In the Unlikely Event...

by Saxon Bennett

  “I’ve agreed to the writing class only because Divine Vulva wants to do it and keeping one’s muse happy is imperative to the creative process.”

  “I see.” She looked around and then said, “Thank you, Ms. Vulva, wherever you are.” She waved her hand in the air.

  Divine Vulva rolled her eyes, but whispered, “Use the muse card to get the rest of what you want.”

  “Exactly,” Commercial Endeavor said.

  “Like what?” Chase said.

  “Like I don’t think it’s good for my career to spend so much time in the boardroom,” Divine Vulva said.

  “Oh,” Chase said.

  “What I mean, Chase, is that I value your opinion on matters pertaining to the Institute—I actually need your help.”

  The “actually” word caught Chase’s attention. “What do you mean ‘actually’?”

  Lacey must have caught the tone in her voice. “What I mean was that you’ve turned out to be more of an asset than I anticipated.”

  “Great.”

  “Aren’t you excited that you’re such an integral part of the Revolution?”

  “Not really. How about we discuss your ideas like we used to in pre-revolutionary times? When you have a problem, you come see me, and we’ll go over it together instead of sticking me in a boardroom where my creative problem-solving skills get cramped up and I’m of no use to you. It would be so much better than me sitting there listening to people argue about whether they have ovaries or not. I mean, who cares if you don’t have female parts…”

  “Have them removed,” Lacey interjected.

  Chase’s brow furrowed. “May I continue?”

  “By all means,” Lacey said.

  “Or if you still have them? It’s pretty much a nonissue. The removed cannot be reinstated and the ‘have parts’ group could have them removed. Either way no one is the lesser person.”

  “I know that and you know that, but that’s not how they feel.”

  “So, the schism is still there?”

  Lacey nodded. “See, that’s why I need your help.”

  “No, you need a group shrink.”

  Lacey’s face lit up. “Do you think Dr. Robicheck would do it?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m completely serious. This rift is getting larger by the day.”

  Chase considered. If she aided Lacey this way maybe it would keep her in a consulting status. “I could ask her. I suppose there is no harm in that.”

  Lacey leapt up and hugged her. “This is what I mean—you have such insight into my problems.”

  Chase held her a minute. This was the Lacey she missed—the one full of energy and exuberance, not the psychomaniacal executive of a lesbian circus. She pulled back and looked at Lacey.

  Divine Vulva hissed in her ear. “Do it now!”

  “All right,” Chase muttered to her.

  “See, isn’t this nice?” Lacey cooed.

  “It is, and I think it’s in this capacity that I can serve you best—as your confidante who has outside perspective.”

  Lacey eyed her and then sat back down on the couch. “So what you’re saying is that you want out, but you’ll stay in as long as it’s one on one.”

  Chase was confused. It sounded more like a poker game than a solution. “If it means I’m done with going to meetings.”

  “Yes, you’ll stand as my personal advisor—like that guy Lord-something or other that Queen Elizabeth had.”

  “Lord Cecil.”

  “Yeah, that guy.”

  “Deal.” They shook hands. Chase glanced over her shoulder to see Divine Vulva rifling the cupboard for a coffee cup to her liking.

  Chapter Eight—Map of Life

  “She let you get off with that?” Gitana said.

  “Yup,” Chase said.

  “All you have to do is teach the writing class and talk to her when she has a problem.”

  “Yup.”

  “Chase, could you possibly put those down and talk to me?”

  Chase swung around with the enormous binoculars still glued to her face. Gitana appeared as a blur of hair follicles and epidermis. She tipped the binoculars down and waited while her pupils adjusted to the dimmer light of the dining room.

  “What exactly are you looking at?”

  “The road,” Chase said, her voice heavy with gritty malevolence as if “the road” had become a serious force of contention in her life.

  “It’s coming along nicely. I can’t wait until they’ve finished—what with all the noise and dust,” Gitana said.

