Dear Debbie, page 3
“He won’t be happy,” Cooper says, which is probably true.
“Still. Just make your case, and hold your ground.”
Cooper is saying something else, but I’m not listening, distracted by a glimpse of a truck driving by the side of the house. It looks like an electrician has arrived to help poor Brett. I sure hope the damage to his fuse box isn’t far worse than he thought.
5
COOPER
Debbie ties a perfect knot.
I’ve tied dozens of ties—no, hundreds—but whenever I do it, it looks like the handiwork of a small child. I don’t know what’s wrong with me; my dexterity is just lacking. But Debbie does it perfectly every time. It’s one of her superpowers, along with all those brightly colored flowers in the backyard that seem to appear out of thin air.
And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. My wife is good at everything she tries. She’s a genius: she’s created multiple apps for our phones that actually work. She writes them herself. I can barely figure out how to use most of the crap on my phone, and here she is, creating apps out of nothing.
Honestly, I wonder sometimes how she ended up in this life, married to a schlub like me.
“Just remember.” Debbie tilts her face up to look at me. I’d almost forgotten how hot she looks with makeup on. “Don’t ask for what you want. Tell him what you want.”
She’s talking about the partnership at the firm. She’s more confident than I am, which is because she’s never even met Ken Bryant. My boss has a very firm policy about separating home life and work life. We don’t have elaborate Christmas parties at the firm where spouses and children are invited and one of us dresses up as Santa. Ken gets upset if you even put up a photo of your family in your own private office. The guy smiles maybe two times per year—tops.
So no, I’m not confident about this meeting. Not by a long shot.
I can’t admit to Debbie that this meeting almost certainly isn’t going to go the way she hopes. The mortgage on our house is depressingly high, and the cost of living in our town is through the roof. Debbie makes some money at the paper, but I am the primary breadwinner. We need this boost in salary—badly.
But maybe she’s right. Maybe Ken will go along with it. He doesn’t want to lose me, after all.
“Confidence,” Debbie reminds me. “Now eat your cereal.”
I grin at her. “Yes, ma’am. But only because you said it with confidence.”
I settle down into the seat across from her to dig in. It’s this terrible fiber cereal she started buying a while back. I shove it down my throat, even though I hate it. I keep meaning to tell her to buy something that doesn’t taste like the cardboard box it was packed in, but at least it’s healthy. Judging by the way it tastes, it’s got to be.
While I eat, I rest my hand protectively over my pocket where my phone is nestled. I tried not to let on, but that unexpected phone call threw me off my game. How could she call me when she knows I’m still home, likely in the middle of breakfast. If Debbie had seen…
I don’t want to think about that.
I shove a few more mouthfuls of cardboard flakes into my mouth, and that’s about all I can stand. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and get to my feet. “I better get going. I don’t want to be late today. Let me just grab my lunch.”
“Actually…” Debbie scrambles to her feet anxiously. “I didn’t have a chance to make you lunch yet. I can make it now though. Would you like a sandwich?”
Debbie always packs me lunch. I never asked her to do it, but as soon as we got married, she declared that to be one of her responsibilities. I couldn’t say no, since whatever she made was always a hell of a lot better than what I’d get from the food cart or some drive-through.
This is the first time in our marriage that she hasn’t had anything packed for me. It leaves me feeling strangely off-kilter.
“That’s okay.” I don’t want to let on how hurt I feel that my wife forgot to make me lunch. I’m a grown man, and it seems ridiculous to say it out loud. “I’ll grab something at the strip mall near the office.”
I round the table to give Debbie a kiss. I don’t think I’ve ever left the house without kissing her goodbye, and that’s one ritual we won’t be forgetting today. I press my lips against hers as I lower my hand to her back, feeling the curve of her delicate rib cage through the soft fabric of her dress.
As our lips separate, Debbie looks into my eyes. “Good luck with Ken.”
Yeah, I’ll need it.
I parked in the driveway yesterday, so I leave through the front door to get to my car. I lock the door behind me, which is a reflex drilled into me by Debbie. We live in a safe neighborhood, but she always says that an unlocked front door is just asking for trouble.
“Mullen!”
I pull my key out of the lock in time to see my neighbor, Brett Carlson, standing on our front lawn, his boots crushing the green grass that my wife has spent so much time keeping lush and healthy. I don’t know how Debbie does it. She’s some kind of plant genius.
“What’s up, Brett?” I say, stifling my irritation about the grass.
That’s when I notice the way Brett’s teeth are clenched together. A muscle under his right eye twitches as he takes a menacing step toward me. He looks pissed. I’ve never been in a fistfight before, but I’m worried it’s going to happen for the first time today. Right now.
“The electrician is here,” he spits out at me. “She didn’t just snap off the switch. She destroyed the wiring too.”
What the hell is he talking about? “Wiring?”
“My fuse box,” Brett clarifies. “Your wife snuck into my basement last night and wrecked it.”
At first, I think he’s got to be joking, so I laugh. But the furious expression on his face quickly makes the smile drop off my face.
“What are you talking about?” I shake my head. “Debbie didn’t do anything to your fuse box.”
