Saturday, August 25, 2012

The Stakes






I wind the phone cord around my pinkie finger and count seven rungs before unwinding it again.  I sit, and I listen.  If I had to pick between my mother-in-law’s rants about bingo at the Senior Center and this time-share crap that is currently taking my time, I honestly don’t know that I would have a preference.

You see, my wife and I went to Vegas last year.  Stayed in one of those fancy hotels with expensive names that cost as much as the electric bill in July.  My wife bought shoes she couldn’t afford and I gambled all the overtime for the year that I haven’t even worked yet.  I mean, we really lived it up.

So now, if we want to go back to Vegas and see a show and eat the seafood buffet, my wife informs me we have to listen to Reginaldo talk about Jamaica and the Virgin Islands and price tags that are more than my yearly salary.  I’m sitting here, winding the cord around my pinkie again, thinking, Really, Re-he-nal-do?  If I could afford this vacation home, would I be listening to you for an hour so I could get a Vegas voucher?

Linda breezes by my desk, smelling like a tropical vacation herself.  I shiver just a little bit when she drops a letter on my desk because her fingernails are this poppin’ blood-orange and I can almost feel them on my neck.  While I’m looking at Linda’s gorgeous hands, I happen to see my own and suddenly the sixteenth ounce of gold I wear on my left hand feels really tight and heavy. 

Reginaldo is still talking when I give myself a paper cut on the letter I open.  “Dear Santa,” says the first line and I drop the phone.  Only one person has ever called me that and it’s been ages.

“I know I’ve caused you a lot of grief, but there’s something I need that only you can get for me.  For all that we ever had, for all you ever felt for me, please don’t tell anyone about this.”

It isn’t even signed, but I have no doubts.  My mouth goes dry as I realize the implications of the letter.  Veronica is in prison and I doubt she is there for breaking hearts. 

I honestly have no idea what it is that she wants me to do, but when she says only I can get it for her I’m pretty sure I know where to look.  We had this secret, see, when we were in high school.  We graduated with the class of ’95, wore matching green and white shirts that said Go Pandas, and there wasn’t a whole lot we wouldn’t do for each other.  Until Veronica killed her sister.  Things just weren’t the same after that.

Fifteen years later and she comes back to haunt me, the ghost of a woman not dead.  I hang up on Reginaldo and grab my jacket, headed for the door.   She left something in that vent duct at the high school, I just know it.  Something that is going to ruin me and I have to get to it first.  Because you see, Veronica didn’t exactly kill her sister by herself. 

Monday, August 6, 2012

Job Security


Get the party started on a Saturday night,
Everybody’s waiting for me to arrive,
Sendin’ out the message to all of my friends,
We’ll be lookin’ flashy in my Mercedes Benz.

Some people can’t appreciate the hits of ‘back in the day,’ but I had always been a big fan of Pink, and these beats wafting out my sunroof matched my mood this 4th of July.  I pulled up in front of Brian’s house and cut the engine. 

I always loved going to these parties and seeing the mix of people that we managed to get together at WD. Artists who looked like normal people, normal people that looked like artists, prospective writers who wanted to make a good impression on anyone that would talk with them about what they were working on, and people like me who just wanted to enjoy the show that was bound to take place.

I cat-walked it down the sidewalk, unsure if the pauses in conversation and jaw-dropping stares were a result of me in my bikini and shadow wrap or of the gigantic cheesecake I was holding that was decked out in an American flag made of plump blueberries and juicy strawberries. I smirked to myself and made sure that anyone who hadn’t already noticed my arrival noticed it now.  I flashed a perfect smile and made an attempt to greet everyone I already knew by name, smiling and dropping polite “hellos” to the newbees.

Brian glanced up at me from where he was involved in a deep conversation about page layouts and I decided to rescue him.  He met me halfway, and an innocent bystander would have seen the special spark in his eye, assuming an undercover office relationship.  “You look beautiful!” he whispered, “I’ve been waiting for you way too long.” 

What the viewer then saw would have made him blush at his own ridiculousness and have sent him straight back to the ice chest to cool his outlandish thoughts.  Brian’s loving gaze wasn’t for me; he was all about the cheesecake.  I had teased him once, saying he had only hired me on because I was a good cook, but the joke seemed too close to the truth.  After that, I kept my mouth shut and my desserts top notch.

“Hello to you too,” I said, craning my neck to catch his eyes that were caressing the creamy cake.  He looked up, and with all the due composure of the Editor gracefully motioned with his hand and led me to where I could lay the crown jewel.

Some poor new kid on the block saw Brian and thought it was his chance.  He nervously straightened his shirt and bound into our path, so focused on Brian that he didn’t see me and incidentally barged into me and the cake.  “Noo-oo-o!” Brian shouted and everything seemed to move in slow motion. 

