Felicia Norton is trapped somewhere between ecstasy and sin when she takes the road less traveled in order to overcome a closet case of domestic abuse, by working as a private exotic stripper.

PROLOGUE

May 14, 1985

The Trina A. Sherman Dance Studio

Some call the way I use my body a gift.  I call it a means to survive.  I’m hidden behind a thick, rippled curtain, the smell of dust familiar, like the rapid beating of my heart.  One would think that twelve years of dance training would quell the jitters.  Not quite.

I’ve fallen asleep to the steps, but it’s too late to piece them together in my mind.  Instead, I engage in a pre-dance ritual.  I tap my chest exactly two times then hold my fingers there, a reminder of where the dance begins.  I’ve been told to follow my heart.  Haven’t we all?  It’s a bad cliché with a really good premise, I think.  

I close my eyes and my grandmother’s face reaches me.  Quiet yourself to your own beat, Felicia.   In about three seconds, the music will pass through me like fire on wood.  Three, two, one.  The curtain slides open, and the spotlight bears down on my graceful dancer’s pose; thighs crossed, toes pointed.  My fingers rest elegantly on stage, insects atop a lake.

A long-sleeved white dress—fitted at the waist and cut to expose the small muscles of my back—clings to a petite body.  My waist length dark hair is held back in a beaded silver headband.

Though I can’t see them yet, I feel the intent presence of my audience.  There is a cough, paper rustle, and a low murmur before the spotlight, my halo, crowns me.  The crowd quiets itself to an unbearable silence, as the first beat of music plays.

Something in the way she moves.  A slow head circle…

Attracts me like no other lover.  Toe pointed, my turned-out leg fans open in an elegant ninety-degree arc.  My body rises.

Something in the way she woos me…

Walk… walk… arabeseque.

I don’t want to leave her now—my hands, like birds—You know I believe in how.

The melody moans forward, moving me to stage right, where I slide into a slow and sensuous split.  Something in the way she smiles.  And all I have to do is think of her.  Something in the way she smiles for me.  I don’t want to leave her now.  You know I believe in how. 

I sail through the lyrics, my body winsome, as though at the mercy of changing winds, despite the truth—every one of these moves has been artfully planned.  I rise, fall, and collapse; no longer aware of my rapid heartbeat, of the sea of faces before me.

The tempo quickens. 

You’re asking me, will my love grow… I don’t know, no I don’t know.  Just stick around and it may show…

I walk, leap, and pique-turn through lyrics that tell a story of longing.  I’m only fifteen but when I dance I feel older, wiser.  

You know I believe in how…

I have my mother’s olive Greek skin and my father’s light green eyes.  I’m used to having all eyes on me.  I seduce my audience when I dance.  And they do the same for me.

Chapter One

Twenty years later

           

            I have locked myself in the bathroom.  I would like to say that this is for a noble reason, a clever means to hide away from the burglars stalking my home while I notify the police to capture a pair of wanted criminals; or that I’m a novelist who practices the eccentric writing practice of bathroom meditation in order to find my voice.  My reason, truth be told, is less remarkable. 

My three-year-old daughter, Maggie, is having one of her tantrums.  The terrible twos, I’ll have you know, are a breeze compared to the threes.  I watch the doorknob spin clockwise and counterclockwise, as though possessed by my little girl’s temper.

“Let me in right this second!” she wails, her crisp diction seemingly advanced for the not-so-cute behavior that has lasted about an hour now.  Prior to the current lock-down method, I have implemented a variety of behavioral strategies, including the use of a patient voice (didn’t last), offering a positive incentive (didn’t work) and, finally, the empty threat (didn’t hold).

Together, my daughter and I have burned through a few hours of daylight so that I might establish follow-through and actually mean what I say.  I’m shooting for long-term results here.  My daughter will pass through this naughty egocentric phase with grace.  She will realize by the time she enters kindergarten that she’s not the center of the universe.

The doorknob clatters madly.  “Oh Pen Up FELICIA!!”  Her scream is feverish and desperate, as is the choice to address me by first name. I toss a toxic scented paper towel into the basket, close my eyes, and rub my lids, as though I can somehow erase exhaustion. 

Maggie never learned how to sleep through the night.  She sleeps in the center of a king-sized mattress betrayed by a small body that’s surprisingly voluminous. In lieu of REM sleep, I mentally redecorate my home, Maggie’s foot tucked in the nook between my neck and jawline.  Derek and I don’t try to sugar coat the situation with chic labels tossed around in our suburban circles.  The Family Bed.  Interconnectedness.  We are not a married couple who thrives in skin-to-skin contact, like some of our European ancestors.  There is nothing cohesive about dysfunctional sleep habits.  The truth is, our situation has arrived by default of my unwillingness to ferberize our child (your screaming infant will eventually self-sooth!—says Dr. Ferber) and his, to go to work tired.

The resolve?  I take one for the team, and end up sleep-deprived and bitchy, a complement to my well-rested husband.  Sorry.  That was unfair.  It actually is quite hard to function on lack of sleep and I don’t wish this on anyone, let alone the financial backbone of our family.  I’m what you call privileged, and although I don’t love the term, there’s something fair about it.  I don’t have a coffee-breathing boss directing the traffic of my day.  I don’t worry about how a thick stack of bills will be paid, and I shop for curtains regularly.   As others have pointed out, I’m lucky that I don’t have to work outside of the home.   

The lower part of the door vibrates, though the doorknob has stilled, credit to Maggie’s new position on the floor, where she carries on with a ragged cry.  The vibration of my washing machine has come to a halt.  I take another minute to load up the dryer with damp Downy fresh clothes.  I’m making efficient use of my time-out.  This strategy, call it harsh, has been documented in a variety of must-read parenting books.  It’s not my daughter that I’m ignoring right now, it’s my daughter’s behavior, and knowing the distinction is what sets apart informed and uninformed parents.

