After I get the kids off to school, I haul the vacuum upstairs to start in the master bedroom. The eviction of the bunnies from under the bed proceeds smoothly until a business card jams the vacuum nozzle. Dislodging the card, I toss it into the wastebasket.
Hold up a minute. I snatch it up again and scan the handwriting on the back:
Thanks for lunch! Let’s do it again soon ~ L xo
Xo? Scrawled underneath the note is a phone number. The number is different than the one printed on the front of the card, under the name Lindsay Bambraugh, CFP, and the usual Doubles logo and company contact information.
Oh my God. My heart begins to pound. Hard.
Who is Lindsay Bambraugh?
And what is she doing xo’ing under my bed?
My legs feel hollow. I sit on the edge of the bed and turn the card over and over in my hands. Who is Lindsay Bambraugh? Suddenly I remember her, from last year’s Doubles company picnic: Miss Leggy Bambraugh, of the grad gift nose job and huge Barbie boobs, waving around her designer purse studded with pink Swarovski crystals.
What’s going on here? I need help. I send out an SOS text to Bibienne: I think Donald’s screwing around on me.
Her text comes right back: Meet me for lunch at the Greek place.
I stumble into the restaurant and thrust the card into her hands. “Look what I found.”
Bibienne says, “Calm down and let’s see what we have here.”
She studies the handwriting. “Circles over the ‘i’s. And look here—lying loops.”
My blood boils over. How dare he consort with a woman who makes lying loops?
“What are lying loops?”
“Dishonesty. There’s a stinger in the ‘a’ here too. Very dangerous.”
“Do you think I should I confront him?”
“Na-ah. He’ll never admit to anything, not unless you get some hard evidence. Who is Lindsay Bambraugh?”
“She’s an advisor at Doubles, same as Donald. Definitely a lying loops type.”
Bibienne nods her head slowly and says, “This means war.”
I tuck the card into my pocket. I need time to think.
CHAPTER 3
Surveillance
Surveillance: The systematic observation of aerospace, surface, or subsurface areas, places, persons, or things, by visual, aural, electronic, photographic, or other means.—Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms
On the way home from lunch with Bibienne, my mind races. War means tactical planning. Do I want open warfare? Underground-style freedom fighting? Shock and awe? Extreme, no-rules warfare is appealing—I could begin with a bonfire of all Donald’s belongings on the front lawn. But what if Donald is innocent of nothing but an unrequited lunch and a freak desire to launder sheets?
Even though my stalwart woman’s heart knows the dirty, lowdown, lying, cheating truth, concrete evidence is required prior to flaming his entire Conan Doyle collection.
However, maybe sleeping with the up and comers is Donald’s way of speeding his career flag up the company pole? Maybe I should support Donald in his bid for advancement at Doubles? A promotion means a raise. Think of all the wonderful material benefits. Maybe tomorrow I should go out and buy that gorgeous Ms. Gina suit I’ve had my eye on? I need something respectable for my job hunt.
Not to mention that this clearly frees me up. So, where is my Knight of Cups? Nowhere in sight, that’s where. I might as well forget about empty cosmic promises of dreamboats and concentrate on my nightmarish job search. I haven’t landed a single interview and my severance payout is dwindling fast. Fortunately, I have a follow-up appointment with my headhunter this afternoon. He wants to check my progress on my resume.
As soon as I get home, I haul my briefcase from the closet, empty it on the kitchen table, and try to organize the papers into piles. I have at least 20 draft resumes, plus a stack of job listings and applications to fill out. Interspersed throughout are leaflets, notes and lists of addresses and phone numbers.
The counselor wants me to make a list of prospects: progressive companies that offer respectable wages, benefits and advancement opportunities. This part of the research could take forever.
Then, at any time in the process, things may break down. The employer may “resist” the “information interview.” Or the company isn’t hiring (it’s more likely downsizing to the dimensions of a paper clip). If I score an information interview then I’m supposed to follow up with thoughtful thank-you notes to each person I met during the process, including the receptionist who hates my sucky guts by now.
