This Is How It Happened (3 page)

The next evening, after my one-night stand with Carlton Connors, I got a singing telegram. From Mr. Connors himself.

He surprised me on my doorstep with a bouquet of yellow roses. “For my yellow rose of Texas,” he said, with a cheesy grin on his face. And then he burst into the University of Texas college fight song.

“The eyes of Texas are upon us…”
he sang, bent down on one knee, with his arms outstretched.

He brought a bag of groceries with him, and we cooked pasta and then had hot, sweaty sex on the tile floor in the kitchen.

From that day on, our one-night stands became a three-day-per-week event.

Within a month, Carlton moved out of his second-floor walkup, an efficiency that smelled faintly of mothballs, and into my small, but tidy, townhouse. Carlton figured it was cheaper and easier if we lived together in grad school. “We’ll be more efficient if we’re a team,” he said.

He was having big problems in class and even bigger problems paying his tuition.

“I can’t work and study and have any kind of social life,” he complained. Bookwork and tests didn’t come easily for Carlton. We were both trying to hold down jobs while getting our MBAs. I had been working at the same company for fourteen years, if you include the time I’d spent interning in high school. Carlton was trying to hold down a low-level job at one of his father’s warehouses.

Carlton’s father, Forest Connors, was a millionaire several times over, and owned a company that sold medical equipment at high markups. Forest Connors was a well-known patron of the University of Texas McCombs School of Business, and had endowed a chair named after Carlton’s grandfather.

Carlton first introduced me to his dad at an MBA event—a wine and cheese reception hosted by the economics department.

“This is Madeline—the girl I’ve been telling you about, Dad,” Carlton had said, steering me in the direction of a tall, handsome man who vaguely resembled Carlton.

“Nice to meet you, Madeline. I’m Forest Connors,” Mr. Connors announced, in a commanding voice.

I remember standing up straight and shaking Mr. Connors’ broad, outstretched hand. He had a solid grip, just like Carlton. A winner’s handshake.

“So, you’re the woman who’s keeping my son from concentrating on his work,” Mr. Connors had said. And he was sort of joking, and sort of not.

“She’s also responsible for the Gross National Debt, Dad,” Carlton shot back, and we all laughed.

Later, when I asked Carlton why his father didn’t help pay his tuition, Carlton said his father believed in “starting from the ground up.” Forest Connors wasn’t a man to spoil his son, and in fact, Carlton drove a rusty Honda that seemed to love to break down.

Carlton said his Honda had “personality,” and it “loved to buck the trend.” He’d say this on mornings when he had the hood up, his hands covered in grease.

Carlton felt his Honda had single-handedly spoiled the Honda image—of the reliable, low-maintenance car that would run and run forever.

“Goddamn Asian prostitute!” he’d yell, kicking at the tires. When he went to work in one of his father’s warehouses—gotta learn the business from the ground up!—he rode his bike. It got to the point where Carlton began leaving his schoolbooks at home. I was taking notes in class for both of us.

One night, after we’d had particularly good sex—sweaty, uninhibited, pornstar sex—he rolled me over, stroked my matted-down hair, and stared into my eyes. “I can’t impress my dad at work
and
get good grades in school, and you’re so great with marketing, Maddy—I mean, you’re the number-one student in class.”

“Say no more,” I’d replied, pressing my hand against his lips.

The next thing I knew, I was doing all of Carlton’s assignments. I wrote several knockout papers for him and he got A’s on every single one. I felt like the girlfriend of the head football player. But I didn’t mind. Carlton and I were madly in love. And that was all that mattered.

I spend the entire night in front of the porcelain throne, as they say. Throwing up like a drunk. Hurling out the small bits of brownie along with all of my acidic stomach juices.
This is my punishment.
For thinking these murderous, devil thoughts.

In the morning, after a restless, fitful sleep—a sweaty, tossing, turning sleep on my mattress—I use the bathroom and my pee smells like metal. Checking the mirror, I see my forehead is damp and my skin has a slight yellow pallor.

Hello, lemon face.
I rinse my mouth with Listerine. I’ve rinsed it so much over the last eight hours the bottle is on its last drop.

I plod into the kitchen, rub my eyes, peer out the kitchen window and see a black, furry thing lying in my driveway.

Terrific.

I’m a murderess after all.

I pad down the driveway in my tatty robe and bare feet. A dead raccoon is next to my garbage can, the trail of brownie crumbs leading directly from its slack-jawed, wide-open mouth.

I stare down at the mess in my driveway, at the poor, dead animal, and the first thought that enters my head is:
There’s never a man around when you need one.
Stepping back inside, I don a pair of yellow rubber dishwashing gloves, my flip-flops, and waltz out to the driveway once again in my outfit du jour—my shaggy purple bathrobe. I pick the raccoon up by the tail, and swing its dead carcass into the garbage. It’s a little heavier than I thought, so at first, I accidentally bang the raccoon into the side of the can, before heaving it up and over.

“Rest in peace, little fellow,” I say, in case there exists some kind of raccoon Karma.

I sweep up the brownie crumbs. Then, I roll the garbage can out to the street, because tomorrow is garbage day, thank God.

Here I am, on the street in a purple bathrobe with throw-up stains on the front. I’ve almost poisoned myself and I’ve killed an innocent raccoon. And hey, it isn’t even 10:00 a.m.

I pull the rubber gloves off my hands, open the lid to the trash, and drop them in. I let the lid fall back down…but then I make a huge mistake.

I open the lid and peek inside.

The raccoon, its dead black eyes wide open, is staring straight up at me.

“It was an unintentional crime, it really was…little guy,” I murmur. Followed by, “I’m sorry.”