“My heart hurts!” she wails.

The strong-willed child may be looking for a way to manipulate you, push your buttons.  Don’t resort to yelling or losing your temper!  Remember:  You are the adult.  Find a peaceful place to fill your patience cup.  Ignore negative behavior.

It has, admittedly, taken me more than a few months and classes to ignore my daughter’s wounded heart in order to fill my patience cup.  Am I being a loser parent?  What kind of mother ignores the needs of her own child?  Will Maggie be the adult who bucks intimacy later in life?  Guilt pecks its way down my spine.

“Raise your hand if you’ve somehow felt guilty over the last forty-eight hours.”  Dr. Elena Goodrall, the acclaimed early childhood educator whose Wednesday night workshop was packed, had instructed a group of Moms and, more appreciatively, the pair of Dads. 

They were a young unmarried couple, parents of the adopted Chinese baby, Nia, who sat cradled beneath layers of blanket in her travel car seat.  Her name, of Gaelic origin, means radiance, the doting Dads shared with us, taking turns holding out fingers for the baby to squeeze.

I bought Goodrall’s book, Parenting with Pride, in hopes of becoming a proud parent, not the worn-out shell of a person I feel like now.  I take in a deep breath.  My bathroom time is up.  The dryer hums in oblivion.  The cheetah photo mocks me from its perch above the toilet.  Freedom is Knowing Your Own Spots.

I knock first so that she can move away from the door’s back.  “I’m coming out now, Maggie.  I’m sorry that you’re upset but I’m not changing my mind about the sandals.  It’s still too cold to wear them outside.  You can wear your white sneakers or your black dress shoes instead.”

I hear her shuffle back amidst tears and open the door.  Her straight brown hair sticks to her cheeks when she says this to me.  “I want to wear the sandals.  You’re a dumb bitch.”

This, from my three-year-old.   My neck stiffens. A pain moves down my throat like thick black oil.  You would think the curse would send me to fury, to the nearest bar of soap that I’d cram into her mouth, just like in the old days. 

Instead, I stand paralyzed, my mouth dropped open as the realization sinks into my skin like a sunburn.  What has been said isn’t something you read about in textbooks, or discuss in parenting classes.  I close my eyes and swallow a mound of guilt because (indirectly) I'm to blame, a catalyst to a problem that isn’t talked about so much. 

I kneel down so that I’m level with her height and pull a strand of sticky hair from her face.  “Mags… what you said is very, very bad and, no matter how angry you are, you cannot use those words again.”  I hug her tightly until she loosens from my grip to face me, her moist green eyes prepared to tell the truth. She's about to confess where she heard the phrase but I already know and, right now, I can't bear to hear my little girl mouth the origin.

I bite my lip.

Chapter Two

I am seated amongst Derek’s work friends at Anthony’s Pier 4, a Boston restaurant known for seafood and a delicious view of the harbor.  The ocean view from our vantage point is stunning, the sun bobbling at the horizon, plump as a pumpkin, and casting a stretch of luminous peach light over a calm sea. I imagine painting this scene with oils, my brush held acutely in a relaxed hand.   

We are here to celebrate Bill’s birthday and, more silently, his new title.  The corpulent colleague has recently become Partner at Fiske, Jones, and Waterhouse, the robust accounting firm to which Derek is employed.  It pays to be friends with people like Bill. 

After a bit of negotiating (Patty only drinks white; Rick is into Chilean these days) Derek orders a few bottles of wine for the table. “We’re going to go with a bottle of the Chardonnay and, also, the Adobe,” he points out to Alim, a patient waiter who has agreed to take care of us for the evening.  

“Certainly.  I’ll be right back with those.”

Bill’s wife, Patty, is seated to my right, decked in a turquoise silk scarf and gold hoop earrings.  Her cologne is potent yet delightful in its own Patty sort of way.  My brother, a language buff, would call it Patty-esque.   “How do you like Derek’s new Audi?” she asks me.  “I saw it in the parking lot.  Pretty sharp.”

“Oh, it’s a great car,” I say back truthfully.  “So many cool features and you can’t beat the ride.” 

            Rick, the eldest of our clan, glides into the conversation. “Wait ‘til you try her out on the highway.  Engine’s a rocket.” His thin hair is greased back, its deep chestnut shade warranting suspicion.

“I already have,” Derek affirms, “and the pick-up is pretty damn good.”  He wears his proud boyish face, my husband of ten years.  It’s the same face I once fell in love with on South Beach, Newport.   I was twenty-two, five years younger than the lean sunburned man seated on a beach chair beside my blanket.  He was blonder then, his legs crossed at the ankles, a thick novel folded open in his hands.  His eyes had risen over the pages to find me on all fours, hunched over a sandcastle.  

The sight of my sandy ass was Derek’s first view of me.  It has taken me a number of years to get over this.  Not that there’s anything wrong with my ass.  It’s just not the presentation I would have gone for, had I known we’d end up married three years later.  “It looks good,” he had said, in reference to the castle.

He wears that same expression now, though the confidence in his eyes runs deeper.  His wheels truly are a symbol of status, a fine expression of what he has accomplished, and a good reason to feel comfortable in this circle. 

“What dealership did you go through?” Bill asks.

“Danvers Road.  Their service is unbelievable,” Derek answers, his passion for his vehicle evident in the inflection of the last word spoken.  He emphasizes the un syllable, selling all of us on the dealership.  “They wash and vacuum your car after each oil change,” he goes on. 

I nod with interest, though my mind wanders to the lime green cloth. I envision my husband bent over the car’s hood, wiping down invisible spots with this cloth, his back muscles tight and elongated.  Its color is exquisite, the tropical green of a tree frog, and it’s stored in a bin that fits nicely in a small compartment of the Audi’s trunk, along with several others.  He guards his cloths fervently.  I was once scolded for a failed attempt to borrow the frog cloth—“They bring you coffee and donuts while you’re waiting,” I hear him say now.