  “Yup,” Chase said. She had the look of someone being interrupted from an engrossing task. She read it in Gitana’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Gitana cocked her head and raised an eyebrow—her quintessential what’s-up look.

  Bud came bouncing down the stairs, grabbed her lunchbox and called out from the kitchen, “She’s freaked about the road being paved.”

  Having heard Bud stuffing her lunchbox in her backpack, Chase said, “Don’t forget to put the ice pack in. I don’t want E. coli breeding in your lunchbox.”

  “E. coli is specific to meat, and I am a vegetarian,” Bud informed her.

  “Like that proclivity would slip my mind,” Chase said. “I was simply using an example of what can happen with poor food safety.”

  Bud stood beside her. “I think it’s a case of displacement—food safety for a change in road conditions.”

  Gitana looked puzzled. “I would think having a paved road was a good thing. We’ve all complained about it for years, and now our wish has come true because of Bud’s diligent efforts.”

  “It’s the change thing that’s getting to her,” Bud said.

  Chase was back to peering through the binoculars. The workers in their orange vests were removing rocks that the backhoe had unearthed, the same rocks they had driven over for so many years that their tops had been worn smooth. She felt like running down there and saving them from the ignominy of being tossed to the side like pieces of geological trash. Each one, it seemed, had its own personality. “We should have given them names,” Chase opined.

  “Given who names?” Gitana called from the kitchen where she was now organizing her work bag.

  Chase felt Bud take her hand. She put the binoculars down on the dining room table. “The rocks.”

  Bud looked up at her. “I didn’t know this would upset you. I was simply concerned for the health and preservation of our internal organs.”

  “I know.”

  “The internal organ thing was what sold the governor on it. She’d just had abdominal surgery and couldn’t imagine having to drive home on such a road.”

  Gitana returned holding her bag. “Don’t you have an appointment with Dr. Robicheck this afternoon?”

  Chase gave her the look—the one that said the “don’t you have an appointment with your shrink?” question was on par with “did you take your medication?”

  Gitana put her arms around Chase’s shoulders. “I meant it in a good way.”

  “I know. And yes, I do after I help with the decorations for the Fall Frolic dance.” She glanced in Bud’s direction. She still wasn’t comfortable with Bud taking a girl, Summer in particular, as her date for the dance.

  Gitana’s take on the whole thing was, “Isn’t it better that she goes with a good friend? She adores Summer.”

  “That’s what I am afraid of,” Chase had said.

  “Do you want her to go with a boy?”

  That had cinched the discussion.

  “Okay, we’d better get a move on. You know it takes longer to get down the road now,” Gitana said.

  “It appears,” Bud said as she peered through the binoculars, “that they have completed paving one side of the road.”

  “I hope it’s dry. I don’t want tar splats on the side of the Mini Cooper.”

  “It looks solidified,” Bud said.


  “Let me see,” Chase said, taking the binoculars. She peered down at the road. “How can you tell?” It just looked black to her.

  “The color. It was apparently done yesterday around one thirty. I had in-service so I got out early.”

  Chase loved in-service days. She didn’t understand what they were—she imagined that the teachers cleaned up their desks or something. She didn’t care because they meant she got to spend more time with Bud. What was the bane of most parents—an afternoon where they had to find a sitter—was a delight to Chase. They’d gone to Starbucks and had lattes as a treat. Chase wasn’t certain how she should feel about Bud having caffeine at her age, but being a major consumer herself, it seemed hypocritical to forbid it to Bud. It was legal after all. French kids did it, she rationalized—rationalization was always a slippery slope.

  “And they were finishing up the one side when I got home so I think she’s right—it’s dry. Is this road thing going to be like the gazebo thing?” Gitana asked.

  “‘Thing’? What do you mean by ‘thing’?” Chase said, studying the road again.

  “Your obsession with finding, planning and building the gazebo,” Gitana said, taking the binoculars.

