Chapter One #3
When I was laid off from the two-person art department of the advertising firm where I’d worked for five years, Rhonda, my manager, delivered the news at lunchtime and told me to take the afternoon off.
In fairness, she didn’t realize she was shitcanning me on Maisie and Niko’s first birthday, for which we’d planned a party with the two grandmas, plus a few of our neighbors, and some of Emily’s work friends.
(The year before, it was Rhonda who had arranged for the lunchtime celebration of the twins’ birth: cake, gift cards, packs of Huggies, jokes about sleeplessness.) “I want you to know that it’s not about the quality of your work, Corby,” Rhonda assured me as she raised the ax and let it drop.
“It’s about the company’s bottom line. It was a difficult decision, but I was told I couldn’t keep you both.
” And, of course, she wasn’t about to lay off Brianne, the golden child who’d been hired three years after me but had been getting assigned to the bigger accounts.
Like me, Brianne had been a scholarship student at the Rhode Island School of Design, but unlike me, she had graduated with honors and won awards for her work, whereas I’d quit midway through my senior year and driven across the country to secure Emily’s love.
For a while now, I’ve been nurturing this scenario whereby a bigger and more lucrative agency lures Brianne away from Creative and I get my old job back and excel, showing them what a foolish mistake they made when they let me go.
What’s that called? Magical thinking? Meanwhile, my unemployment benefit has run out, and we’ve refinanced our mortgage and done three sessions of marriage counseling.
Last month, we acknowledged the twins’ second birthday with presents, cake, and candles but skipped the expense of a party.
Hey, it is what it is, as they say. With an assist from rum and Ativan, I’ve lately held panic at bay by embracing the Alfred E.
Neuman philosophy: What? Me worry? So after I drop off the kids, I’ll be heading to the liquor store for another fifth of the Captain, then back home to consume it while watching some daytime TV: CNN, The People’s Court, The Price Is Right , and, if I can find it again, that station that carries reruns of Saved by the Bell .
Once my rum-and-benzo minivacation really kicks in, I might watch some porn and jerk off, maybe grab a nap.
I’ll pick up Maisie and Niko at Betsy’s sometime around four.
Start cooking supper by the time Emily gets home or, more likely, pick up Chinese or Chipotle for dinner, plus McNuggets for the twins.
There’s starting to be an embarrassing number of Happy Meal toys gathering on the windowsill in the playroom.
That’s my plan. But none of this will happen.
I put the bag I packed for the twins’ day at their grandmother’s on the bottom porch step, then go back inside.
Brush my teeth and gargle twice so that Betsy won’t smell anything when I drop them off.
It’s a chilly morning, so I put the kids’ hats and spring jackets on.
Lock the front door and walk them out to the driveway.
The usual order of buckling the twins into their car seats is Niko first because he’s the more restless of the two.
But the order gets turned around this morning when I see Niko on his belly, watching a swarm of ants in the driveway crawl over and around a piece of cookie that got dropped the day before.
I buckle Maisie in. Then I remember the bag on the porch step and hustle back to get it.
I place the bag on the passenger’s seat up front.
Wave to our across-the-street neighbors, Shawn and Linda McNally, as they pull into their driveway.
Linda gets out of the car shaking a paper bag.
“Mr. Big Spender just took me out for breakfast,” she calls over to me. “Egg McMuffin to go. Woo-hoo!”
I laugh. Promise Shawn I’ll return the maul I’d borrowed from him.
The weekend before, I finally finished splitting and stacking that half cord of wood that had been delivered a few months ago.
“Yeah, good,” he says, instead of “no rush” or “not a problem.” Some guys are so possessive of their tools.
Linda’s outgoing, but Shawn always seems standoffish.
Suspicious, almost. Toward me, anyway. He’s a recently retired state cop.
That probably explains it. I have the feeling that “Make America Great Again” sign on their lawn last year was his idea, not hers.
“How are my two little sweetie pies?” Linda asks.
“You mean double trouble? They got ahold of some crayons yesterday and scrawled all over the kitchen floor. When I busted them and asked, ‘Did you two do this?’ Maisie looked at her brother and he shook his head, so she did, too. The little monsters were still holding on to their Crayolas.”
“Gonna be artists like their daddy,” she says, laughing.
“Or politicians,” I say. “They’ve already got the fibbing thing down.”
Linda concurs. “When he was three, our Russell took a Magic Marker to our brand-new duvet. Swore up and down that he didn’t do it—that it must have been his sister, Jill, who hadn’t even started to creep yet.
He almost didn’t live to see age four.” I roll my eyes and laugh.
Ask her how Russell likes living out in Colorado.
“Fine,” she says. “He’s been taking classes and bartending part-time but he just got a ‘real’ job at a TV station in Fort Collins. ”
I tell her to say hi from Emily and me next time she speaks to him. “Well, I better get going,” I say. “Have a good one.”
I climb into our CRV, start it up, and put it in reverse.
When I feel the slight resistance at the rear right wheel, I figure a piece of the wood I stacked must have fallen off the pile; that’s what the obstruction must be.
What are they yelling about over there? I pull ahead a few feet, then back up again, depressing the gas pedal just enough to make it over the obstacle.
In the rearview mirror, I see them running toward us, arms waving.
What the fuck, man? Why is she screaming?
And then I know.