            Mary, wife of Rick, changes the subject.  “Anyone in for a few platters of littlenecks?  Listen to this…” She adjusts her reading glasses, “served raw with cocktail sauce and scallion-lime-ginger sauce.  Not bad for the price,” she adds, peeking over her specs at Bill.

            “Fine by me,” Bill says.   “Is everyone alright with that?”

“Sounds excellent.  Order up,” Derek answers while the rest of us nod in agreement. 

Alim is back with our two bottles of wine, along with an opener.  “Have you folks decided on an appetizer?”  He works at the corkscrew with a deft hand.

 “Actually, we have,” Bill says.  “We’d like to order a few platters of the littlenecks, the ones with the—” A spiraling finger hints at his loss for words.

“Lime ginger sauce,” Mary finishes.

“Thank you.  Senior moment?”  The joke goes over well.  We let out a collective chuckle. 

“Great choice.  I will put those right in,” Alim says, pouring a taste of wine into Bills goblet before rounding our table.  “Let me tell you about our specials for tonight,” he says, turning the bottleneck to avoid an unnecessary drip over Rick’s glass. “Tonight we have a seafood diavolo served over pasta with cherry tomatoes,” he begins, “an almond encrusted salmon served with a lemon cream sauce, a filet served with portobella mushrooms and ojou sauce, and a baked halibut served with a crumbly layer of parmesan and garlic.” His hands, by now, are behind his waist.

I’ve always been fascinated by a waiter’s competence in delivering menu options by memory.  He makes the process seem natural, though one senses that he simply makes it look that way, as would a figure skater executing a demanding routine on the ice.  I wonder if Alim rehearses the specials in the kitchen, along with the more challenging list of individual orders.  He must have to practice in the closed stall of a bathroom, away from kitchen cacophony, I decide, placing him there in my mind.  Tonight we have a variety of gourmet seafood dishes—

 Bill’s sturdy voice pulls me back.  “Those sound lovely.  Thank you so much.” He winks.  His professional smile says even more.  Time is up for you, Alim. 

The waiter humbly takes the cue—“I’ll be right back with your appetizer”—but not before holding my gaze a few beats too long.  Mary notices. 

“Someone’s been smitten I think,” she says, her tone mischievous. 

I take a generous sip of wine.  “Oh gosh, I don’t think so…”

“Was there ever a man not smitten by Felicia?”  Patty adds warmly.  “Look at her.”  She lifts a demonstrative hand. 

“Yeah.  How does it feel to be married to such a hot mama?” Rick asks my husband, grinning like an alligator.

I choose to dismiss the comment, tugging unnecessarily at an earring back while Derek dips a hunk of bread into a bowl of seasoned olive oil.  He chews quickly, wants to change the subject. My looks are redundant, boring.  There are more important things to talk about.  I save him the trouble because a part of me agrees. 

“Actually, I was just thinking about how well Alim remembered all of those dishes,” I say.  “I’ve always been fascinated with the smoothness of a really good waiter, know what I mean?”

“They train ‘em young in the Middle East,” a relentless Rick says. 

“You are fresh,” Mary chides, saving her husband of over twenty-five years.  Mary knows Rick better than any of us.  Sarcasm is just his way.  Still, the word fresh seems out of place.  Fresh is a word better suited to describe, perhaps, a young boy poking his sister at church. Rick is a grown man.

“Should we order more rolls?”  Derek asks. 

Jackass would have been a better word.  “Great idea, honey,” I say.

We spend the next half-hour chatting about our kids and passing around clams.  We demolish both bottles of wine. Mary orders more.  The white linen tablecloth has been christened with spots of olive oil.  We’re notably relaxed now, the wine having lifted our spirits.  The sundry aroma of garlic and seafood pass insatiably through the dining area, elevating conversation. 

“Did you see that hit last night?” Derek sparks up a baseball conversation.  “Two strikes on him, and he drives one through center field.”

“Bases were loaded, too,” Mary adds.

We sail through topics easily.  Alim serves our entrees amidst a new discussion about pool furniture.  We take turns bragging about the presentation of each other’s dishes.   I can see that Derek is proud of my interaction with his colleagues now.  He rubs my back.  After an awkward start, I’ve adjusted nicely to the group.  I know how to play this game, his game. 

Then something in the tightness of Bill’s jaw tells me that a more serious subject is about to surface.  He uses a napkin to wipe the corner of his mouth.   Then his eyes settle dangerously on me.   “So, Derek tells me you have a Fine Arts degree from Boston’s Suffolk University.” 

I swallow a creamy wedge of salmon.  “Actually, I’m a few classes shy of attaining the degree.”

“You only missed like what, one class?   That’ll be easy to finish,” Derek says, an attempt to refurbish my dusty academic past. 

“Well, there’s more than a few,” I say back truthfully.  

Bill wants more. I can sense his energy, the critical edge of his questions as he uses a fork to pry open the stubborn mouth of a clam.  “When I became pregnant with Andre… my son,” I go on,  “I was only twenty.  So I had to take care of him.”  I don’t have to look at Derek.   His thoughts burn through me.  Don’t tell all. There’s no need to tell him everything.  “So it made it difficult to attend classes at that time,” I conclude, finding a cold glass of water in my hands.

 “Raising kids is a full time job,” Patty affirms, an unsteady wine glass lifted.  “I went back to work when my kids were young in order to save my sanity!”

“Well, I can certainly understand that,” I say, hedging a pile of rice onto my fork.   “Kids offer us a unique set of challenges and they certainly don’t make our choices easy,” I add, my eyes settling on no one.  “But, honestly, I have no regrets.  I guess my children have served a higher purpose for me.”

Bill regards me with suspicion; his head tilted thoughtfully, the blade of his knife buried in his beef.  “Well said.  You’re still a young woman, though.  Opportunity is at your fingertips.”  His grey eyes bore through me.  “You can always go back, right?”

