Happily Ever After? Page 3

  Lynette held up a hand and shook her head. “It’s not that.” She leaned in closer. “Pete, sweetie, can you tell your mom what you told me? About the coach?”

  My heart clenched violently. I knew it. Damn it. I knew it!

  Pete clamped down on his thumb. I gently pulled it from his mouth. “Talk to me. Please.”

  What I’ve managed to piece together is this: Jerry Johansen told Pete that his name was also the name of a “very special” body part. “Some people use the word ‘peter’ to mean penis. Did you know that?” Pete told him no, he didn’t know that. Jerry then asked if he would like to see what a grown-up peter looks like and Pete said, “That’s OK. I already saw my dad’s.” At this point, Jerry backed off and said something like, “It’s fun to see how peters are all different. It’s actually scientific. But maybe we can do that some other time.”

  By the time my son was through with his story, I was ready to spit blood. I couldn’t understand how Jerry found the time or privacy to talk to him. I’d been to every practice, every game … except one. I wanted to cry. I’d missed one practice to meet with Omar.

  I lifted Pete into my arms—no easy feat at seventy pounds—and brought him home. It was 10:30 P.M. I called Tucker Daley, the league director, who insisted that Pete must have misunderstood. I hung up and phoned Johansen himself.

  “Oh, Lord, what kids will say to get attention,” he said, chuckling. “I thought I’d heard it all. But this beats all.” He’d worked himself up to a hissing laugh. “Valerie, I’m going to pretend we never had this conversation. No hard feelings, okay?”

  “Excuse me?” I couldn’t believe his strategy, that lying big-headed bastard.

  “Look. Your kid basically lost his dad. He’s living in that house with you and your psychic adventures and God knows what else. So I’m not surprised that Pete would make up stories.”

  I was choking on my rage now. “Look. I think you’ve got a problem. And you need help. But whether you get help isn’t my business right now, Jerry. Right now all I care about is Pete, and making sure you don’t get your hands on him or any other boy on the team. Do you understand me?”

  “Settle down, now. You’re sounding crazy.”

  I slammed down the phone. There was one more call I had to make. I still had Michael’s home number in my wallet. He answered on the second ring.

  “Avila.” His voice was low and sandy. I knew I woke him up.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry. You were sleeping.”

  “Valerie?” I was surprised he knew my voice right off. He coughed and cleared his throat. “Hey. No. I mean, that’s all right. Are you okay? Is something wrong?”

  I told him about Jerry Johansen, my suspicions, Pete’s revelation. He promised me he’d check into Johansen’s background tomorrow. “I’ll make the early mass at St. Paul’s and head over to the precinct. I’ll call you if I find out anything.” He paused. “Unless you want to come with me.”

  “To church? Or to the precinct?”

  “Either. Both. Whatever.”

  Oh boy. He liked me. He really liked me. “That’s okay. We make chocolate chip pancakes on Sundays. It takes five minutes to eat, two hours to clean up. But they’re Pete’s favorite.”

  “Hey. Mine too.” It wasn’t until after I’d hung up the phone that I realized Michael was fishing for an invitation.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 4

  Michael called at 11. I’d been awake since 5:45. I snapped up the phone at once. I braced myself for stomach-turning details about Jerry Johansen.

  “The guy’s clean,” Michael said. “Not even a parking ticket.”

  “I could kill that creep with my bare hands!” I heard Michael chuckle softly. “Why are you laughing?”

  “Oh, Valerie, Valerie Ryan.” His voice was soft and musical. “I’m not laughing at you. Please. Don’t misunderstand. I just … I’m admiring your fierceness. You’re like a mama lion protecting her cub. I like that.”

  “You do? You mean, you don’t think I’m a neurotic, paranoid lunatic?”

  “Well, that too.” He laughed. “Seriously. I think you’re great. Now why don’t you have Pete transferred to another team and put this ugly episode behind you?”

