Rotten Peaches Page 2

  Still, my thoughts whirl with confusion, self-hatred, and shame. Why can’t I just put it back? I want to but I can’t. YOU’LL BE CAUGHT! HUMILIATED! FIRED! EXPOSED!

  But I can’t put the mug back.

  I get up. I am late for Dave and Maddie and Kenzie, and I am late for mac and cheese. But I can’t take the mug home. For sure one of the kids will find it in my purse, brandish it, and then Dave will get in on the action.

  “That’s not your style, Lee,” he’ll say and he’ll want to know the whole story.

  I leave work and stop by my storage locker, and I text Dave. On my way, I’ll be home soon.

  I pull up to the garage door of the unit and flick on the light. No one knows about my storage locker. I pay for it in cash and it’s my secret. It’s piled high with junk that I have stolen over the years. I’ve had this filthy little secret cave since before I even met Dave. I got it a couple of months after I started studying chemistry, when it became apparent that along with stealing knick-knacks and useless, blameless, worthless shit, I liked to steal samples from the lab. How I never got caught is beyond me. My heart was a runaway train in my ears every single time and I couldn’t breathe. The thought of getting caught filled me with terror and yet, still, I had to take. And take and take.

  The shelves on one wall hold my most toxic stash. If ever discovered, the chemicals would need to be disposed of as hazardous waste. Why did I take them? For the same reason I took the mug. A sick compulsion. What do I do with my random, shabby treasures? Nothing. Sometimes though, I bring a bottle of water and I sit inside my locker, with the door pulled down and a shallow bowl of water in front of me. I shave off tiny pieces of sodium, one sliver at a time, and I watch the fragments explode into flames and rush around, a skating frenzy of dazzling fire. Somehow this never gets old.

  I collect chemicals whenever I can. I have an inside source at the company lab in Mexico City and when I go down to check that they’re still producing our products according to semi-official Food and Drug Administration laws, the fellow gives me tiny vials of illicit goodies, cash exchange, no questions asked. Lead oxide, nitrocellulose, acetonitrile, formaldehyde, chloroform, methanol, sodium hydroxide, acetylcholine bromide, ethanolamine, mercurous chloride, potassium cyanide, mercury II thiocyanate, and mercury itself — beautiful, beautiful mercury, heavy, silver, breaking off into tiny balls and coming back together as a whole, sliding, pushed by its weight, its movement swift as light.

  I force myself back into the moment. I’m already late for supper. I put the mug on a box of Christmas ornaments I have stolen from various shopping malls and I leave, locking the door behind me.

  I go home and eat mac and cheese and pretend that everything is fine. I try to listen to what Maddie and Kenzie are telling me about school, a project they have to do about being sisters, but it’s all static noise. I drink red wine and try not to see Dave watching me with a look on his face like he’s lost something he once loved.

  I drink too much NyQuil at three a.m. and fall into a drugged doze, which makes me late for work. When I arrive, there’s a riot in the pigpen and the mug woman is hysterical, trying to find her missing treasure. I have already forgotten about the mug and I can’t even remember why I took it. I know they won’t rest until some explanation comes to light. I have to fix this thing, find a way to smooth things over.

  “Oh yeah, right, look sorry, I broke your mug last night,” I say and silence falls, like a snowy countryside in winter, and I think, oh shit, look at the trouble I’ve brought on myself, and I know it’s going to be a hard sell to get out of this.

  “I was drying it,” I tell her, “and it slipped out of my hands and broke. I threw it out. Here, take this one.”

  I reach for a gaudy mug on my desk. It’s a souvenir from Vegas, a naked, d-cup woman kneeling doggy style. Her big butt is fashioned into a handle and it’s so wrong but I don’t know what else to do. I stand there, holding the mug out in front of me, and this woman, fuck, I don’t even know her name, looks at me with horror. Her eyes fill with tears and she runs out of the room.

  “It was just a mug,” I tell the quiet, accusing faces and I put the big butt mug back on my desk. I sit down and open my laptop.

