “The film keeps getting jammed. Think you might be able to fix it for me?”

  “Probably,” she said, shrugging. “But you’ll be better off getting a digital camera and a laptop. You can do some cool stuff with that.”

  I sat down next to her at the table. “Really? Like what?”

  She flipped her book shut. “Borders around the edges. Cool themes. That kind of stuff.”

  I nodded. I had no idea what the hell she was talking about. “Think you might be able to help me with that?”

  “Sure. PowerBooks are the coolest. Get a red one. Do you really hear music in your head?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Your mom tell you that, too?”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Alex overheard you guys talking.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I hear music in my head.”

  “What music?”

  “I don’t know. Do you ever run out of questions?”

  “How does it go?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Maybe I know it.”

  I patted her hand. “It’s not by Justin Timberlake.”

  She patted my hand back, mocking the condescending manner in which I’d done it to her. I liked this kid. “Alex said you thought it was classical. I listen to classical music, too.”

  I sat back and gave her a cynical look. “Name two classical composers. Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart don’t count.”

  “Rachmaninoff. Berlioz. Handel. Tchaikovsky.”

  I held up a hand. “I said two.”

  I stared at her for a moment and finally decided that I had nothing to lose, and there was a chance it could kill a sticky note. I hummed the crescendo—as well as I could, anyway. I wasn’t exactly tone-deaf, but you wouldn’t wanna hear me do “Honesty” on Karaoke Night.

  She shook her head. “Don’t know it.”

  “Okay. Are we done with the grilling?”

  “No. Can I be an elf?”

  I shook my head. “I think there are laws against a kid your age working.”

  “Can I have some wine?”

  “I know there are laws against that,” I said. “Where’s your mom?”

  “She’s in the tub,” Kacey said, flipping her book back open. “She’s crying.”

  I put down my glass. “Why? Is she okay? Did something happen? Where’s Alex?” I glanced around, in panic mode.

  “Everything’s fine. Alex is at Dad’s tonight.” She gave me an appraising look. I could practically hear the gears in her twelve-year-old mind trying to decide if I was to be trusted with the family skeletons. Apparently, I passed muster.

  “It’s not a big deal. Whenever Dad comes to get one of us, Mom locks herself in the bathroom and cries. She thinks I don’t know.”

  “But you know everything,” I said, finishing the thought. “Why aren’t you at your dad’s tonight?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Dad read some self-help book about kids needing special one-on-one time. Alex goes on Friday nights, I go on Saturdays, and then we all do something together on Sundays.” She paused, waiting to be sure she had my attention before she dropped the next bomb. “Like that makes up for him cheating on my mom.”

  I stared her down. “This is not a confirmation, but how do you know about that?”

  Kacey rolled her eyes again. Rolling eyes seemed to be very big with her. “Why do grown-ups assume that being twelve means you’re stupid?”

  “I don’t think anybody would ever call you stupid, Kace,” I said. She pushed her glasses up on her nose and smiled at me. I felt a small lurch in my heart, and I had a strange urge to wrap my arms around her and kiss the top of her head.

  Christ. I stood up and refilled my glass of wine. Develop a maternal instinct was not on my wall, and I had enough to worry about right now without some kid making my uterus ache.

  She put her pencil down in her book and closed it. “Are people always intimidated by intelligent women?”

  I smiled. “Not the good ones.”

  She nodded. “Can I have some wine now?”

  I walked over to her and handed her my glass. “One sip,” I said. “And don’t tell your mother.”

  ***

  I crawled into bed at midnight, two hours after I sent Kacey to bed. I briefly considered going up and forcing Elizabeth to talk but decided against it. Instead, I busied myself in the kitchen on the off chance that she might come down. She never did, but I went to bed hoping she’d be pleasantly surprised to see her spices alphabetically organized the next time she went looking for oregano.

  I pulled the covers up to my ears and let my eyes float over the sticky-note wall, taking in all the crooked demands one by one.

  Get a new haircut.

  Go see parents.

  Talk to Molly.

  Do something meaningful.

  Identify phantom music.

  Figure out what I want.

  I stared at them, reading them over and over again, until my eyes finally rested on the one that was set apart from the others, the one that would stay there until all the others were gone.

  Tell Walter.

  I bunched my pillow under my head and hugged it, falling asleep to thoughts of seeing Walter again and showing him who I really was. Of course, I’d have to figure that out for myself first. Details sucked.

  ***

  “Is Elizabeth here?”

  Jack Mackey was a tall man, handsome, with a winning smile and a firm handshake. Under ordinary circumstances, I probably would have liked him. As it was, I stood in the doorway with my arms crossed, ready to use deadly force if lie tried to get near Elizabeth.

  “No,” I said. “I told her I’d handle the switch this morning.”

  “Oh.” He rocked back on his heels. He smiled, held out his hand. “I’m Jack. I take it you’re Wanda? The kids have been telling me about you.”