  Chase sighed. She was quiet for a moment, ruminating. “I suppose it is. Did I ever tell you about my very first obsession?”

  “Uh, no, I don’t think so,” Gitana said, glancing at her watch.

  “I haven’t heard about it,” Bud piped in.

  “It lasted four years.”

  “Four years!” Gitana said.

  Bud patted her arm. “The gazebo only lasted about three months, which included building time, and it is very nice,” she said.

  “Thank you,” Chase said. “I have matured and my obsession time line has greatly reduced itself—so no worries.”

  “What was your first obsession?” Gitana asked with a look of I-can-only-imagine.

  “It had to do with finding the perfect Halloween costume,” Chase said, putting the binoculars that Gitana had set on the dining room table into their case.

  “That’s not so bad,” Gitana said. “All kids spend time thinking about what they’ll wear that night—it was like this special magical time,” she glanced at Bud. “Well, most children.”

  “Some of us do have better things to do with our time,” Bud said.

  “Oh, so you’re implying I was shallow as a child.”

  “No, you were relatively normal,” Bud said.

  That was a compliment, Chase thought.

  “I don’t understand what’s wrong with planning out your Halloween costume?” Bud said.

  “I would start planning my costume on November first and work my way through the rest of the year exploring all the possibilities.”

  “You worked on your Halloween costume idea for three hundred and sixty-four days,” Gitana said incredulously.

  “Yup.”

  “Well, you could be commended for your thoroughness,” Bud said.

  “Or committed for signs of early obsessive disorders,” Gitana said, fishing about for her car keys.

  Chase and Bud both looked at her with bruised assault written on their faces.

  “Did I say that out loud?” she said.

  “She has improved and needs nothing more than the occasional tune-up with a qualified mental health expert,” Bud said.

  “Thank you,” Chase said.

  “Okay, let’s go try the road out,” Gitana said, rubbing her hands together.

  On the way to the garage, Chase did three Hail Marys to ward off the evil of impending change.

  Bud took her hand. “Do you have the crepe paper for the decorating committee?”

  “I do. I loaded the car last night so I wouldn’t forget anything,” Chase said as they followed Gitana toward the cars.

  Bud nodded. “You may be obsessive, but no one can fault your organizational skills.”

  They kissed Gitana goodbye and then climbed in the car. Chase started down the road with trepidation. She tried her best to acknowledge the improvement, but she gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. She did have to admit that not having one’s internal organs bounced from side to side was a bonus.

  She could feel Bud’s intense gaze upon her. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure. I’m just a little stressed over this hanging crepe paper business. I mean, I’ve never decorated anything before.”

  “It’s really quite simple. I bought this magazine that has explicit do-it-yourself directions and tips on how to improve. I think if you give it a quick perusal before you arrive, you’ll be fine.” Bud dug the magazine out of her backpack.

  “Perfect. I appreciate you looking out for me.” She turned off the road and onto the county road. The transition was smooth, she noted.

  Gitana stuck her arm out the window of the Land Rover and waved at them before she turned onto the county road and headed toward the nursery.

  “Do you want me to read the particulars while we drive and then you can study the pictures after you drop me off?”

  “By all means.”

  Chapter Nine—Decorum

  Chase was standing in Dr. Robicheck’s office. “I mean how hard can it be to hang crepe paper and tape up decorations? The Coffee Klatch relegated me to dispensing tape. It was embarrassing.”

  Dr. Robicheck stared at her. “Because you were doing what?”

  “Did you redecorate again? You know how I feel about that.”

  “Yes, now why did you feel inadequate to the task?”

  “You painted and changed the pillows,” Chase said, feeling her heart pump faster.

  “Is it because this is an activity you haven’t done before?”

  “Is this sage green?” Chase said, pointing to the walls. Even the prints had changed from calla lilies and Southwestern scenes to reprints of forest paintings something along the lines of Emily Carr. Chase asked if the paintings were by artist Emily Carr.