  “Her daughter made it for her the week before she died of cancer,” one of the other sales reps says. He’s an aggressive little shit and his numbers are down, which isn’t my fault. “Why did you touch it at all? Everyone knows not to touch Moira’s mug.”

  Right. The woman’s name is Moira.

  “I wanted to do something nice by taking care of it,” I say. I sigh, and go and go after Moira. She is in the washroom, surrounded by a colony of angry birds, all clucking and fluffing their feathers around her.

  “I am sorry,” I say inadequately and this other woman, June, turns on me. June’s always hated me. She was in on the business with Ralph when they were a happy hippy startup and she’s never forgiven me for kicking SuperBeauty into the real world and leaving her on the sidelines, a tired, old, saggy cheerleader.

  “Where are the pieces?” June asks, her face red with her useless anger. “We’ll glue it back together for Moira.”

  “I chucked them away,” I say and I fold my arms across my chest.

  “Let’s go and find them, shall we? Garbage won’t have gone anywhere.”

  “I put them in a plastic bag and took them with me. I threw them away when I stopped to get a burger. I thought Moira would be more upset seeing it broken, so…”

  June falls silent and I think that will be the end of it. She can’t challenge me. I’m the bringer of rain and she knows it. But as she turns to leave, her arm around Moira, she stops. “Funny how things go missing or get broken when you’re around,” she says, her pug eyes bulging with her boldness. “Think I haven’t noticed? We’ve all noticed. But you’re Ralphie’s blue-eyed girl, so the sun shines out of your ass, doesn’t it?”

  Then she looks down, scared witless by what she has said, and the women scuttle out of the washroom. I watch them leave and I soap up my hands and rinse them under the hottest water, cleaning the crap away.

  By now, I fully believe my own story about the mug and I can even see myself at MacDonald’s, twisting the plastic bag tightly and discarding the broken shards through the scratched, soiled black plastic swing door of the garbage disposal.

  Ah fuck it. I tell myself it isn’t my fault the whole thing happened. It’s just something I do when I got stressed. I take other people’s crap. It’s a release valve; we all have them, and seriously, it was just a mug. It’s not like I ripped off Moira’s life savings or anything. I try to imagine the mug in the darkness of the storage locker, but it means nothing anymore, it’s a dull and dusty relic, devoid of any magic, power, or memorability. I can’t, for the life of me, remember why I wanted it so badly. The whole thing is tedious and boring now.

  Thank god I have a show soon. I’ll be with JayRay and he will put the whole world right. He will understand, he always does. Because JayRay is as broken as me.

  2. BERNICE

  I AM PACKING TO GO ON A TRIP. I will be a guest on a daytime television show that is filmed in Las Vegas. Janette’s Daytime Reveal! Las Vegas. A place I have never been to, nor have I ever wanted to go. I’ve no idea why I agreed to this in the first place. I hate being on television and I hate flying. I am filled with all kinds of anger and, to make matters worse, I cannot decide what to wear.

  “Betty?” I call out and she comes running.

  “Yes, Madam?”

  I gesture at the bed. “Ag man, I don’t know what to wear. I turn to the woman who has been like a mother to me, only really, she is my maid.

  “Hmm. This is for television? We should ask Rosie.”

  “No,” I say sharply. Rosie is Betty’s daughter and I can’t stand her. “We need to decide now. I have to leave soon.”

  “You hate being on television,”
Betty says and I sigh. I want her advice on my wardrobe, not her insights into my likes and dislikes.

  “Ja, well be that as it may, I was pushed into it. A new book and a great chance to promote it, they said. And I’d had Dirk up to here, so I cut off my nose to spite my face. He didn’t want me to go, and that’s why I said yes, to prove to him I can do whatever I want. Now, what do you think?” I gesture to the clothing on the bed.

  “That one creases badly,” Betty points at a linen suit. “You won’t be there for five minutes and it will look like pajamas. And remember when we watched the show? Everything was white. The walls, the floor, the chairs and the table, they were white. You must wear a good colour, to stand out. And you must show off your legs. You have pretty legs even if you do not think so. But you need a suntan, so you must wear pantyhose.”