  My eyes flicked from his outstretched hand back to his face. I kept my arms crossed. “Did they tell you I’m not into small talk?”

  His head turned slightly, and his eyes locked on me, seeming to sense a challenge. “No. As a matter of fact, they’ve had nothing but nice things to say about you. They really like you.”

  I threw a holler over my shoulder without taking my eyes off Jack. “Kace! You ready yet, kiddo?”

  “Almost,” she called down. I could hear the sound of Alex’s stereo bound down the stairs, then retreat as he shut the door to his bedroom.

  Jack kept his eyes on me. “You know, I’m not really the asshole Elizabeth says I am.”

  “The only thing Elizabeth has told me is that you’re a good father to the kids,” I said. “I put two and two together and came up with asshole all by myself.”

  Kacey’s footsteps pounded behind me, and I uncrossed my arms to give her a quick hug and send her off with Jack.

  “It was nice meetin
g you,” Jack said. I put on a smile for Kacey’s benefit and nodded, watching them as they headed to the car. He held Kacey’s hand and buckled her in gently, giving her a kiss on the forehead before closing the door and going around to get in on the driver’s side. Once they were gone, I went upstairs and woke up Elizabeth to tell her that Alex was home, Kacey was gone, and I was heading out to play Santa.

  ***

  “Holy Christ, if I have to make nice to one more damn kid today, I’m gonna lose my damn mind,” I said, slamming my Santa hat down on Bones’s desk as I took a long drink of my bottled water. The uterus ache from the night before had all but been obliterated by a series of selfish little brats demanding PlayStations and swing sets. I yanked open the top of my Santa coat. “I’m sweating bullets in this damn suit.”

  “Don’t come bitching to me,” Bones said. “I didn’t ask you to buy the Station.”

  “Nice gratitude,” I said, “after I saved your sorry ass from a probable lawsuit.”

  Bones looked up at the clock. “Isn’t your break over yet?”

  I settled in the comfy chair across from his desk. “I got ten more minutes.”

  “There’s a break room in the back for employees,” he said.

  “Good thing I’m not your employee.”

  He made a dismissive noise and turned his attention to the mail on his desk. I smiled. Although playing Santa pretty much sucked, I had to admit that having something to do with my days was improving my general mood. The fact that I got to irritate Bones while doing it was pure gravy.

  I watched him go through his mail, quietly drinking my water and fanning myself with a manila folder I’d pulled off his filing cabinet. My eyes floated over the items on his desk: a blotter, a pencil sharpener, a letter opener.

  A package of sticky notes.

  Crap. I sighed, closed my eyes, and saw my wall full of crooked notes taunting me. If things were going to change, I was going to have to make them change. I sucked in some breath and spoke.

  “Hey, Bones?”

  “Hmph?” he grunted, not looking up from the mail.

  I got stuck on what I wanted to say, then rolled my eyes at myself. Go ahead, Wanda. Have an adult conversation. You might like it.

  “Have you... always known... what you wanted?” Bones’s eyes stopped focusing on the letter he was reading, but it took a moment before they floated up to me. “What kind of damn fool question is that?”

  I bopped my head back and forth on my shoulders, trying to think of an answer that didn’t include the phrase Bite me.

  “I just...” I sighed. Why was this so hard? “I’m going through a thing... right now... and I’m trying to figure out what I want. Out—out of life.”

  Bones watched me carefully, as though I were a dog and he didn’t know whether to pet or kick me. In the end he did neither.

  “You in therapy or something?” he asked. “That sounds like a question someone in therapy might ask.”

  “No, I’m not in therapy.” Not technically. “I’m just... I’m trying to figure things out. Forget I asked. You’re too damn cranky to be of any use to me, anyway.”

  I took a swig of my water, preparing a wiseass comment if he poked fun at how red my face was.

  “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

  I looked up. “What?”

  He flattened his palms against the desktop. “Thanksgiving. Next Thursday. Don’t you ever look at a damn calendar?”

  I gave a pointed glance at the calendar over his shoulder, then back at him. “No.”

  He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Shelley wants you to spend it with us, if you don’t have plans.”

  “I do,” I lied. “Have plans, I mean.”

  He gave a short nod, then picked up his letter, although he kept his eyes on me. “You okay, Wanda?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine. I have plans. My break’s over.”

  He waved his fingers at me. “On with you, then.”

  I turned around, got to the door, turned back, grabbed my water, caught Bones watching me with smiling eyes.

  “Oh, bite me, Bones,” I said, slamming the door behind me and giving myself and my maturity an internal pat on the back. You go, girl.

  ***

  “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Elizabeth handed me a plate to dry.

  “I can’t believe you don’t have a damn dishwasher,” I said, running my dampened towel over yet another plate.

  “You know,” she said, an amused smile playing on her lips, “I take back everything I ever said about you not having the right disposition to play Santa.”