Maybe the army’ll take me back. They’re desperate enough to take in any crazy broad who’s prepared to wear Gortex and sleep in the mud. I’m sure I’m still a deadeye with a rifle and driving a tank’s like riding a bike.
Back in the day, I was a first-class soldier. The army wasn’t so bad. Basic training is brutal but it’s like giving birth; you forget how hard it is. I toughed it out, ran obstacle courses, was gassed, and learned how to crawl around in the dirt—all a textbook preparation for motherhood.
I met Serenity’s father during a weeklong war games exercise. Who can resist a man in a uniform? Not I—especially when I’m rubbing up against a burly one in the depths of a snug foxhole. Mistake. Never take off your thong in a foxhole unless you want to wear maternity combats.
But at least I got Serenity. I drag my mind back to the present where the thought of going back into uniform makes me want to throw up.
I stuff all the papers back into my briefcase and drive to the employment agency where the counselor beckons me into his office. I fidget in my chair trying to resist the urge to play with the programmable stapler while he looks over my updated resume.
Soon he shakes his head and leans over the desk to fix me with a serious gaze. “Your resume still needs a lot of work.”
“Isn’t resume preparation part of your services?”
“Your employer benefit doesn’t cover resumes. There is an extra fee for the service depending on what you need.” He hands me a glossy brochure. A professional resume costs a grand.
“Have you considered taking one of our employment courses?”
“A course? Like school?”
“We offer a four-week course on resume writing. Or the 12-week one on choosing your career is popular. You’ll get a $200 discount if you take both.”
“Wait a minute,” I say. “What about taking some courses at the university? Maybe I could finish my degree in business administration? That might help pump up my resume.”
“Aren’t you on the GI Bill?” the counselor asks.
That’s it. I’m going straight over to the university to reactivate as a full-time student. VA will pay for it. I’m a veteran, after all, and time is running out for me to use up my benefit.
I drive over to the university, park, and wander around looking for the registrar’s office. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on campus: there’re not only two new bars, but convenient shopping, too. Dingwall University boasts a gleaming student center complete with banking machines, a variety of retail outlets and a fast food court. The classrooms and library are now tucked well out of the way of hungry student shoppers looking for a quick bite to eat.
Suddenly, I can’t wait to begin my scholarly lifestyle: challenging my intellect with cutting-edge treatises, the thrill of classroom discussion and debate, the stimulus of mind meeting minds, the on-campus bars.
I am so last minute with registering for the summer semester, there isn’t much left to choose from: the Registrar said I was lucky to snag my seats in Financial Management and Organizational Behavior. To fill up the rest of my slate I had to settle for Modern American Poetry, but at least it will be an easy A. And who could resist Feminist Interpretations of Drumming, and a seminar in Thigh Chi: Walking Meditation?
Donald rolls in from work and greets me in his usual way, a quick peck on the cheek, looking completely innocent, as if nothing has happened. O
f course, I have no way of knowing if something has happened by looking at him. If I confront him, he is likely to deny any wrongdoing. Bibienne advised me to lay low and watch out for more clues. For now, the card is stashed in my lingerie drawer.
I don’t have a shred of a chance to talk to him anyway: Olympia leaps at Donald as soon as he sets down his briefcase. “Daddy,” she shrieks. “We have to plan my birthday party, remember?”
I sit back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest. After all, I won the camping bet fair and square; time for Donald to deliver. Besides, he’s never organized a kid’s birthday party before: it’s high time he took his turn.
Donald opines that perhaps two little friends could pop by after dinner for a slice of birthday cake. “Half an hour is about right for these things, eh?” He looks at me for reassurance.
I look away quickly: it’s critical to avoid eye contact in these situations; I wouldn’t want pangs of sympathy to cloud my judgment and mess up the thrill of witnessing his final undoing.
Olympia is demanding a major theme party—say, pirates. With at least twenty-five friends. And lots of games. And feasting. And a sleepover. Like all the other kids’ parties.