  “I hate them,” I complain but I pull a few packets out of a drawer and throw them into my suitcase. “I’m such a domkom, why didn’t I see what you saw? About the white and everything?”

  She shrugs. “And you must wear nice shoes with a small heel, not too high. It is not a sex show.”

  I titter. “I don’t want to know about the sex shows you watch, Betty.”

  “Eish! I am just saying. You must come across like a person who can cook and be a friend, and be pretty too. Here, this skirt is the best, it is a good length and the fabric is good. And these shoes. With this jacket.”

  “What would I do without you, hey?” I asked.

  “You would be on television wearing crumpled beige pajamas,” Betty says and I see a glint of humour in her eyes.

  I sigh and sit down on the bed. “Ag Betty. I wonder if he will ever come back.”

  She stands next to me and pats my back as if I am a baby. “Maybe he will,” she says. “Maybe he will.”

  3. LEONIE

  AS I FLY TO MEET HIM, I think back to the first time I met JayRay. It was at the Southwestern Women’s Expo in Los Vegas. I’d been on the road for eight years. After we had Kenzie, Dave promised me I could go back to work and Maddie was hardly out of her toddler onesies when I hit the highway. I told Ralph, when I started working with him, that the road shows were part of the deal. There was no better way to get firsthand knowledge of our clientele. I used his own lingo, telling him that it was the best way “to raise the bar” and “help elevate the brand,” never mind how we’d grab all that “juicy, low-hanging fruit.” It was obvious that Ralph couldn’t understand why I’d want to leave my babies, but it was none of his business. And I told Dave that Ralph wouldn’t give me the job unless I travelled to the conventions.

  Eight years. And everything was going well. I racked up spectacular sales. And, back at home, I succeeded in motherhood, as long as it was in small doses, and I really did love the kids and Dave.

  At the end of a particularly long day, I was sitting in a curved booth in a bar, drinking a rum and diet Coke and not feeling like talking to anybody. It felt good to be alone in the dark bar, staring mindlessly at the cheap mahogany fittings, the worn red carpet, and the fake brass lamps. It was all faux English pub, but clearly American born and bred.

  A man slid into my booth, uninvited. I recognized him from the roadshows, how could I not? That JayRay! Such a hottie, the middle-aged women whispered, he can leave his shoes under my bed any time.

  “James Ray Padgett,” he said, extending a hand across the table.

  I scowled at my drink. “I know who you are. I’m not in the mood.”

  “For what?”

  “Talking. I don’t feel like saying one goddamned thing.”

  He flashed a movie star grin and I found myself thinking about beds and shoes and how maybe I wouldn’t mind either.

  “You don’t have to say a word. You want another drink?”

  I nodded.

  “Rum and diet Coke,” I said and I watched his perfectly-shaped tight ass walk over to the bar. His short-sleeved shirt showcased impressive biceps and, man, did he ever have a good head of hair. Thick, dirty-blond, and tousled, a bad-boy cowboy fuck who’d make you forget the world for a time.

  But I didn’t play away from home. I had everything I needed right there. Sweet husband Dave, good old Dave. School teacher Dave, who took care of the laundry and made sure the kids ate balanced meals and did their homework. All those responsible and necessary things, while I ran away as often as I could. Trade fair after trade fair saw me recruiting eager little beavers with a yen to work in beauty and fulfill their deep-seated desires to earn scads of money.

  I’m still amazed by the hordes of people who approach the booth smelling of naïve hope, filled with optimistic faith that they’ll score tenfold on their not insubstantial investment. They silently beg for my help, as if I have the power to fix their debt-filled lives, and I push those desperate buttons of need and desire. Yes! You too can become an expert in the world of beauty! You too can earn yourself a Mercedes Benz! I drive a Mercedes Benz! Silver Mercedes for everybody — don’t you want yours?

  I’m a science whiz. I hold a master’s in chemistry and I’m the one who adds the magic to Ralphie’s line of beauty products. I’m the one who gives them that extra zing, mixing the exact blend of ingredients that is SuperBeauty: Look Seven Years Younger in Seven Days! I’ve got shares in the company on top of a generous salary.

