15
15
WORKING GIRL
P ete had explained to me how he plied Brunette-Number-Two with two iced-mochas. How he gallantly removed her backpack. How he was planning on passing by some restrooms and casually mentioning he had to “take a whiz.” How he’d leave her with the backpacks and then come out and do an exchange. How he would have removed her driver’s license and student ID while she was inside doing her business. He explained, when I commented how obvious it would be it was him, that girls always take these two forms of identification when they go out. And since she was the kind of girl who went out a lot, and since no money or credit card was missing, she would just assume she’d lost them at some party.
Slick as that. I was sorrier than sorry I’d foiled his plan.
I mentioned how I could do the same thing for him. He fought me on it instantly. Of course, he did. The thought of me flirting with another guy, putting myself out there, using my sexuality to get my way “made him sick.” He said he’d already witnessed it once, and no way he could stomach it a second time.
I called him on his double standard. He unabashedly admitted it. I argued my case—he was being an unreasonable pig. He argued his—he didn’t care. He followed that up with a lot of oinking and snuffling on my neck until I laughed.
A whole lot of nothing happened that next week, except I ran out of pills and moved my industriousness from the thousand square feet confines of our love nest to the big house. I cleaned for the Henrys, weeded their garden, spit-shined their windows, and organized their pantry. This in gratitude for all their help.
Me and Ruthie were fast friends, our friendship blossomed along with our garden. We also bonded over woman duties and a love of baking. Mr. Henry was so grateful to me for keeping the Mrs. occupied so he could go fishing, that he said he should pay me a wife-sitting fee. He tried to stuff a twenty in my hand every time he saw me. Ruthie was no better, sneaking a couple of Benjamins in my laundry basket for washing their windows. I immediately returned the cash and came back instead with books borrowed from her library. Those I borrowed generously.
My hands were occupied and my mind was occupied, but I could tell they were all worried I would bolt. I wondered how much Pete had revealed to them and how much they had guessed. They knew enough to know we both needed to work on the down low.
“Something will turn up soon,” they encouraged. In the meantime, there were couples’ nights at the Henrys. I cooked and she baked. The next night we switched roles. I wasn’t as good of a baker as her but I was a quick study, learning tidbits like how to cover the piecrust with tin tinfoil, so the rim didn’t burn.
Mr. Henry and Pete ate with gusto and asked for seconds, giving each other a hard time until they found their way to the TV to watch sports while Ruthie and I cleaned up. It was easy to fall back into traditional roles. The time warp we were living in lent itself to generation hopping.
Over our homemade pies, we played dominos, board games, and card games. One poker night, Pete gave me the head nod, and I let Bragasauraus-Bob have it. I beat him at five-card stud nine hands in a row, while Pete and I smirked over our cards. Poor Bob blustered, turned red as a rooster, and lost eighty buckaroonis to yours truly, until I finally caved and let him win half of it back.
“Take this card shark to Vegas,” Bob stage-whispered to Pete while we exchanged secret smiles.
But come ten ‘o clock Pete would hit his limit, saying we had to hit the sack. Bob would make some joke that would sting my cheeks and twinkle Pete’s eyes. Then we would stay up late talking and watching TV and trying to work our way through that condom roll. In the morning we lingered over breakfast, until Pete would sigh and take off, a swift kiss left in his wake.
One of those nights his cell rang. Pete listened for a while. When he spoke, I noticed he took a tone. I turned down the TV. He informed the caller that if he had a sister or any girlfriends that needed some tutoring, then I was available. In the meantime, he’d be happy to help him write his paper on Modernism and its major writers.
I spluttered and pounded his arm. Pete hung up with his excuse already formed: “Dude did not need a tutor.” It was the guy who met me in the Quad putting up flyers; it seemed he didn’t need help writing his essay after all.
“How ‘bout Bob’s Vegas idea?” I’d been churning this around in my head for the last couple of days.
“The worst one yet,” he dismissed. “They would suspect we would head there eventually to take advantage of your gift, and already have face recognition alerts at the casinos. Too many cameras. Too much security.” He paused to allow me my scowl. “And you’re still nineteen and looked less . . . Would never work.” He threw his arm around me to squeeze some of my frustration out.