  I put the plate away. “I’ve got some guy Santas starting after the holiday. And not a moment too soon.”

  She laughed and was quiet for a minute. “So do you have plans for Thanksgiving?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “What is this obsession everyone has with Thanksgiving?”

  Elizabeth eyed me. “It’s Thursday.”

  “I know.”

  She rinsed a bowl and handed it to me. “The kids and I are leaving Wednesday to visit my sister Cheryl in Atlanta. She invited you to come along.”

  “Thanks,” I said, giving a flat smile. “Can’t. Plans.”

  “I see,” she said. “You haven’t asked me about my meeting with the radio people.”

  “Oh. Crap. Yeah. How was your meeting with the radio people?”

  “Great.” She turned off the water and dried her hands on the kitchen towel. “I’m meeting with the station manager on Tuesday.”

  “That’s terrific.” I meant it. I was genuinely happy for her. Too bad Grow up just a tiny bit wasn’t on a sticky note on my wall, or I’d feel like I’d actually accomplished something that day.

  “Well, if you change your mind about Thanksgiving...” she said.

  “Can’t. Plans.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for helping with the dishes.”

  I smiled. “Least I can do.”

  “Well. Good night,” she said, heading out of the kitchen. I stood there alone for a few minutes, then turned out the light and went up to my room.

  ***

  I had just put my feet up on Elizabeth’s coffee table, a Marie Callender’s turkey dinner on my lap and a glass of good ol’ Albert on ice nearby, when I heard the noise. My heart kicked up a notch. I hit the mute button on the remote, shushing Frasier and Niles, and sat frozen on the couch, listening.

  Nothing.

  I took a sip of my drink but didn’t feel any better. It would be just like George to fuck up a perfectly fine Thanksgiving.

  I put my meal down and glanced at the door: it was locked. All the window shades were drawn. If he was out there, he wouldn’t be able to see me. I could run to the phone in the kitchen and dial 911, and the cops would probably get there before he killed me.

  Probably.

  Or they could show up, discover the noise was the neighbor’s cat—or, worse, my imagination—and I’d die of humiliation. Either way, it sucked to be me.

  Crack. I jumped up off the couch. It sounded like the crack of a piece of wood, maybe a large twig under someone’s foot. Or a revolver cocking.

  “Revolver,” I huffed at myself. A: how the hell would I know what a cocking revolver sounded like? B: it was a twig.

  Under a foot.

  Crap. How could he have found me? Had he been watching me all along? Had he been waiting to make his move until after Elizabeth and the kids left? But they’d been gone since the day before; why wait until now?

  I opened the front hall closet and pulled out Alex’s aluminum baseball bat. I went into the kitchen and got the cordless off the wall. Hauling the bat over my shoulder, I walked up to the door. I flicked on the porch light and looked through the peephole at the same time.

  “Wanda? Is that you?”

  I screamed long and hard, releasing the pent-up terror lurking in my chest. Then I opened the door and threw the bat at Jack, who ducked as it went whizzing by his head.

 
“Wanda!” He looked over his shoulder as the bat landed on the lawn. “I’m sorry. Did I scare you?”

  “Did you... did you... scare me? No, Jack. You freaked the living shit out of me. I’m going to have to go change my underwear now.” I bent over, both palms on my knees, and gasped for breath. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  “I was driving by to check on the place. I thought you’d gone with Elizabeth and the kids. When I saw the lights on . .

  “Did she ask you to check up on the place?”

  He shrugged. “No, I just thought...”

  I straightened up. “Jesus, Jack. If you’d been that attentive before, you might still be married.”

  His face hardened. He stepped back. “Look, I’m sorry I scared you. I’ll go.”

  I held up my hands. “No, you totally freaked me out, you’re staying until I calm down.” I grabbed my jacket off the coat-rack. “Do you smoke, Jack?”

  ***

  “I haven’t smoked since Elizabeth got pregnant with Alex,” Jack said, blowing a smoke ring into the chilled air. He took a sip of his Scotch and sat back in the porch chair.

  “Ah,” I said, “count yourself among the many who have fallen under the bad influence of Wanda Lane.”

  I stubbed my cigarette out in the cracked saucer we were using for an ashtray, exhaling my last bit of smoke into the night. “What are you doing here, Jack?”

  “I told you,” he said. “I was checking on the house.”

  “No,” I said. “That was an hour ago. Why are you sitting here, on Thanksgiving, smoking cigarettes with a stranger? Why aren’t you with your biddy?”

  He looked away from his smoke rings. “Biddy?”

  I gave him cynical eyes. “You expect me to believe that a guy who couldn’t keep it in his pants while he was married is biddyless now that he’s single? That’s a hard line to sell, Jack.”

  He shook his head. “You never let up, do you?”

  “On a typical day, no.”

  “Fine. Fair’s fair. The kids told me you were invited to go to Cheryl’s. What are you doing here drinking and smoking alone on Thanksgiving?”