“Bullshit. She’s the one always complaining to the cops about my music.”
It’s possible that’s true, but still. The accusation is outrageous. I’d think Brett has been drinking, but I don’t smell it on him. “You’re wrong.”
“I’m not wrong,” he says, “and let me tell you, Cooper: you better keep a close eye on that wife of yours.”
I roll my eyes before I remember how much I hate it when Lexi does that. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” He levels his gaze at me. “She’s dangerous.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
So I keep my mouth shut. Debbie always says you can’t reason someone out of a mindset they didn’t reason themselves into. Thankfully, the electrician comes out of Brett’s house and calls him over, so I’m off the hook. Still, my shoulders don’t relax until Brett is back in his house with the door closed behind him.
For a moment, I wonder if I should warn Debbie about Brett being on the warpath. But that seems unnecessary. His accusation is so outlandish, I’m sure he’ll soon realize that he made a terrible mistake.
6
FROM DEAR DEBBIE DRAFTS FILE
Dear Debbie,
Let me tell you, I just love me some jazz. Nothing beats flipping on the radio and hearing something from Kind of Blue. But bless his heart, my husband won’t let me listen to it! He’s all into folk music, which just ain’t my cup of sweet tea.
But here’s the kicker: If we’re in his car, he says that since he’s driving, he should get to choose the music. Fair enough, I say. But when we’re in my car and I’m driving, he says that since he earns more money than I do, it’s technically his car, so he should get to choose the music then too! Tell me that ain’t the biggest load of hogwash you’ve ever heard!
I don’t mind listening to what he wants, but it seems like I should get to choose the music at least once in a blue moon! What should I do?
Frustrated with Folk Music
Dear Frustrated with Folk Music,
Believe me, you’re not the first couple that has gone to battle over the soundtrack of a car ride! But marriage is all about compromise, so this is a good place to start. Before your next long drive, try to think of a few artists that you both like to listen to, and make a playlist featuring those artists. That way, you can both enjoy the music!
If your husband is not agreeable to this compromise, it’s time to get out that sewing kit! Slip an over-the-counter antihistamine into his wine at night, and while he is sleeping, you can make a hole in his eardrum using the needle from the kit (they’re so handy!). When you’ve completed the first ear, move on to the second. It can be a little tedious, but it’s a fairly simple procedure!
After that, he definitely won’t mind what you listen to in the car anymore!
Debbie
7
DEBBIE
The cameras will be here in fifteen minutes.
I take one last glance at my garden to make sure it looks perfect. I know roses are very popular, like the ones in Jo Dolan’s garden down the road, but I have a beautiful mix of vivid pink, red, and violet flowers. When the journalist asked me what type of flowers they were, I said they were windflowers because that’s what they look like, but they’re not really.
If I told them what the flowers really were, I wouldn’t be in the magazine. Even Cooper doesn’t know.
The garden looks perfect, so I take another look down at my dress, smoothing out any creases. The red splotches do look a lot like bloodstains, but I don’t know if it’s worth changing. I’m not even certain that they’ll photograph me at all, and if they do, it may just be a headshot.
I glance down at my watch—still ten more minutes. Time seems to be moving in slow motion. It suddenly occurs to me that they’ll want coffee, so I get a pot brewing using the state-of-the-art coffee machine we received as a housewarming gift, which Cooper immediately deemed “too complicated.” He now gets his coffee at work. But it’s hardly nuclear physics (which is actually nowhere near as difficult as my advanced database systems class in college). I pour the coffee grounds into the machine and press a button that makes the machine spring to life. There. The coffee is now forthcoming.
I am too restless to sit in the kitchen, so instead, I head to the front door. I peek out the window to see if they might have arrived early and are waiting until ten just to be polite. But there are no unfamiliar cars parked in front of my house. I do, however, spy Bev Petrie, who lives right across from me, on her hands and knees in the dirt, and before I can stop myself, I’m rushing out my front door.
“Bev!” I call out. “Bev, are you okay?”
Bev is eighty-seven years old and lives all alone in the small one-story house a stone’s throw away from mine. Her brain is sharp as a tack, but she’s frail enough that I worry one big gust of wind could blow her away. I’ve taken to rushing over to her house to see if there’s anything she needs help with—usually taking out her garbage and hauling it to the curb, picking up a giant bag of kibble for her dog that’s as old as she is (in dog years), and of course, lawn-related tasks. I worry that a bad tumble could send her to the hospital with a broken hip, and I hope that’s not in the cards for today.
“Bev!” I say again when I get closer, because her hearing isn’t what it used to be. “What’s going on? Did you fall?”
Bev raises her slightly bleary blue eyes, and a smile creases her face. She doesn’t appear to be seriously injured and is, in fact, gardening. “Debbie! Good morning!”
I hold out a hand to help her back to her feet—I’m concerned it might not have been possible without my help. I make a note to myself to check on her more frequently.
“I was just trying to pull a few weeds.” She gives her garden a glowering look. “Damn crabgrass is everywhere. Jo Dolan was commenting that I’ve got more weeds than flowers.”
“Bev, I can take care of your weeds for you this weekend,” I tell her.
