I rummage through my pocketbook and grab my cell phone. Myhusband picks up on the first ring, and I can hear him panting as he walksbriskly down our street and toward the Hadley train station. He’s probablytrying to catch an express train into Manhattan, which only takes thirty-eightminutes on Metro North.
“You left for work? Without saying good-bye to me?”
“Maybe?” he asks, his voice an octave higher than usual.
“You are never supposed to do that! Septembereleventh!”
Step, step, pant. Step, step. “Sorry.”
“Sorry accepted.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Benputting on his sneakers. It’s starting to drizzle, so I help Becca into herraincoat and Hello Kitty boots, then shrug on my own parka.
There is still no sign of Laney anywhere.
Doug continues. “It was crazy in the house and no one waspaying attention to me after the pants episode, so I just made a break for it.”
“Nice move. Detonate a bomb and then clear out.”
“You don’t get it. This deal with Nickelodeon could behuge, but I’ve got to stay on top of it, every moving piece. Today was a chanceto head into the office early.”
I’m a working mom with two children, a largely absenteehusband, and a flaky babysitter-slash-housekeeper who, I’m pretty sure, stealsmy clothing, and I don’t get it? “I’m deeply sympathetic to yourhardship, Doug, really. You should file a complaint with the management.”
“I’ve tried,” he says half-jokingly.
“You’re dying to go to work and I’m dying to take a break.What’s wrong with this picture? Why can’t I just quit my job?”
“Because you love it.”
“I do, or I did? Which verb tense are we using?”
“Well, I sure as hell do, present tense, Mrs. English Teacher.The salary, the benefits, the lifetime tenure. I’d kill for a job like that.”
“You can have mine without murder,” I say.
“Lauren, not now.” It’s a running dialogue, a continuousloop day after day, and it always ends with “Lauren, not now.” I wait fourseconds, knowing he will deftly change the subject. One, two, three… “Is thatrain? I forgot my umbrella.”
“Sucks to be you, I guess.”
“I guess. Love you.”
“M-hmm,” I mumble.
“I could die today in a horrible terrorist attack,remember?” Doug says.
“Yeah, yeah. I love you, too.”
Only half-listening now as Doug tells me about a meetinghe has later today, I scan the messy kitchen and locate a pile of what lookslike art projects of Becca’s and old homework of Ben’s, corrected and returned,that I never know what to do with. I’m about to move on when I uncover somelegal-size envelopes.
“What’s this?” I ask, holding up the mail as if Doug cansee it, too. “Did you know about this?”
“Oh. Um,” Doug says, which isn’t an answer, so I give hima hint and wait for more.
“Mail.”
“By the toaster?”
“Yes, by the toaster!” I say. “Which is not wherewe keep bills and other important-looking papers.”
“I must have put them aside to show you and then forgot.”
“How convenient of you.”
He sighs. “Better check the dates. Some of them are probablypast due. You’re going to have to call.”
Great. Bad credit is just what I need to make this dayeven better. “Why am I the one who has to call? This was your mistake!”
“I don’t have the time, Lauren.”
Like I do. “I detect some condescension in thatstatement,” I say. “And I don’t appreciate it.”
“There is no ‘condescension,’” he says, in a definitelycondescending tone. “You’re being dramatic.”
“At least say you’re sorry! And…argh, I am not beingdramatic!” I slam the pantry door closed to prove it, but since the hinge isbroken, it bounces right back open in my hand.
“It’s mine,” Ben says, his voice floating up from thebasement playroom. “Mom!” he calls. “Becca won’t give me back my Bakugan!”
“But we traded!” Becca says.
“Laney!” I say, knowing that she won’t answer.
Fuck! I want to scream. Sometimes I feel likewalking out on them and never looking back. Here’s the instruction manual,I would say, flinging a blank spiral notebook over my shoulder, to the surpriseof the entire Worthing contingent. Have fun figuring it out without me!
For the second time this morning, my pulse is racing. I’dlove to blow up at someone, anyone, really, and just relieve the pressuremounting in my chest.
But it’s 7:52.
I take a deep breath and turn back to the phone.
“Doug, I’ve gotta go. Before the kids kill each other. Andbefore we do, too.”
I put down the phone and check the time. “Kids!” I say.“Bus time!”
I really need Laney to appear this instant and take thekids to the bus stop so that I can get to work before the first bell rings. Imean, it’s nice to live in the same town where I teach—my commute contains onlyfour traffic lights, and if I time them right, I don’t have to stop for any—butstill. Cutting it this close is not my style, even if I am feeling more laxabout my job since that fateful meeting with my principal last month.
“Laney!” I try one last time, her name echoing off thewalls. Where the hell is she?
I hustle the kids out the door and down the driveway,still clutching the envelopes in my fist.
“Mom, you never take us to the bus!” Becca says. It soundslike an accusation.
“There’s a first time for everything, Bec!” I chirp.
Ben runs ahead and calls out to some of the boys waitingat the curb. “Look at my new baseball cards!” he brags, pulling them out of hisbackpack. The small crowd of elementary school kids parts to let him in. Theyall seem immune to the light rain, while I huddle with Becca under her smallpink ruffly umbrella.
Three moms in black workout leggings and differentLululemon jackets are standing together and laughing, each with a dog leashattached to her wrist. I look down at my tan pants, fancy raincoat, and balletflats that pinch my toes.
When and if I ever quit my job, I’ll celebrate by gettinga puppy and a wardrobe filled with expensive, glam sweatshirts and matchingspandex pants.
I should be friends with these women, but I’m not. Stay-at-homemoms and working moms exist on different schedules, like humans and vampires.
