Middle Rage

Part 8 -- Oma (The Night Before)

I know the mothers in this neighborhood because we bargain with one another for carpools between the hours of 3:30 and 6:00, so some of us can work in an office while others of us work as chauffeur. It's a constant state of trade and bickering, and god help the family who gets stuck with Devonne Messer, because she's always breaking the schedule last minute, or asking you to cover for her, and if her kid gets sick and doesn't go, she won't take your kids either.

Because of Devonne, all of us moms keep an eye peeled for new carpooling opportunities. It's usually not the Dads, though, because they are strict 8-6ers. Which is what used to be 9-5 back when our parents were parents. Which does not fit with Dan mowing the lawn midmorning.

He waves at us, eyes squinting, sweat making him shiny. A friendly command: Hey, c'mere! Ahead, Maria hits her blinker and pulls to the curb in front of Dan's. I do the same, and get out of my car to get close enough to talk. Maria only rolls down her window. "How are you feeling, Dan?" she calls in a cheerful, perfunctory tone.

"Not great over here." His tone makes me guess he's about to reluctantly tell Maria her dog pooped on his lawn, and to please come get it. "Actually, Jenn's in the hospital."

"What?" I demand, Maria echoes me, gasping. He nods, raising a flat hand over his eyes against the sun. His expression falls into shadow.

"Yeah. She got this flu that's been going around. We had all those kids over for my birthday." With his free hand, he waves a vaguely accusing finger at first Maria, then me. "Any of your kids sick?"

"No." I wouldn't tell him if they were. Maria, my echo, from the open window of her car.

"Yeah. She couldn't keep much down for a few days. Got lightheaded. Went up to take a shower and BAM!" He raises his voice suddenly, and I jump, catching his flicker of satisfaction when I do. "Cracked her head right on the toilet bowl. Blood everywhere."

"Omigod," Maria says. "Dan, is she OK? When did this happen?"

But Dan will not be rushed. "Of course, I'm downstairs, making breakfast, listening to NPR on my earbuds, don't hear anything. She comes to, manages to get herself to the top of the landing and then... whoopsiedoo. I come over to see what the hell happened, and she's halfway down the stairs." He puts up his hands, as if to say, Whoa! Whoa! Taker 'er easy! "She's fine. I mean, she got stiches up on her forehead where she hit the can. That'll probably scar. And her right arm got a hairline fracture, so she can't do stuff for a while. They said she can come home today."

"Dan, when did this happen?"

"This morning! Right before work. I had to take the day off. Been cleaning up so she doesn't come back to the mess."

I know he did it. And lying to our faces, making us part of his story?! My car keys still in my hand, and I slip one between my fingers like when I keyed 1DICK1, and imagine what it would be like to jab it into Dan's beer belly. Would it be like stabbing a sausage – resistance with a pop as his skin let me in? Or cutting raw chicken breasts -- smooth all the way through? It feels like these thoughts should make me sick. They don't.

"Dan, I'm so sorry!" I say. This seems to be what he's been waiting for. He nods, shoulders slumping, absorbing sympathy.

"You know, I'm thinking, it's her good arm. Could you ladies start one of those casserole things? Like I know Jenn was going to organize one for Aimee, when she had her baby."

"...Sure," Maria says after a moment. "I could call around, tell people about the situation."

"Could someone bring one tonight? I hate to ask, but I don't know when she's getting back from the hospital." For him. I clench my keys until those fresh bruises on my hand scream. The casserole is for him.

"I can bring one," I try not to sound too eager, match Maria's reluctant, subdued tone.

"Not chicken, though?" He asks hopefully.

"I was going to go to the grocery today anyway," I lie. "I can leave something on your doorstep around five after I pick the kids up from sports."

I don't even realize I'm testing him until I find myself studying his reaction. Will the man recently poisoned in my presence trust food I bring him?

"OK, great." He steps back now, waving halfheartedly to the lawn mower. "I should probably get back to..."

"OK, Bye, Dan!" Maria calls, both fierce and cheerful, as she pulls away from the curb. I agree. I don't want to spend another second with Dan. But as I walk to my car, he follows.

"Hey, thanks," he says. Now that it's just us, he seems sincere, holding eye contact, at least for a moment. "You look.... good these days. Happy, I mean. What's your secret?" The good hits somewhere between him eyeing my hips and my breasts. That's when I know I'm going to kill him. The plan is already unfolding, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if, I think wildly, he is asking for it.

"You think so?" A quick glance around, but no witnesses mid-morning on a weekday. Curtains drawn, driveways empty.

"Definitely."

"Well, I'll drop off that casserole. If you're not here, I can leave it on the doorstep, or leave the door unlocked. I'll just come in and put it in the fridge." What are you doing, Oma? My mother shrieks. I don't know. Everything about him should make me want to get as far away as possible.

"Oh, I'll definitely be here." His wife is in the hospital! Doesn't he have to pick her up? Key, key, key between my fingers and I want to jab him so bad. I try to spin my passionate need for that into some semblance of what he might mistake for sexual attraction. It heats up the air between us.

"OK, I'll see you then." I say, trying to make myself into some cartoonish version of a sex kitten, imagining I wink at him, jiggling a body part or two as I turn on my heel. But in reality, I practically run from his yard. I can't really poison him. Jenn would be in the clear, but the casserole would become evidence, tested, and Maria would know I'd volunteered to deliver it.

The whole way home, my mother's voice whispers, What are you doing, what are you doing? As I pull into my own driveway, I realize although the words are exactly the same, the voice is morphing. It becomes mine, and I'm ten years old again, scared and confused and exposed. That first night my uncle came into my room. What are you doing?

I tell her, Making it right as I throw the car in park, cutting off the engine and sitting in silence. When I do that, both the adult part and the kid part of me go quiet.