“Seems like I might not either,” I muttered, shrugging out of his grasp.
Just like the inclement weather outside, pressure started to build up inside me till I was about ready to pop. I got up to go jog, and Pete got up to go with me. I’d be lying if I said I wanted to be alone. At the tail end of our jog, the clouds finally broke and it began to pour. A backyard fort was discovered along the winding way back. A place to climb and explore and wait out the storm. We scampered up before you could sing “two ex-cadets sittin’ in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g.” We peeled off each other’s wet sweats to make it in the playhouse of twins.
Somewhere in the midst of all this marvelous madness, we mutually decided condoms were not for us. “I’m practically Catholic by association,” Pete had announced. So we tossed them aside, and he proceeded to pull out on sheets, leather seats, and on my thighs in the fortress of twins.
After a few more days of productive unemployment, Pete finally made good on his word. I might have a job interview. Something “perfect for me.” I didn’t care if I was scraping gum from seats at AT&T Park or flipping burgers till grease oozed from my pores. I’d accept pretty much anything at this point. I needed to help out. I felt so guilty any which way I looked.
“A girl’s he knew parents’ friends needed a piano teacher to come twice a week, Tuesday and Thursday from four to five. I frowned at this, wanting more. He got me paid sixty bucks a week. It was a start.
“Grocery money,” I said.
“Fun money,” he countered.
I went in armed with a Stanford tee, a high-pony, and glowing recs from my good friends, Ruthie and Bob. Got the job on the spot. I put out feelers and a week after that, I was offered an after-school position. A Palo Alto-painter-housewife couldn’t take the strain. Drained all her creativity—those “witching hours” when the kids got home from school till bed. I offered to cook and got a raise. Piano lessons were moved to weekends to accommodate my new job.
I was told I had a “trustworthy” face. This from my employer, who wanted to paint me. (I politely declined.) It’s true. Two different moms on the same plane asked me if I’d mind watching their children while they used the lavatory. Ranger rolled his eyes and said I should start charging for my services. I smiled at this and told him I didn’t mind. I recalled his expression softening before he said he did mind and put the kibosh on “fraternizing with toddlers.” Shortly thereafter, I fell asleep in his lap.
These Ranger memories still came and went at regular intervals. Much like my jobs.
I accepted and turned down babysitting jobs in equal measure. My new phone rang a lot. Word of mouth had spread, just as Pete said. Twenty bucks an hour, if you can believe it, to play hide and seek, bake frozen pizza, and watch kid movies I’d never seen. I was going to charge almost half, but Pete intervened. “Palo Alto is among the wealthiest places in the nation,” he reminded me. He would’ve insisted on charging more, but cash discounts were to be had.
The money started coming in. I was good at my job. Better than good, I was great. “A gift,” I was informed. I took it and their new money with a smile. Lots of grateful smiles were exchanged with the good old-fashioned cash.
We were on our way. Life was good. It was better than good—it was great. The great so good it was a poison to less.
Mr. Whiskers grew fat from milk and not rats. I grew fluffy from being too busy to exercise anywhere besides between the sheets. Pete’s ab pack dropped back down to a six.
Five weeks in, and I still hadn’t had a period. Seemed kind of obvious, but Pete was oblivious. We hadn’t skipped a single solitary day since we began. But if he noticed, he didn’t mention it. So I didn’t either. A niggling worry—I’d Googled away—gave way to something more: a gnawing fear that the other shoe was about to drop. But the cherubs were still strumming, so they must still be on our side. Right?
And I wasn’t ready to pick up the rock and peer underneath. Instead I ringed it with flowers and decorated it gaily to fit my mood. Nothing to worry about. I was worrying about nothing. Lots of rationales. I mean . . . sometimes my feeling were wrong. Right?
All doubts and fears that turned my smile upside down were systematically kissed away until I could see nothing but the stars reflected back at me from Pete’s onyx mirrors. Worry, like an ache in my chest. Guilt, like a worm in my gut. All of it was washed away by the crashing urgency that lifted me from our bed until I forgot I even had a former life.
And was someone else’s wife.