I sat up seeing only stars—the ones on the cheesecake, that is.  I had landed face-first in my own vice.  The young writer obviously didn’t realize his mistake or he would have apologized to Brian, not to me.  Well, I’m the only one who got to try my cheesecake this holiday, and I guess that means I have job security until Thanksgiving at least!

Sunday, August 5, 2012

'Til Death Do Us Part


Slender fingers traced the delicate lace and foamy chiffon of the wedding gown, peeking out of the folds like hot chocolate beneath whipped cream.  She sat cross-legged on a heap of clothes that covered the closet floor—clothes that she had ripped off their hangers and tossed out of drawers in their last argument. 

His jeans mingled curiously with her snakeskin peeptoes and his crisp dress shirts swallowed up her crumpled cotton tops.  The shimmering wedding dress was the only thing still hanging in that closet, casting golden shadows as the light danced a waltz on its luxurious silk.

A sample invitation floated its way down from the top shelf like a black jet and settled itself perfectly on the textile mound.   She picked it up and mindlessly traced their names in the embossed gold ink. 

It was presently three o’clock in the afternoon on Saturday, August 4th in the year of our Lord two-thousand twelve, as announced in the invitation.  But she was not gliding down the aisle to “Here Comes the Bride.”  Instead, “Amazing Grace” was wafting through the speaker system in the newly purchased house where they had planned to build a home together. 

The closet was as far as they got, plus a few sparse odds and ends and two bowls and spoons that had been dug out for an initial bowl of ice cream.  Oddly enough, that half-full carton of ice cream bothered her more than the unworn wedding gown.  She would have those simple quiet memories more deeply engraved in her heart than any bustle of the wedding celebration that should have taken place.

She picked up a simple white undershirt that was peeping out of the mess and wrapped it around her wrists and through her fingers and nuzzled it next to her face, breathing in his scent.  Uncontrollable tears flooded her eyes.  As much as she tried not to blame herself, she couldn’t seem to make her heart believe what her mind told her. 

I’m sorry, ma’am.  There is nothing more I can do, the doctor apologized as she stood trembling before him in disbelief.  I’m sorry, miss. It was a crazy coincidence.  He was at the wrong place at the wrong time, the officer said as she knelt before the twisted metal that had once been his motorcycle.  I’m so sorry, sweetie, her mom said as she drove her home from the hospital.  But through it all, her own mind was drowning them out: I’m sorry too. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

A tear trickled down her cheek and off her chin and splashed onto the platinum band housing a single small black diamond.  She sniffled and lovingly grasped the ring that hung around her neck—the ring she should have been making her promise with right now. 

She gave a faint smile as she remembered that she had it engraved with the date of their wedding. Because now we have an anniversary, babe, and one of us has to remember, she told him, eyes twinkling. 

He laughed at her and teased her about her choice of jeweler.  Baby, you better make sure the diamond in my ring is the same one.  She could still hear Jeremy's voice emanating from behind glittering perfectly white teeth, imitating the jeweler: You gonna be bery bery happy you get message done here. I do it real nice for you.  Bery special ‘cause you beautiful couple.  

Yes, there was something strange about the old man with his black mustache and pale skin.  His yellow-rimmed eyes glinted at them as they walked out the door and he murmured something under his breath.

She wiped the tear off of the inscription with her finger and felt an indescribable burn.  She let out a faint cry right before everything went black. 

The smell of burnt flesh woke her up and made her want to vomit.  She raised her arm to her nose to shield herself from the smell and her eyes fluttered open.  She was lying on the floor of the closet, and all the clothes were in their proper places.  She reached for her cell phone and looked at the time.  5:00 p.m., August 1st.  “Jeremy’s accident!” she breathed.

Urgency socked her in the stomach like a pro-pitched baseball and she leapt off the floor and tore down the stairs screaming at the top of her lungs. I’m sorry, I’m sorry she belted.  She threw open the door and tackled him in a hug just as he was picking up his helmet.  “Marry me on Saturday, love,” she said.  “The cake doesn’t matter.”

Friday, August 3, 2012

One Word


To describe your eyes in one word is: Ocean.
The way I feel around you, one word is: Emotion.
One word to describe my love: Immense.
The passion between us, I’ll call it: Intense.
The most beautiful thing is you make me feel: Free.
The thing you like best about me is: Me.
If the world were on fire, and I could get through,
I’d come back for one thing, and that would be: You.
I am the Earth, you are my: Sun.
Out of millions of words, I only need: One.
I think someone sent me a gift from above,
When I opened it up, you were there.  Call it: Love. 