  Eventually I will. But now I felt it was my obligation to let other parents know what the coach had said to my son. I found the team phone list and started making calls. To my amazement, no one seemed particularly concerned. Tomorrow I’m having Pete transferred to another team. And then I’m going to Indulgences Day Spa, where I plan to forget all about Jerry Johansen.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 5

  Mission accomplished. Pete is on a new team. And after six hours of pampering at Indulgences, Jerry Johansen is just a little brown stain on the wall-to-wall carpet of life.

  I have lived in this suburbia for eight years, and among my major achievements, this one tops the list: I had managed to successfully elude the dreaded Klenkastreicher basket party … until last week.

  I received the postcard in the mail.

  You’re invited to a Klenkastreicher party!

  And beneath that, in Lynette’s graceful script: Hope you can make it! Lynette had called later that day to ask if I’d be coming. “You don’t have to buy anything. Just have some wine, play a few games. Bring Pete. He can play with Hunter. I’ve got a sitter.”

  How could I say no? Lynette, who dutifully watched Pete whenever I asked, who helped me unearth Roger’s gold with her trusty fencepost digger, who is always there with sympathetic ear and tray of fresh-baked brownies … How could I say no? But what, exactly, did she mean by GAMES???

  I showed up tonight in the closest thing I had to suburban chic: a red and white striped Liz Claiborne top, denim skirt straining across my thighs, black platform slingbacks. Lynette’s house was impossibly clean; her kitchen floor was cleaner than my kitchen table, and even the windows were sparkling, no small feat given all the rain we’ve had in the last two days. There were lemon tarts and chocolate biscotti on a red and white checked tablecloth, a pitcher of sangria and another of spiked lemonade and Perrier for the teetotalers.

  I was the first to arrive. A wholesome college girl named Jenna met us at the door. She was Lynette’s sitter. She was studying to be an elementary school teacher. Lynette had all the luck finding sitters. They never hit on her husband, they never yelled at her kid, they never used the phone or ate all the Milano cookies, and they always came with a backpack full of puzzles and age-appropriate videos and old-fashioned books like Mike Mulligan’s Steam Shovel. Jenna reached her hand out to Pete and said, “Do you like race cars? We set up the coolest track in Hunter’s room.” Pete took her hand and smiled. Pig heaven.

  I wished I could go up and see the racetrack too. I didn’t want to stay downstairs with all the grown-ups and pretend to admire the obscenely expensive Klenkastreicher baskets. I owned enough baskets. I bought them at Target. Six bucks, nine tops. Why on earth would I want to spend $85 on another basket to gather dust on top of my kitchen cabinets?

  Poor Lynette. I knew she’d been pressured into this party by Caroline Bacher, who’d been pressured into her first Klenkastreicher party by none other than C.J. Patterson, the Klenkastreicher queen, who, thankfully, was absent at this affair. I helped myself to a glass of sangria and then another. By the time Lynette started the party games, I was relaxed, to say the least.

  “Okay, ladies, here we go!” Lynette was holding up a small woven basket, about the size of an ostrich egg. I could see the price tag from where I was sitting. It was $35. “You each have a pencil and notepad. In the next two minutes, I want you to list as many uses for this little beauty as you can dream up. Use your imagination! Don’t hold back! Whoever comes up with the most ideas gets a prize!” A low murmur rippled through the group. Lynette reached into a pocket and pulled out a red plastic stopwatch. “Ready, set … go!”

  I was amazed to see every woman bend her h
ead and begin scribbling seriously, frantically, like high schoolers on the essay portion of their final exams. At first I thought it was funny, but then my competitive spirit kicked in and I, too, was scribbling. “Okay,” Lynette said, staring at the stopwatch.” Three, two, one, and stop!”

  There was a collective sound of pencils grinding to a halt, and a few self-conscious giggles. “Okay. Here’s the fun part. Let’s go around the circle and see what we’ve come up with, okay?”

  Letha Krause was first to go: “Uh, I’ve got a bunch here. Tissues, pennies, jellybeans, coins, store receipts, pooper scooper bags”—scattered tittering—“sunglasses, jewelry, dog treats?”

  Applause and approving nods all around. “Very good, Letha! Excellent! Valerie?”