  Dr. Robicheck looked at the prints as if seeing them for the first time. Sometimes Chase swore her therapist was myopic.

  “I seem to remember being told that. I hired an interior designer. I thought my office needed sprucing up. I gave her free rein. I rather like it.” She studied the room.

  “You know I don’t like change.”

  “I realize that change is unsettling for you. Now, why don’t you sit down and we’ll talk about this crepe paper business.”

  Chase sat down. “I do like the rug. It accents the wall colors and ties into the pillows, and that vase is new too,” she said, pointing at the hand-blown glass vase sitting on the end table.

  “Chase, focus. Tell me what happened at the decorating party.”

  “It’s the road, really, more than the crepe paper.” She fingered one of the couch pillows.

  “The road? What road?” Dr. Robicheck had opened an embossed green leather notepad.

  “That looks new.” Chase was on the verge of a panic attack. She looked around the room searching for every new thing—there was the pen and pencil holder, the ink blotter and two books by Anthony Trollope, The Eustace Diamonds and The Warden, two of Chase’s favorites. “This is awful. When did you do all this?”

  Chase quickly calculated. It had been six weeks since her last appointment. Dr. Robicheck had gone to a conference and Chase had been in New York with Eliza P. Newman planning a new detective series. Divine Vulva was supposedly working out a killer hook and had yet to do so. Commercial Endeavor was at least doing her part by creating character biographies and researching the locale for the novel. The combination of these events resulted in enough time for the remodel.

  Chase recalled her first visit to Dr. Robicheck’s. The entire room was brown—it was like sitting inside a walnut with brown furniture and brown walls, and Dr. Robicheck wore a brown polyester get-up. Then Dr. Robicheck fell in love and all hell broke loose in the world of change. Dr. Robicheck got a new wardrobe and redecorated her office, and now she was doing it again—like the
first time hadn’t been traumatic enough.

  “What happened to this road you’re talking about?”

  “How come you remodeled again? Do you have a new boyfriend?”

  “I felt like a change—green is supposed to be a very soothing color.”

  “Well, it’s not working for me,” Chase said, getting up to examine the print on the wall. It was nicely framed and thank God, Divine Vulva had given up coming to therapy or this artwork could be in danger.

  “Evidently.”

  “And before you ask, yes, I have been taking my meds.”

  “That’s good, but I wasn’t going to inquire. Stress does this to you. Now, let’s talk about the cause of this episode,” she inquired, pen poised.

  Chase studied the embossed signature on the lower right corner of the print. It was a reproduction of an Emily Carr. “Did you know about her?”

  “About who?”

  “Emily Carr.”

  “Who’s Emily Carr?” Dr. Robicheck had that genuinely puzzled look that Chase, in her more passive-aggressive moments, found amusing. Confusing the therapist who was supposed to lead you out of your own personal confusion was surely a patient-therapist confidentiality achievement. Your mind was so confidential that even your therapist couldn’t breach it.

  “She painted this,” Chase said, indicating the print.

  “She’s not here, is she?”

  “No, Emily Carr’s been dead for a long time,” Chase said.

  “I figured that by the dates on the paintings.”

  “Who are you talking about then?” Chase said.

  “You know,” Dr. Robicheck said, cocking her head toward the paintings.

  “No, I don’t know.” They were definitely not connecting today, Chase thought.

  “Your muse, the one that throws artwork,” Dr. Robicheck said, looking around anxiously as if searching for tangible proof, and then she pointed at the framed reproduction of Emily Carr’s painting of a cedar forest.

  “Oh, no. Divine Vulva had decided that therapy is not her thing,” Chase said, being diplomatic. What Divine Vulva had actually said was, “Therapy is fucking voodoo shit and you might as well piss your money down a hole.” Chase knew that each person’s profession was sacred to them. She didn’t want to offend Dr. Robicheck. “She’s been really busy working on her new series.”