I know what I’m supposed to say now.  I’m supposed to assure the firm’s lead that I plan to go back and finish my degree.  Of course I will.  After that, I may even pursue higher education for a Masters in Art.  Hell, maybe I’ll just plunge ahead and go for the Ph.D.  At my age, my goals ought to be defined and noteworthy.  Derek Norton, an aspiring partner, would settle for nothing less from his pretty other half. 

“Actually, if I carve out any time away from my kids, it will probably be to dance,” I say back instead.  “That’s always been my first artistic passion.”

Bill’s unrest is palpable, as is my husband’s disappointment in me. The comment was a risk and I took it   Maybe it was the wine.  Or maybe it was simply the truth, rising up and out of me like black smoke, an omen of some sort.  In any event, the car ride home is going to be ugly. 

I could use a cigarette.

Chapter Three

The spring sun casts a radiant haze over the baseball field as day fades to night.  The game ended in a loss that should have been a win, the score tied up until an opponent shot a line drive straight down the third base line.  The coach argued vehemently with the umpire, insisting on a foul ball call. 

It’s only a game, I tell myself now, though a part of me feels sucked in by the game’s emotion—the celebratory high fives of the opposing team after a hitting rally, discriminated by the hopeless hand gestures of our team’s players. 

I key myself into the Explorer and my engine roars to life.  Groups of wan-faced players saunter off the field, bat bags slung over shoulders, white pants smeared with dirt.  Before long, Andre’s eyes find mine through the windshield glass.  I wave unnecessarily and flash him a cheery smile, as though oblivious to the game’s tragic turn. Then I pop open the trunk, and he unloads a hefty bag before climbing into the passenger side. 

“Hey.  Chin up.  You guys will get em’ next time.”

In lieu of a response, he leans back and stretches a seatbelt across his torso.  His length still takes me by surprise.  I have to remind myself that the pudgy gum chewing kid of six months ago is still beside me, despite a sudden growth spurt.

“You had a great hit last inning.”  I back out of a tight spot.

“Mom, how many times have I told you—” He takes off his hat, runs his fingers through a sweaty head.

“Alright, I get it.” I flex an understanding hand.  “It’s not considered a hit if an out is produced from it.  I know.  So I guess you just got robbed.”

“I didn’t get robbed, Mom,” he says, exasperated.  “I hit the ball straight into the glove of the center fielder.”

“So it was a hit then. You still hit the ball!  It’s not like you whiffed or anything.”

He plays with my radio knobs. 

“Well, no one really had any great hits today.”  I make a left turn.

“Tons of people got hits, Mom.”  He counts them out on his fingers.  “Bradley got a hit.  Richie got a hit.  Steve got a hit.”

“Well.  They’re all ugly,” I say back, finding the main road.

“Seriously, Mom?”

 “Alright, I’m sorry.  That was mean.  God forgive me. But you are the best looking kid on that team.”

He finds a song.  “What an asset.”

I point an index finger at him.  “Your looks will open doors for you, trust me.  It shouldn’t be that way, but it is.  Society is drawn to attractive people.  But, more importantly,” I lecture on, “you have to be thankful for your health.  Look at Jaime Waters.  He’d give anything to get out of that wheelchair and just walk.  Just take one step.”

A pause simmers between us as we consider the child’s horrid fate.  Two years ago, a car struck the young bike rider on a back road in town. That I have exploited him now, after a bad ball game, feels fundamentally wrong.

“I know.  That was awful.”   Pity distorts the mouth of my teenager, making the comment more bearable.  “What’s for dinner?”

“I haven’t gotten that far yet.  Gram came over to watch your sister today while I grocery shopped.  I was thinking of throwing some burgers on the grill and making a salad.  Sound good?”

“Yeah.  Derek working late tonight?”

Hearing my son call the only father he’s ever known by his first name still stings.  Andre was five when we got married but he had known him for three years prior, during our dating phase.  Derek had adjusted charmingly to my single mom status, lavishing Andre with expensive birthday gifts and surprising us with impromptu vacations throughout the year.

There were less charming nights, too—nights when Derek would help tuck Andre into bed before initiating explicit sex with me in the adjacent bathroom.  There, he’d lift me onto the vanity counter, push up my waitress skirt, and enter me with ravenous need.  When I moaned, he’d feed me his fingers.  When I came, he’d hold my head against his chest and play with my hair.   

It was a euphoric time, during which I questioned nothing.  I didn’t seek to analyze the few erotic photos he had snapped of me on occasion, or wonder how it was possible for one man to crave so much sex.  I was a dancer, at ease with my body and enjoying every performance produced by it, so to speak.  Derek was older, and so very successful.  He desired me.  I delivered.  It was that simple.  The small pornography file secretly stored (and later discovered) on his laptop didn’t bother me.  All guys window shop for naked women.  It’s just what they do, I told myself.

It took only a few years for us to reach the same conclusion.  Our relationship was strong enough for marriage.  It was the next logical step and we both agreed to it easily.  He hid the princess cut diamond ring in the toe of one of my pointe shoes. Andre caressed the stone’s surface when I showed it to him later that day.  “It looks like a sparkly light bulb.”  I had to agree.  We munched on peanuts and chatted about my upcoming marriage.

“What does he feel like to you?” Derek isn’t Andre’s biological father.  I didn’t want to force-feed him a Dad yet—given the fact that he didn’t know his own—I figured he’d confess that Derek feels like a daddy. 

“He feels like a Derek to me,” is what came out instead.   

 “He is working late,” I answer him now, feeling cheated by the loss of nine years.  My life was different back then, not necessarily better, just different, like a new car smell.  We were a freshly minted couple with enormous plans to buy a home, furnish it, and massage our careers. 

“The firm just took on a new client, so I imagine he’ll be on the late side all week.  What do you have for homework?”

“Just stuff.”