  By this time I’d shifted to the spiked lemonade. I stood up and smoothed my denim skirt. “Here it goes.” I cleared my throat. “Keys, spare change, antidepressants, after dinner mints, keys—wait, I said that already. Did I mention antidepressants? Oh, and tampons and chocolate kisses and batteries and all the little crap that you keep throwing into the junk drawer, and hair doodads and condoms.”

  Someone made a choking noise and there was the sound of suburban asses shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Lynette looked pained. Then Donna Gold, a willowy redhead I knew from aerobics class, let out an enormous guffaw. “Jesus, that’s more like it. Now that’s what I call a list! Jesus! Oh, God. How funny!” A few other women giggled politely, but only Donna was truly hysterical, laughing so hard she shook and sizzled like a spaghetti pot boiling over.

  After the party (I managed to escape with a baguette basket for “only” $29), Donna stopped me at the door. “Don’t you just love these Klenkastreicher parties?” She rolled her eyes. “Sometimes I have to remind myself: Donna, you used to have a job in the real world. You were a productive member of society. There was a time when you actually did something besides toting your children to basketball practice and going to Klenkastreicher parties.”

  “And what was that?” I asked her. “I mean, what did you do before you started toting kids to basketball practice and going to Klenkastreicher parties?”

  She looked at me. “I forgot.”

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 7

  “We’re on the home stretch, Val. We’ve got a date.”

  It was Omar. He’d called to tell me we’re going to court Friday morning. I was stunned. It was finally happening.

  “So what’s it going to be, Val, a Porsche or BMW?”

  “Huh?” What the hell was he talking about?

  “A Porsche or BMW? Or maybe that’s too low-rent for you? Are you thinking Bentley?”

  “You’ve got a great imagination, Omar,” I told him.

  “Actually, I have a horrible imagination. That’s what my kindergarten teacher told my mother. These aren’t flights of fancy, Valerie. It’s your life. You’re going to be a very, very rich woman.”

  “If you say so, Omar.” I hung up the phone and, for a moment, considered his original question. Porsche or BMW? Or Bentley? The prospect made me laugh out loud.

  The phone rang as soon as I set it down. “Okay, already. A Porsche. I’ll buy myself a Porsche! Are you happy?”

  “Delighted,” came the smooth, sly response. “As long as you take me for a ride.” It wasn’t Omar.

  It was Diana.

  “Diana?”

  “That’s me.” She made a kind of purring sound, a low gurgling in the back of her throat. “So, where shall we go in your gorgeous new vehicle? Let’s see…. Oooh, I know! Vegas! Yes! Let’s do Vegas, absolutely. We’ll be those two chicks from the movie. Ethel and Louise?”

  “Thelma.”

  “Ethel and Thelma?”

  “Thelma and Louise.”

  “Right. And we can wear kerchiefs and sunglasses and put the top down—you are getting a convertible, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, I don’t know. When the phone rang, I thought you were—.”

  “Omar? He’s fabulous, isn’t he? I told you he was the best, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, he is; and yes, you did.”

  “And? Did he get you tons of money? Did he leave your wretched ex-husband destitute? God, I hope so. The bastard.”

  “We go to court on Friday.”

  “Friday? Fabulous. Fabulous! So, what does your crystal ball tell you? Are you going to be outrageously wealthy? Are we driving to Vegas with the top down?”

  “My crystal ball?”

  “Crystal ball, Ouija board, tea leaves—whatever. You’re a psychic, darling. I read all about it. You’ve got a gift!”

  “No, I don’t have a gift. It was just a strange coincidence.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences, Valerie. No. Everything happens for a reason, a higher purpose. That’s what I believe.”

  “Okay. Then what’s the higher purpose behind this phone call?”

  Diana sniffed. “Aw, don’t give me the bum’s rush, baby. I wanted to see how you’re doing. I thought you’d be happy to hear from me. I thought we were friends!”

  I felt a guilty twinge. Diana was the first person to tell the whole truth about Roger, his affairs, his fortune. But she’d been miserable to me before that, getting in between me and Eddie, insinuating herself into my household as Roger’s “research assistant.” I never completely understood why her loyalties shifted. This was as good a time as any to find out. “Diana?” I began. “As long as we’re on the subject of friendship, could I ask a question?”