Donald is helpless in the face of birthday buccaneering. He’s reduced to begging me for guidance. I want to say, “Did you know there’s a dodgy note on a business card tucked under my trashy lace-up camisole at the back of my lingerie drawer?” Instead, I offer a hint to Donald that he could organize a backyard treasure hunt and perhaps Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Donald could be the donkey.
Then, I add, cruelly, “Oh—and don’t forget to do the loot bags.”
Donald gives me a blank stare. He’s doomed. My evil twin pipes up to suggest that he take Olympia to the mall to settle the selection of party hats and invitations.
Olympia is requesting drums for a birthday gift. I’m thinking more in the way of a quiet little watch. I’m diverted from thoughts of quiet little watches by the sounds of a gunfight and explosives coming from the driveway. Peering through the curtains, I see Serenity leaping from the passenger seat of a rusty pickup truck. The front door bangs open and in bounds my prodigal teenage daughter accompanied by a friend, two filthy backpacks, and one enormous shaggy dog that appears to be a cross between a Mastiff and a Cave Bear. The dog heads straight to the cat food, devouring the contents of both bowls in seconds. Both cats crabwalk from the room, and scurry upstairs to pee in my shoes as punishment for this outrage.
Serenity has a pack of cigarettes rolled up in her t-shirt sleeve. Before I can say anything, she waves her arm in the direction of her friend: “This is Shae.”
Shae sets down a case of beer and grins. Serenity’s friend is clearly in favor of piercings. She has a tattoo of what looks like a necklace of power tools looping across her collarbones. In fact, her style might best be described as chainsaw-positive.
I fold my arms at Serenity. “You weren’t supposed to be running around all of New York. I …”
“It was okay, she was safe with me,” Shae says, tucking her hands flat under her belt. Her biceps and triceps are populated with gangs of sinewy muscles.
Serenity opens the fridge door, grabs four cans of soda and says, over her shoulder, “Shae has nowhere to live. Her Dad kicked her out when she came out as a lesbian. She can stay with us for now, right?”
Two pairs of bright imploring eyes blink at me.
“Um. All right. I guess.”
Serenity hugs me and yells, “Thanks Mom.” They sprint for the stairs.
“Wait, what about the dog?”
“His name is George Bush,” Shae calls back from the landing as George Bush lifts his leg to pee on the kitchen chair.
I shriek, “No, no, no—bad dog,” at which George runs away across the kitchen, flops down beside the fridge and shoves his massive bony head between his huge paws with a look of sorry, gee whiz, you forget one lousy rule and look what happens.
“Don’t look at me like that. You are so going to be living outside, Mister.”
As Serenity’s bedroom door thumps shut, I shout after them uselessly. “No smoking or drinking in the house, okay?”
A few minutes later Donald and Olympia arrive home hauling bags stuffed with party bling. Donald had so much fun at the mall, his neck muscles are twitching.
“Did you know there’s a huge dog in the backyard digging a hole beside the fence? Does it belong to the rusty truck in the driveway?”
“Yes, that’s George, Shae’s dog. Shae is Serenity’s girlfriend. Serenity asked if Shae could stay here for a while because she isn’t getting along with her Dad.”
“And you said?”
“What could I say? I felt bad for the kid. And if Shae goes, I’m pretty sure Serenity’ll take off with her. Then she’ll be back out on the streets again. I want her to stay home.”
Donald snorts. “It’s whatever Serenity wants then?”
“Please don’t start on that again.” I peek in the bags. “There’s a lot of stuff here. How many kids are you letting Olympia invite?”
“I don’t know. She made a list.”
I hold up a couple of packages of party noisemakers, the blowout kind with the annoying whistles. “It’s whatever Olympia wants then?”
I wish Serenity and Shae would go back on the road again. Every morning this week I’ve come down to dirty dishes piled in the sink—presumably an offering to the cleanup fairy. Today, abandoned beside the sink awaiting my magic cleanup wand is a jug of orange juice and an open peanut butter jar, a spatula jammed deep into the contents. A swath of breadcrumbs garnishes the counter in front of the toaster. And George has raided the garbage can again. Hairy warts pop out on my nose and my teeth snaggle into sharp points. The fairy is running for her life: the witch is in the hovel. I grab George by the collar and shove him out into the back yard. Then I fly on my broomstick up the stairs to Serenity’s room and rap on her door, three times, hard.