“How is that Power Point presentation coming along?”

“Good.”

“Grades close this Friday, right?”

“Yeah.”

The drive home stays the same.  I fire out questions, and Andre fields them with the enthusiasm of a bored plane passenger.  Lush spring landscapes unfold before us.  Ripe lawns mottled with red-hot tulips contrast the more elegant shades of earlier buds, the weeping cherries and snowflake perennials, pale as wedding cake frosting.

“Mom!”

“Ooh, sorry.”  I clutch the wheel and jerk it back over the curb.  “I was admiring the flowers.  Thank goodness for strong tires.”  I readjust my rearview mirror.

He shakes his head and I catch a forbidden smile.  “Good thing Derek’s not with us.  He hates your driving.”

“So true,” I say back.  “He’s getting better though, no?” 

“Depends on what you mean by better.” 

I sigh.  “Hmm.  Guess you have a point there.”

We pass a dog walker, followed by a bony runner dressed in a neon orange vest and spandex pants.  Her arms, bent at perfect right angles, swing at a good clip.

“Don’t’ take her out, Mom.”

I slide a snake-eyed glance toward him.  “Be nice.”

Before long, I turn into our neighborhood and drive around the semicircle leading to an extravagant home, painted China Doll beige.  I still can’t believe I own it.  It’s boxy and interesting; with palladium windows and a stately door that’s painted a luxurious red.  Three of my childhood homes would have fit inside this one.

Our driveway, more simply, is distinguished by sidewalk chalk graffiti.  I drive tentatively over stick figures, dogs, and suns, as though my tires may crush the many personalities.  There are overly happy suns, angry dogs, and sad babies.  Evidence of time well spent in the day and life of a three-year-old, I decide, adjusting my steering to squeeze into my side of the garage.  “Mind taking in a few groceries?”

Andre agrees.  The two of us haul handfuls of groceries up the small set of stairs leading to the kitchen.  I turn the knob and push it open with my body weight.  My daughter, immediately present, greets us with enthusiasm.

 “Look, Mom!  Pinchers likes my birthday cake!”  

 “Oh, honey, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”  I place the bags down on the floor and rush to the table.   Pinchers is a guinea pig.  The birthday cake is made of clay.  The math is not promising here.  “Let’s put Pinchers back in his cage.”  I grab the rodent from his nervous crawl along the kitchen table, and cradle his bottom.  “I think this clay may make him sick.”

“Gosh, I was surprised he actually eats the stuff!  I’ve never seen a guinea pig do that before.”   Whether or not my mother, Elena Krikorian, has witnessed a clay- eating rodent before is irrelevant.  As doting Grandma, she simply can’t say no to my daughter, I’ve learned. 

I stuff him into an odorous cage and latch the door shut.  “Well, I think it’s non-toxic, but we may as well cut our losses with this little guy.  His poop is enough of a hassle.” The guinea pig was offered to Maggie as a reward for good behavior.  On the day we brought him home, Andre held the animal above his face and sung a rendition of Beyonce—It sucks to be you right now—to which I feebly assured him that Maggie understands her caretaking responsibilities.

“Thank you for taking care of Maggie, Mom. How was your time?”  I draw packages of lunchmeat and cheese from one of the bags and stack them in a refrigerator drawer.

“Oh, we had a ball… Didn’t we, sweetheart?” I hear her say, my head in the fridge.

“Next week Grammy is taking me shopping!” 

I secure a few condiments onto a high shelf and back out from the frigid air.  “Oh?”  My daughter is dressed in an authentic Snow White gown, ruby slippers, and a silver Cinderella crown.  A shopping spree is, quite possibly, the last thing she needs. 

“Well, nothing big… I was just going to take her out to buy some gum,” Gram says, winking at Andre.  “How was your game, honey?”

“I thought we were going to the toy store, too, Grammy,” Maggie corrects, refusing the white lie.

“Well, we can probably stop there, too,” Gram concedes.

“But you said!”

“Grammy will decide on the day she comes over,” I say, hoping the firm tone will suffice. 

 “The game was good,” Andre cuts in, pouring himself a tall glass of milk.

“Strike anyone out?”

“I don’t pitch every game, Gram.  Today I played third.”

“Ahh, good position,” she says, then winks at me.  “God is he getting tall.”  Her Greek nose, hooked tastefully at its tip, suits her warm smile.  

“Can you make clay cupcakes with me?” Maggie pleads.

“I will, honey.  Just give me a minute to throw some burgers on the grill.” I stack canned goods, puncture the beef package, and season the burgers before setting them down on a plate.  My mom fishes through her purse for her keys.  “Ooh, geez.  Seven-thirty already.  I’m going to head out now.”  She approaches her grandchildren, plants a kiss on each of their heads.

 “Thanks for everything, Mom.  I’ll talk to you soon.” I rinse my hands, dry them, and walk her to the front door.  “Maggie take a nap today?” I whisper.

“She did.”  She tugs at my shirt as though to share an inside joke.  “Slept for almost two hours on the couch.”

“Nice.  Makes my life easier.”

 “Ooh, almost forgot to remind you,” she adds, a small hand on the doorknob, “the adult ballet class I was telling you about is being held on Thursday nights. Fran says they may be hiring teachers.” 

I touch her forearm.  “Oh, thanks for letting me know, Mom.  I want to look into that.  Thursday night,” I chant, committing the day to memory.  “Call you soon.”

“Bye Gram.”  Andre tosses my mom a glance on his way up the stairs, taking two steps at a time

“Bye, sweetheart.” 

Through the sidelight window glass, I watch my mother amble to her car.  She is wearing linen culottes and flat silver sandals.  Her steps are deliberate, though not watchful enough to be considered elderly.  She’s a young sixty.  Her silken black hair falls in flat layers that frame a dark skinned face.  As though dipping a toe into the ocean, she enters her vehicle slowly then closes the door.  Backstage.  Mom slides brown bobby pins into my dolled-up hair. My next dance is going to be tough, with lots of gymnastics.   She fastens one more pin to create another loose curl in the back..  “Careful driving, Mom.”  I whisper.  A lump swells up in my chest. 