  The cowboy came back with my drink.

  I nodded my thanks, not wanting to look too enthused. Didn’t want him to think I was easy prey, because I wasn’t. In fact, I had no idea why he was even seeking me out. Must have been a slow evening in his world.

  “How are things in the world of anti-aging and reverse wrinklefication?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Not talking. Remember? No conversing. If you are so inclined, you can tell me about yourself, but I’m not talking about me or my world or any of my shit. I’m too freaking bored by it. It’s all just the same fucking day, man.”

  He raised an eyebrow, clearly not getting the Janis Joplin reference. “I’m in security,” he said.

  “I know. All the boys and girls want to be you, hero cop. How many stop-bys do you sign up?”

  “Eighty percent success rate,” he grinned. Killer dimples, lips twisted just so. I forced my thoughts away from his smile and back to what he had said, and even I was impressed. I scored seventy on a good day and I thought that was pretty amazing.

  “Yeah, well, you’ve got the looks and the charm,” I said, and I wasn’t being nice.

  “So do you,” he said. “All the men on the roadshow want to fuck you.”

  I was taken aback, not by what he said but by his bluntness.

  He mistook my silence for modesty and he nodded. “You’re pinup gorgeous. Glamour chick.”

  A big laugh bubbled up from my belly, the first real laugh I’d had in ages. “Glamour chick. Sure, that’s me. What’s the story here, James Ray Padgett? Why are you laying this flattery on me? I’ve got nothing you want, believe me.”

  “JayRay. I’m called JayRay to my friends and loved ones.”

  “Of which I am neither,” I replied quick as a whip, hoping to flick him away from me, but he smiled.

  “Does a person always have to want something?

  “Yeah. First rule of survival. Everybody wants something from you. Establish that upfront and at least it’s honest.” I took a sip of my drink and I wished I had asked JayRay to get some maraschino cherries and I signaled the waiter.

  “Then what’s honest?” he wanted to know.

  “Whatever follows from there,” I said and then I asked the waiter to bring over some cherries. “Tell me, Jamieboy,” I asked, eating a cherry. “Honest and upfront, what do you want? You know the drill, engage, qualify, present, and close. You’ve done the first three, what’s your close?”

  “For me to fuck you,” he said matter-of-factly.

  I took stock of the situation for a mom
ent.

  Truly, I’m no bikini beauty queen. I’m short and close to misshapen. A muffin-top belly spills over my tight jeans, I’ve no waist to speak of, skinny calves, shapely thighs, and an ass as flat as a pancake. Back bacon folds like wings over my bra straps and my boobs have fed two kids. Yeah baby, this body’s not exactly hot to trot.

  But I acknowledge one thing. I am pretty. Not beautiful, but pretty, the kind of pretty that makes men pause for a moment, like they imagined I just gave them a blow job and, sure, they know it was only in their minds, but a flutter of hope twitches in their balls like maybe it was still possible.

  My big brown eyes insinuate kindness, empathy, and compassion. Add flawless skin, high cheekbones, a cheerleader-perfect upturned nose, and an overbite responsible for a pouty upper lip. My naturally-parted mouth hints at all manner of breathless pleasures to come. I have small, white, even teeth, all the better to nibble you with.

  I owe a debt of gratitude to my pretty. It has perpetuated the outward lie that disguises the reality inside. I should thank my parents for their good looks — one positive at least, for the unfortunate offspring of their union.

  So I understood what JayRay saw in me, but what would I get in return?

  “You’ve got nothing I want,” I told him. “A fuck is a fuck, so what?”

  “Clearly you haven’t been righteously fucked in a while,” he said.

  I shook my head. “It’s not that. A fuck is never worth what people think it is.” I sounded sanctimonious.

  “Man, you’re hard work,” he complained.

  “Then leave already. Go.” I gazed out the window to emphasize my point.

  He didn’t say anything for while but he didn’t leave either. “I’ve got a way out of this shit hole,” he finally said.

  “Yeah? What’s your fairytale?”

  He leaned forward. “I’m going to be on Janette’s Daytime Reveal!” He grinned and leaned back.