  “Of course.”

  “I never understood why you wanted to help me. I thought that you and Roger were such good buddies.”

  “We were as thick as thieves—when I was drinking. And then I got sober and realized what a dick he is. And what a jewel you are. You are a jewel; you know that, don’t you? A gem. A truly beautiful person.”

  “Did you think you were in love with me?” I had to know.

  “I didn’t think anything. I knew. Love, lust, yes. All of it. And I was sober and I saw Roger with a clarity I’d never known before, and I saw myself—my old self— with that same clarity and I knew I had to make amends, and I knew I had to tell you everything. About Roger. And I wanted to see you happy. Rich and happy and free.”

  I took a moment to digest everything. “Well, I am happy. And, yes, I suppose I’m free. As for rich … I guess you’ll have to call me back on Friday.”

  “May I?”

  “What?”

  “Call you back. On Friday?”

  I took a deep breath. Did I really want to open this door? Sober or not, Diana still felt like a wolf, teeth bared, panting at my heels. She was a tight knot of intensity, all nerve endings, as purely sexual as a dildo. “Sure,” I told her. “Call me on Friday.”

  “Oh, goody! I’ll do that. I’ll call you!” She sounded so grateful it made me feel guilty. “Maybe we’ll have something to celebrate. Should I chill something fizzy?”

  “I thought you were sober.”

  “I meant sparkling grape juice, you silly goose.”

  “Sure, go ahead and chill the juice. You can have a party.”

  “Not me. We. I’ll bring the bottle.”

  “Let’s not put the cart before the horse,” I told her, knowing how prissy that sounded and wondering why she brought out the priss in me. “I’ve got to go.”

  I found myself thinking of how Diana looked that afternoon at the hotel, lying in wait, so naked, so beautiful and sly.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 8

  I went downtown for lunch, then stopped at the hardware store to buy those stupid globe lightbulbs in Pete’s bathroom, cursing the builder for using ten of them in every bathroom. As I approached the Jeep, I could see a parking ticket under my windshield and I was furious. My third ticket this year! I lifted the wiper and pulled the ticket out and stared at the list of violations. Overtime parking. Parking adjacent to a fire hydrant. Parking in a permit-restricted
zone. My heart slammed against my chest. What the hell?

  Then I saw the note. “Gotcha! Have a sweet day. Michael.”

  I called him at the precinct from my cell phone. “I’m not laughing,” I said, still shaking.

  “Oh, Valerie, did I scare you? I’m so sorry. I thought you’d get a kick out of it.”

  I wanted to stay mad, but his tone, his sincere contrition, worked like a salve on my anger. I softened. “Well, it was kind of cute.”

  “I can accept cute. I was aiming for charming, though.”

  “Charming? Charming is putting a flower under the windshield, not a parking ticket with every possible violation checked off.”

  “Oh, you’re right, of course you are. How stupid of me. I can be such a dunce.”

  I pictured Michael sitting in the corner of a classroom with a big white cone on his head. I saw his broad shoulders and big hands, his freckled neck, the little scar above his lip. “No, no. You’re not a dunce.” I was filled with a warm, gooey affection for him. I wanted to cradle him, stroke his copper hair and kiss him on the forehead. “What are you doing handing out parking tickets anyway?” I said, changing the subject. “I thought you were a detective.”

  “When I saw your Jeep outside the hardware store I grabbed one of the PVOs off the street—.”

  “PVO?”

  “Parking Violations Officers. What we used to call meter maids.”

  “So you grabbed her and probably made her day.”

  “So I asked the PVO for a blank ticket,” he continued, sidestepping my reference to his appeal, “and she gave me one, and, well, hence the note.”

  “Hence the note,” I repeated, marveling at how cute he sounded when he used words like hence.

  “Forgive me?”

  “Yes, my son, all is forgiven. Say three Hail Marys and call me in the morning.”

  “You’ve never been to confession, have you?”

  “I’m not Catholic.”

  “I can handle that,” he said.

  “Oh, and what does that mean?” “Oh, nothing. Hey. No more parking tickets. I promise.” His voice was breaking up.