*          *          *

“Good day?” Derek has arrived home.  He uses the straight edge of one hand to swipe crumbs of clay off the table’s edge, collecting them with a receiving palm.

“Yeah, busy as usual,” I say back, loading the dishwasher.  “Andre lost his game.  He was so disappointed… Felt bad for him.”

“Hmm.” He tosses a few cookie cutters into Maggie’s plastic bin.  “Gosh, this stuff gets everywhere.” Did your mother come over to help today?”

  I drop a few forks into a crowded utensil compartment.  “She did and she was a huge help,” I say back.

“Oh.”  He uses pincher fingers to tweeze crumbs from the dimples of a threadbare chair pad.  “Just saying, we don’t have the extra money to replace these.”

“And I don’t have the extra energy to perfect everything we own, Derek.  Have you spent a full day with Maggie lately?”

His athletic hands ball together grocery bags, of which he compresses into an overflowing wastebasket with a single foot stomp.  His irritation is subdued yet profound, a dense energy that passes through me. He suffocates the overstuffed garbage bag with a firm tug and knot of the drawstrings.  “Have you spent a full day working lately?” he finally asks me.

It’s such a tired argument, foolish and circular and empty of perspective.  Who does more?  Whose work is more valuable?  Who wears the pants in the relationship?  I want to laugh and cry at the same time.  I want to tear out pages of advice from self-help books, about how love is patient and kind, unlike criticism, which is toxic.  I want to paint a picture of what real problems look like then pour water over the canvas until the colors bleed and spread all over his misled hands.  What color is childhood cancer?

I take a shot at the high road.  “Actually, since you brought work up, there’s a dance teacher position available, and the studio is only five miles from here.  Between my day job here and paying job there, I just might be able to log in a full day,” I add, failing to keep sarcasm at bay.  “All it would take from you is an hour and a half with Maggie on Thursday nights until I’m home.”  I smile politely.   “I do miss ballet.  What do you think?”

 He drifts away from the request, his shined-up shoes clattering coolly across our kitchen floor.  “See if your mom can come over.  I have to work,” his backside says to me before he crosses the room’s threshold.

“You said you’d make cupcakes with me, Mom.” Dumb Bitch.  Maggie is back, wearing a nightgown and sunglasses. 

 “I haven’t forgotten, honey.”  I extend a hand and, together, my daughter and I sit down at the kitchen table to create cupcakes out of clay.  It’s late so we’ll only have a time to make a few. 

It’s usually fun to make a small mess with clay but tonight I have to fake it.   I find myself using clay balls to pick up floor crumbs.  I’m distracted and uncreative, someone else.  I make a single uninspired cupcake.

“Can I try on your shoes now?” 

“I’ll tell you what… If you help Mom clean up, I’ll take you upstairs to try on my shoes, but after that, it’s bedtime.  We can play for ten more minutes.  Sound good?”

She beams, brandishing a mouthful of baby teeth, perfect spaces between them.  Her sunglasses have fallen crooked over her nose. “Okay!” 

We head upstairs to find an indulgent line of shoes in my walk-in closet.   Derek, freshly showered, crosses our path, a towel wrapped around his waist.  “Hey, little one,” he says, mussing her hair.

“Daddy, I get to wear Mommy’s shoes before bedtime!  Want to see!”

“I wish I could, honey.  Daddy has some work to do.”  He looks up at me sternly.  “Just don’t have her take out my shoes.  I don’t want them wrecked.”

“No worries,” I say, the bleeding painting passing through my mind.

Maggie takes her time, inspecting my shoes like a shrewd antique dealer.  Squatting on the floor like a frog, she flips them over to check the soles and heels.  There are needlepoint heels, flats, strappy sandals, and chunky leather boots to choose from.  There's something to be said about girls and shoes, I think to myself, my watery eyes settling humorously on my daughter.

I kneel by her side, close my eyes, and say a silent prayer.  Bring this little girl happiness, always.  She inspects the soles of my shoes, while I imagine the footprints I will someday leave behind—the soles of my legacy.  I wonder about the strip of caterpillar-shaped prints that show where I tiptoed through life.  Where will they end?

Chapter Four

Silent tears erupt as Derek takes me from the back.  I’m propped up on my elbows, my pillow grazing my chin as he hardens fully and finds an exhilarated release and moan.  A dribble of warm liquid wets my tailbone as he pulls himself out of me and climbs off of the bed.

"Be right there," he says to me on his way to the bathroom.  Turning onto my side, prayer-like hands atop my pillow, I listen to bathroom sounds-- a faucet water rush, a mouthwash gargle, a toilet flush roar--until he returns (underwear on) and climbs beneath the covers beside me. 

He lies on his back, a pair of closed eyes mirroring the ceiling.  I wonder what he's thinking.  That was hot.  Hope my presentation goes well tomorrow.  A tired hand covers mine as he slips into a relaxed snore.  I love my wife?

The bedroom memory darkens my mood as I light a backyard cigarette. I don't smoke often, maybe twice per week, and it's a secret to my family. But when I do finally light up, I tend to over-think things.  Last night was rough.  Not that I expect rock star sex after ten years.  I just want to know that my man is wild about my interests, not just my body, cliché as that may sound.  

While I smoke and think, my gaze lingers on our newly hired carpenter   He saws off a slice of wood for our latest home improvement, an updated deck.  I approach him gracefully, working my way around the bulk of his materials.  The air is heavy, vaporous with last night’s rain.  

"Be careful," he says to me, lifting a rugged hand to ward off the cloud of sawdust.  "This stuff can hurt your eyes." 