Thursday, August 2, 2012

A Normal Life


I glanced down at my planner as I shoved another bite of toaster-waffle into my mouth, careful not to let any sticky syrup drip onto my freshly pressed button-up.

“Honey, did you say you could pick up Rachel from practice?”  No response.
“Zed?”

I stomped up the stairs in my heels and pencil skirt, balancing my briefcase under my arm, gripping my coffee mug and lip liner in one hand and dragging the dog by the collar with the other. 

“Nathaniel James Briggens, I swear that if I have to take your dog outside one more time in the morning, I’m getting rid of him,” I said in passing to my sleepy-eyed, mussy-headed 12 year-old, thrusting the dog at him on my way to the bathroom.

“Zed?” I shouted, bursting into the bathroom. 

He jumped back, startled, and his flailing arms knocked into my coffee mug, painting a streak of coffee on my shirt.  I put my hand up to my forehead in defeat and sighed. 

I unbuttoned my soggy shirt and stepped up to the mirror next to my husband. 

“Rachel gets done at 6:00,” I said through stiff lips, outlining my mouth. “Are you gonna be able to get her?  I have a meeting until 5:45 or later.” 

“Ya, I was planning on it,” he said, looking at his watch. “Babe you gotta go. You’re late already.”

“As if I didn’t know that,” I grumbled, rushing to the room to toss on another shirt. 

“Everybody in the car by the time I come out of this room or you’re gonna wish you had Britney Spears for a mom!” I shouted to my kids as I shut the bedroom door. 

I finished taking off my soiled top and threw on another button-up and suit jacket.  I snatched the keys and cell phone off the end table, thrust them into my briefcase and rushed down the stairs and out to the car.

“Nathan, turn your music down.  We already have a stereo system in here.  Rachel, please make sure Louis is buckled,” I said as I strapped on my seat belt and put the car in reverse. 

The phone rang in my briefcase just as I had reached back to snatch a sucker out of Louis’ chubby fingers.

“You’ll be all sticky by the time I drop you off at school,” I said as I flipped open the phone to by greeted by an accusing, raspy voice—“Why me?” I quickly hung up, disturbed by the call, realizing that I must have picked up Zed’s phone off the end table on accident. 

No sooner had I dropped off the kids at school when it rang again.  Shaking and wondering what Zed had gotten into, I opened it, saying nothing. 

“You made a mistake,” the voice accused me before it hung up.  Suddenly, I felt myself being snatched out of the car by strong hands, struggling and kicking, grabbing for the phone that hung limp from its cord on the car charger where I had plugged it in only minutes before.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Lies




My husband and I had taken a vacation—a little trip to, you know get the fire burning again.  We had talked about divorce on and off for a few years, went to counseling, had another baby…well, the list goes on and this was a last chance for our family. 

I was equal parts nervous and excited as I glanced through shy eyelashes at my husband of fifteen years.  I wondered how I could share a home, a family, a bed with this man that I barely knew.  I had known him once, loved him once, wanted to build a life with him.  That was before three kids and job transfers, among other things, had crept in and separated us.

Now, here I was alone with him, and I had nothing to say.  It was like the first date from hell…uncomfortable, awkward and the drinks hadn’t even shown up yet…no wait, it was worse because at the end of the night, he was still my husband who I had made “for better or for worse, ‘til death do us part” vows with.

He brought my worries to a close when I realized he wasn’t looking for conversation.  I sighed and we settled into routine.  He picked up the newspaper he had tucked into his briefcase (yes, that was coming on vacation) and absorbed himself in it before the second class even got on the plane.  I pulled out my book I had snuck in (oh, how I loved those mysteries full of the passion that didn’t exist in my life of soccer games and sack lunches), and realized how we had made it through the years—peacefully not dealing with each other. 
That should tell you what the vacation accomplished.  We divorced amazingly soon after Cabo, both contentedly ignoring the issues.  I went to his wedding and took the kids home afterwards. 

Now I’m just going through some old things and I came across a Nike box, stuffed with old photos.  It was these pictures of Cabo that made me remember.  I gingerly picked one up, thinking of how that vacation might have been.  We were at dinner, glasses raised in a toast behind a crisp linen cloth, the sun setting over the water in the background. 

Suddenly, I saw what I hadn’t seen in my fifteen-plus years of marriage.  Adrenaline shot through my body, making my hands shake uncontrollably and I gasped, dropping the box and scattering pictures everywhere.  I raised a hand to my hot face, unsure where to plunk myself.  I turned in a circle and finally flopped onto the floor cross-legged.  The camera had captured a moment in time that was supposed to be a forever secret.  I ransacked the shoebox and rifled through the years of pictures, wondering just how long his new wife had been sharing in our private, family functions.