Her eyes brighten. “You can?”
“Sure. It’s easy.”
People often write to Dear Debbie to ask for help killing weeds without harming their other plants. I usually recommend a solution of vinegar, salt, and soap. However, my absolute favorite way to kill weeds is to take a pot of boiling water and scald the little devils.
Bev looks me up and down. “Don’t you look lovely this morning! Is your photo shoot today?”
I nod. “It is. I better get back to the house.”
It’s just about ten, and although it’s clear the photographer has not arrived, it wouldn’t look right if I weren’t even home when they came.
“Good luck, dear,” Bev says. “Jo is going to be so jealous! I can’t wait to see her face!”
I shrug and act like I couldn’t care less, but I’d be lying if I said that it won’t give me a little bit of joy to stick it to my neighbor from down the block who’s always putting me down. Jo thinks she has the best lawn on the block, and she’ll tell anyone who will listen.
I bid Bev goodbye and walk back across the street to my own house. It’s now several minutes after ten, and there’s still no sign of the people from the magazine. They must be running late. Nobody is on time for anything in the real world. The only thing you must be on time for is the school bus, because that waits for nobody.
As I walk into the kitchen, the coffee machine lets out a loud hiss, and a slow and steady stream of brown liquid starts to drip into the pot. Perfect. Now I have coffee. I’m all set for when they show up.
I check my watch again. I do have a phone number for the magazine, but I hate to be that person. Your photographer is fifteen minutes late. Where are you? I’m sure they’ll be here eventually. Home Gardening wouldn’t just ghost me.
Would they?
I sit at the kitchen table, tapping my foot as I listen to the coffee slowly dripping into the coffeepot. Every few minutes, I check my watch, and every few minutes, it’s a few minutes later, but the photographer still isn’t here. I even check my email to confirm that this was the day and time we had agreed on.
At ten twenty-five, I crack. I check the phone number, which is in an email from Nita Geisler, the journalist who contacted me about the photos. She came to my house and gushed about the beautiful garden, and we set up this photo shoot for today. September 26 at ten in the morning.
I punch the number into my phone with slightly trembling fingers. I have spent the last week anticipating this photo shoot, and somehow I must have screwed something up. After all, this has to be my fault. Maybe I didn’t confirm the day and time like I was supposed to? A legit magazine wouldn’t just not show up this way.
“Home Gardening,” a peppy female voice chirps on the other end of the line.
Great. I was hoping the number was a private line for Nita, but apparently I have to deal with a gatekeeper. “Um, hi,” I say. “This is Debra Mullen. I’m trying to reach Nita Geisler.”
“Sure! And what is this regarding?”
“Well…” I toy with a lock of my hair, but then I end up tugging it so hard that my scalp hurts. “She was supposed to come here this morning with the photographer at ten, but she’s not here.”
“Hmm.” Keys tap on the other end of the line. “I don’t see any appointments in Nita’s schedule for today.”
“Well, she emailed me that we were meeting this morning.” I pause. “I have the email…”
“That is so strange!” the receptionist says again, like she’s been tasked to solve a particularly difficult mystery. “Let me investigate! Hold please!”
The hold music is a Taylor Swift song. I generally like Taylor Swift music, but I am not in the mood right now. Also, the longer I sit here, twiddling my thumbs, the more I’m starting to get the implicit message that I’m the problem, it’s me.
Just when I am about to hang up, the girl’s voice pipes up, “Mrs. Miller?”
“Mullen,” I correct her.
“Mrs. Muller,” she repeats, making an admirable attempt to get it correct on her second try. “I have Nita Geisler on the other line. Can you please hold?”
I suppress an eye roll worthy of Lexi, not understanding why she couldn’t just transfer me directly to Nita, given that I was already on hold. I feel like I’m trying to reach the president or something. Nita is just a journalist at a dinky gardening magazine. “Sure.”
I have to listen to another fifteen seconds of hold music before Nita’s throaty voice comes on the other end of the line. “Hello?” she says.
“Hi!” I exclaim, pathetically grateful that I’m talking to a human instead of listening to music. “This is Debbie… Debra Mullen? We… I mean, I thought the camera crew was coming here this morning. To photograph my garden, you know? That’s what it said in the email. Did I… Did I get the date wrong?”
“Oh, Debbie,” Nita sighs. “I am so sorry. I thought my assistant called you to cancel, but apparently not.”
Fantastic. I have been waiting here all morning in my bloodstained dress for nothing. Well, at least I can decide on something less gory to wear before the actual photo shoot. Now that I know this isn’t going to happen, I’m a tiny bit relieved. “So should we reschedule?”
“Actually,” Nita says, “we decided to go in another direction.”
The relief I felt a second ago vanishes, replaced with a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Another direction?”
“Well,” she says, “when we were leaving your house, we ran into your neighbor, Josephine Dolan. We saw her rose garden, and roses are just so classic. I thought it would be a nice throwback look for the photo spread.”
My jaw drops. I am absolutely stunned. Jo stole my photo shoot?
“I really thought my assistant told you,” Nita says. “I’m so sorry. I hope you didn’t go to too much trouble.”