I take a cautionary step back.  He turns off the saw.  "I just wanted to thank you for squeezing us in on such short notice," I say, feeling overstated in a ruffled pink halter and heels. 

He pushes his safety goggles up and over the top of his head.  Liquid dark eyes settle appreciatively on my face, on my hair.  "You're quite welcome.  You caught me at a rare lull."

His word choice takes me by surprise.  I expected something less refined from the tanned, sweaty man who wears a ponytail and work boots.  I blow smoke in his opposite direction.  His real-life appearance surpasses the spidery handwritten name referred to me by a friend:  Lance Santigado.

“How long do you think this job will take, Lance?”    

“If the weather cooperates it should take no longer than a week.” He gestures to the existing deck, tightening the grip of his white tee shirt against a broad chest.  “I have a crew heading over to help tear down your old wood.  Then we’ll lay down the Redwood and seal it.  Once we get rolling, we’re pretty efficient.”

“Sounds perfect,” I say back, recalling the confidence in my neighbor’s voice when he referred Lance.  You won’t find anyone better.  I take in a final drag, exhaling slowly, feeling suddenly entitled to my guilty addiction, and wondering more about our hired help.

“So I hear you’re pretty busy.  You must love what you do.”  I toss the butt of my cigarette to the ground, and squish it out with a Nine West toe.

It works,” he says with a half-smile.  “I meet a lot of good people… And you can’t beat the great outdoors, right?” He lifts a grateful palm to the sky.

“This is true,” I nod back, feeling oddly at ease with the stranger in my backyard.  Despite his suburban status, he doesn’t seem to take himself too seriously.  “I just need to finish a few chores then pick my daughter up at preschool.  Can I grab you a coffee?”

“I’m good, thank you,” he says back.  “See you soon.  Oh.  Before I forget…” he adds, capping his water bottle, “your husband said he wants to go with the outdoor hot tub.  Eight to ten person, right?”

My mind rakes through the executive decision.  Eight to ten person?   Is this necessary for a family of four?   “Hmm,” I stammer, rubbing my forehead, “I actually thought we were going to go with the smaller one, but—”

“The larger one will look nice and it’s a better value.  Trust me, your husband has a point.  I’ll build a sturdy wrap-around bench along the border for your guests to step onto before they get in.  It’ll be really sharp.”

What’s one more purchase?  “Sold.  We’ll go with the larger one,” I say definitively, as though used to having the final say around here, as though I actually care about more space in an already spacious home.    

“Good decision.”  A smile reaches his eyes.  “You won’t be disappointed.” 

“Thank you.  I suppose we—” I catch myself.  I’m about to say ‘we can afford it’ but decide on, “we’ll make good use of it.”

“That you will.” He winks knowingly.

“See you soon.” I walk away.  By the time I’ve reached the deck steps, the whirring screech of the saw resumes and my mind wanders to a tedious to-do list.   Laundry, dishes, grocery shopping, preschool pickup, clean guinea pig cage.  There you have it, the gritty necessities of my job. 

That I tackle them independently sets me apart from the neighborhood crew, most of whom hire Cleaning Ladies.  Not Maids.  And certainly not Cleaning Men. The Hired Hands (to be politically correct) are not considered maids in our circle because, apparently, the connotation conjures a demeaning image of a woman, as though cleaning is somehow beneath her. 

 I can’t help but find this mildly amusing, considering the fact that many of the same women who have chided me for using the term, have also allowed their thirteen-year-old daughters to parade around our neighborhood wearing Sexy Maid costumes on Halloween night. 

I explored Derek’s opinion on the subject recently, during a rare date-night out.  “Would you prefer hiring a sexy maid over an average looking cleaner who, perhaps, does a better job?” (I know, a loaded question.)

“Thinking about quitting your day job, Felicia?”

“Let’s not get crazy... That would be hazardous to your health.”

He shook his head while studying the menu, as though baffled by me. 

“Seriously,” I pressed on, “How much would you pay a maid to do what I do for free in managing our household?”

“That all depends…” he said with a playful smirk.  “If she was dressed like Carrie, then maybe I’d pay her double.”

“You liked how Carrie looked then?”

“I’m kidding,” he said emphatically, looking up from his menu and smiling widely at his own joke. “Cindy shouldn’t have let her out in that costume.  I agree with you.”

It was an obvious lie.  He’d pay such a woman generously.  “Carrie is a beautiful girl.  I didn’t say I have a problem with her wearing the costume out.  In fact, I think she pulled it off rather nicely.  I just don’t think her mother should be preaching about how derogative the maid label is while condoning the costume at the same time, that’s all.”

 “I think you think too much.”

“God forbid.” 

We ordered up a storm, strayed from the subject, and sponged up another round of drinks, followed by a single dessert.  Derek, very sweetly, agreed to share a bread pudding with me.  Then, somehow, the conversation crept back up again.  “So you’d take a stand if Maggie considered wearing that costume when she’s a teenager?”

“Of course I would,” he answered, his tone suggesting that—despite the ambiguity of his ideas—his opinion should be obvious to me.  “She’s my daughter.”

“But what if she felt comfortable looking sexy and wearing it?  I mean… What if she simply wanted to look nice?”

“That’s the whole problem, Felicia.” He looked up from his plate.  “As you know, women who look good can be rather vulnerable.”

“Vulnerable?”  I laughed, dipped my celery stick in a bowl of fresh hummus.  “Shocking as this may sound,” I said, nibbling, “a woman does not dress up so that a man can get lucky.” 

He straightened out his silverware then rested his chin atop folded hands.  “Dangle a piece of steak in front of a tiger, and he’ll go after it, Felicia.”

“Wow.  How remarkably complex of your species…” I smiled as though enlightened, “but now it makes sense to me.”  My celery stick became a pointer.  “You wouldn’t want your daughter, the steak, to wear an outfit like that because you wouldn’t want other guys, the tigers, to be turned on by her—as you were by Carrie.”