I hear the sound of giggling. “What?”
“May I come in?”
“Why? What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you.”
Silence. Then, a click and a sigh.
I turn the handle and peek in. Serenity and Shae are still in bed, a laptop propped between them. I can’t see what’s on the screen as Serenity shoved the lid down as I came in. I can’t see the floor either as it is strewn wall to wall with discarded articles of clothing. A pile of dirty dishes tilts on the night stand and there, propped in a bowl with a few stray popcorn kernels, is my cordless phone.
“Did you borrow money from my purse last night?”
“We ordered pizza. You were over at Bibienne’s while we were babysitting, remember?”
“You could’ve asked me first.”
“Sorry.”
“I need you two to look after George. He’s supposed to stay outside and I caught him on my bed. With muddy paws.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
It smells like smoke in here. Funny smoke. My eyes land on a massive bong perched on the dresser. I can feel my insides beginning to do a slow burn. “I thought I said no smoking in your room.”
“We weren’t. We were just cleaning out Shae’s piece is all.”
I cross my arms. “I mean it. Jack and Olympia…”
Serenity rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to keep bugging us about it.”
“Okay then.”
I don’t know what to do beyond stand here with my arms folded beaming death lasers from my eyes at them. Two pairs of eyes stare back at me, death laser shields fully activated. Serenity tosses her hands up in the air. “What?”
If I kick them out of the house for smoking, then I will have zero chance of getting Serenity back on track. “Don’t be breaking the house rules. That’s all.”
I pick up my phone and, as I close the door behind me and walk away, I hear the door handle click, more giggling and a high-pitched, “Do that again.” I can only assume they’re having a sex-positive morning. I can’
t remember the last time I had a high-pitched giggle in the morning.
I go downstairs in time to catch Jack at the side door, inviting George back into the house.
I run to prevent George from reinstalling himself inside and, as I do, Olympia pipes up: “Mom, Serenity has a snake tattoo on her back. Can I have one, too?”
I lock the door and connect the chain too. “No, you can’t have a tattoo.” I refrain from adding that she’ll have to wait until she’s 16 or until she snags herself a fake ID like Serenity did way back when.
“Can I have a nipple ring then?”
“Serenity has a nipple ring?”
Before Olympia can answer me, the phone rings.
It’s Mom, back from her road trip with her book club girls. I thought they were going to the Berkshire Theatre Festival like they do every year but I was wrong: Serenity ran into her at the Electric Daisy Carnival. Apparently, she was wearing a purple pantsuit and a headband that said YOLO.
“Serenity tells me she bumped into you at the Electric Daisy Carnival?”
“True story. It was great. You should go sometime.”
Me, petulantly: “I would’ve except I only had to look for work and watch Olympia and Jack.”
Mom is too busy planning her summer vacation to listen. Tuscany would be nice. Or Paris. I am standing at the kitchen sink looking out the window. From this vantage point, I can see George working on the landscaping. Today he is digging a series of ponds.
Mom interrupts my reverie. “You really should go on one of these boat cruises. Brian wants to see Greece in July but I say we save that for winter and do a river cruise in the south of France first.”
Then, in a chirpy voice, she says she’s planning a quick trip next week with Brian to the Midwest where Phil Mickelson is supposed to be touring: “I’ll be walking all the courses with Phil!”
All day today the crusty old seadog, Donald, lived up to his end of the bargain and entertained Olympia and her friends in the backyard with so-called pirate pizza, cake and games. Olympia’s sixth birthday is upon me, the long awaited coming of age that heralds full day, every day, school attendance. This represents a huge developmental milestone. For me, that is. From now on, I can blame everything that Olympia says or does on her teachers.
The Perils of Pauline Page 4