An eye roll defined the man I’ve known for fifteen years.  The truth was becoming uncomfortable, an itch you can’t seem to get at.  Looking back now, perhaps the conversation had been superfluous on my part.  I had dug too deep. “Yeah, you got me, Felicia.  I was turned on by a fifteen-year-old.”  

Our chat had ended there.

I separate whites from colors, turn the washer dial to Regular Fabrics, and pull at the knob to start the wash.  The rushing sound of pipe-water begins immediately, jarring the memory, but not drowning it out completely. 

Likely, it had been a booze-induced debate. Andre, a current student in the required Drugs and Alcohol class at school, earnestly shared his knowledge with me on the subject one night, eyeing the glass of Sauvignon Blanc I had poured for myself, his sister on the floor, midway through a tantrum.  “Alcohol depresses inhibitions, making the drinker more confident and talkative, you know.”  I couldn’t argue with that.  To his point, Derek and I had both had a few drinks, bringing forth confidence though it had been expressed in different ways.  I probably talked too much.  And Derek?

After walking our sitter to the door and paying her, my husband—a tiger—approached me with burning desire, pinning me to the playroom wall.  Amidst hot breaths, I heard him whisper her name.   Oh, Carrie.  It had been an innocent yet shocking slip.  He must have been fantasizing about the young girl, dressed as Sexy Maid.   I pretended not to notice.  I was too exhausted to revisit the subject.  Besides, it’s no thunderous revelation to those of us with a vagina that men fantasize about other women.    The subject has been widely researched.  It is what it is.  Still, the reality can be a tough pill to swallow, especially when you’re considered the meat of the equation.  But… enough. 

Cheerfully, brilliantly, the La Bamba ringtone of my cell phone changes the subject. I grab it off the dryer’s surface and note the caller id.   Derek. 

“Hey.” I wedge the phone between my shoulder and ear while pouring the blue liquid Tide over dirty laundry. 

“Hey.  How’s it going?” he asks me.

“Going well, thanks.  You?”

“Buried.  Listen… Can you do me a favor?”

“Shoot.”

“Can you let Lance know I just called the lumber company and they said in order to get the discount for—”  

His words roll to the back of my mind like distant thunder.  My heart lurches.   There, staring up at me from the top of the dirty heap, peeking out of the corner of Andre’s American Eagle sweatshirt pocket, lies a plastic bag that’s full of—”

I gasp.  Numbly, my fingers pull it out completely.   Weed?  Andre?  It’s impossible.  He’s fourteen and he’s a good kid.  He’s my kid and my kid doesn’t smoke pot.  I unpeel the bag’s folded edge and lead it tentatively to my nose, hoping the first whiff will prove me wrong.  But the distinctly sweet, earthy aroma accosts me.  I’m nauseous, my mind clouded with illegitimate, yet possible reasons.  It’s his friends.  No it’s his schoolwork.  It’s his baseball coach.  It’s me.  No, it’s Derek.  It’s me and Derek.  Each pathetic reason claws at the rungs of my vertebrae.  

“Felicia?  You still there?  Hellooo?”

The world in my head is suddenly clumsy, a set of dentures in the wrong mouth.  I struggle to make sense of the uninvited drug, to cobble together a future conversation.  “What were you thinking?  I’m disappointed with you.  Go to you room.  Where did you get this?”

“Anybody home?”

“D-Derek.  I’m sorry.  I’m here.”  Pot. “You’re not going to believe what I just found.”  A pregnant pause.  “A bag of weed.”  I begin to cry.  The word weed—slang for marijuana, an illegal substance, a killer of brain cells, a pathway to poor decisions—shrivels up in my mouth.  I close the washer lid, stare at the empty detergent cup.  How did this just happen?   “Can you come home early tonight?  I know you’re busy.  I’m sorry.  I just—I just want to approach this the right way.  He’s to good for this, you know?   I-I would like to work togeth—”

“Tonight?  There’s no way I can come home early tonight, Felicia.  It’s probably that lowlife he’s been hanging around with…  The kid with the screwy family… What’s his name?”

I’m alone with this.  I feel small and powerless suddenly.  My limbs seem to float away.  My knees buckle.  “His name?  You mean, Trenton?  I don’t know, Derek…  I just— ” I press my fingers into my forehead, “just need… Well, never mind.  I’ll figure it out.”  Tears pour down my cheeks. 

“I’ll talk to him about it tomorrow if you want.  I don’t have any meeting scheduled then.” He sighs.  “This is ridiculous.  Loser friends, that’s what this is about.  Dumb fucks.  But can you just tell Lance I called about the discount.  It should be all set now that I ordered more wood.”

Discount?  More wood?  The request seems to fly in from an alternate universe.  “Oh, right, the wood for the deck.  I’ll let Lance know.  I’ll keep you posted.”   We hang up and I squeeze my lids shut, pressing out more tears. 

It’s impossible.  This is wrong on so many levels.  Maybe it’s my penance for—” I shudder and push away the thought.  My son’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I glance at the time on my cell phone.  Ten-thirty.  I need to go pick Maggie up at school now.  I close the lid to the washing machine, turn around, and place the bag of weed down on the vanity counter.  My unacceptable face stares at me from the mirror.   I’m splotchy and pink.  Smears of mascara darken the skin beneath my eyes. I hold back a new round of tears, turn on the faucet, and splash a few handfuls of water over my eyes before padding them dry with a hand- towel. 

The bag of weed dangles hopelessly in one hand as I exit the room.   

He’s there. 

“H-hi. Just came in to use the—” He extends a gentle hand and touches my arm.  “You okay?”

Not again. New tears fall uncontrollably from my eyes before I wipe them away in haste.  I’m horrified and embarrassed but it’s too late.   The carpenter’s eyes have already found the bag, guilty as charged, in my hand and, within minutes, I find myself sitting down at the kitchen table, telling him exactly what’s happened.

And he listens.