I drop the lid back down and use my body weight to slam it tight, like I’m slamming the trunk of my car. The garbage men are coming tomorrow, but still. I don’t want to risk having an entire dead zoo out here.

God help me if Pamela Anderson and her PETA pals saw this
, I muse, as I plod back up my driveway.

I think of Pamela Lee Anderson and I start to get pissed off. I mean, sure. I buy lipstick that hasn’t been tested on lab monkeys, and I fully support the whole dolphin thing, but c’mon. Enough is enough. Some of us have to work around here.

What? Like Pamela is some kind of saint because she survives on berries and seeds? As if she’s never opened a can of tuna fish? Are her shoes made of plastic? Her belts of eco-friendly twine? Has she never accidentally run over a squirrel or hit a bird?

I pad back into the house. And swing the front door shut. Slam!

Carlton, by the way, was a huge Pam fan.

I never thought that I’d be the type of girl who waited for some guy to marry me. It seemed old fashioned. To be that girl.

And yet a part of me wondered what was taking so long? Carlton and I were both in our thirties. We’d lived together for four years. I’d assumed marriage was right around the corner.

Of course, I wasn’t bothered by the idea of “living in sin.” I didn’t need the ceremony, the gleaming diamond ring—my girlfriends fawning over me in a sleek, white Vera Wang gown.

Carlton and I could live together for the rest of our lives, as far as I was concerned. The love between us was so great the idea of
not
getting married seemed terribly romantic.

We’d be modern. Like movie stars. Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins. Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell. Hugh Grant asking Andie McDowell in
Four Weddings and a Funeral,
“Will you promise never to marry me?”

And besides, I couldn’t complain. Behind closed doors, Carlton referred to me as his “fiancée.” As he put it, we were “unofficially” engaged.

He hadn’t asked me to marry him in the traditional way. There was no candlelight dinner. No diamond. No bending down on one knee. Rather, he’d told me late one night, and I might add—after sweaty, post-coital sex—that he “intended” to marry me.

This is how it happened:

One night, as we lay breathless and sweaty on my mattress, stark naked with the damp sheets kicked on the floor, he’d reached over to the side of the bed, grabbed my hand, and slipped a ring on my finger.

“I intend to marry you,” he said, simply. Instead of a diamond, he’d given me a simple white-gold band he’d bought at Zales.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered. I twirled the ring around my finger. I loved the way it felt, heavy on my hand.

Carlton took it off and showed me the inside.

“Read the engraving,” he said.

I peered at the ring. Then I turned and threw my arm over his chest. Kissed him full on the mouth.

“Oh Romeo, Romeo. Wherefore art thou?” I said, my eyes misting up with tears.

“Right here, baby. Right where I want to be,” he said, stroking my hair.

I wasn’t being a complete cheeseball. There was a reason for the Romeo, Romeo thing.

A few weeks earlier, on one of those gloriously lazy Sundays, Carlton and I had been walking down the street hand in hand when an older woman started waving her cane at us.

“Your love is so bright, kiddos, I’ve gotta wear shades,” she’d called out. Then, she donned a pair of hip, funky-looking sunglasses and blew us a kiss.

“To Romeo and Juliet!” she said, in a strong voice, as she hobbled away.

From then on, Carlton had called me “his Juliet.” And sometimes, I’d call him “Romeo,” too. We both knew it was cheesy and overused, but we didn’t care.

It was our little secret.

“Thank you, Romeo,” I said, as Carlton kissed my ring finger and slipped the ring back on.

“Do you like it?” he asked. He cupped my hands in his and brought them to his chest. I felt his skin, still warm from the sex, and noticed his shoulders were a splotchy pink from all the exertion.

We lay on the bed, naked, facing each other. It was the most intimate moment of my life.

“I love it,” I said.

And he grinned.

In truth, most girls would’ve probably hated the ring. It was plain Jane. The kind of ring you buy in the mall, as an afterthought. And much too thick for my finger.

But I loved it. I wore it every day. Even in the shower. I didn’t care if Carlton ever bought me a diamond. And besides, I wasn’t the type of woman who was a Nazi about carat, cut, and clarity. I didn’t care to wave my finger in front of friends and co-workers and brag out loud, “Look what Carlton gave me,” as I flashed a huge, sparkling rock. No, what Carlton and I had was special. A special bond between us.

This ring was different.

I took it off my finger and read the engraving almost every day.

“Forever, my Juliet,”
it read.

I’ve got to get the hell out of Dodge,
I think. I stare at my empty house. My Carlton-free Zone.

A few weeks ago, I packed up all our photographs and everything else that reminded me of Carlton, and I cried the proverbial river of tears. I boxed up everything, even a postcard he’d sent me from a trip to New York City that said, “Someone in the Big Apple loves you.” I hid it all in my garage, behind some paint cans. I couldn’t bear to throw it out. Most women probably would’ve torched the stuff, but deep down, I was a softie. I mean, sure, I’d just killed a raccoon. But that was a total accident.

It’s hard not to feel alone when you’ve lived with a man for the past four years. And then one day, that man is gone. And he’s taken your self-esteem with him.

I have only one thought on days like this. And that thought is:
Get Out!
Weekends are, most certainly, the worst. What I like to call my “Very Lonely Saturdays” are followed by my “Self-Pitying Sundays.” The biggest problem with weekends is they keep rolling back around.

I’ve considered flying someplace where I’d lose time. Like Costa Rica. I imagine an open wooden beach hut. A soft bed with white mosquito netting. The sounds of the waves rolling in. Me sopping up alcohol like chicken soup. Not knowing the day of the week. Not caring about the time. Maybe I’d take up surfing. And have sex with some hot, Tico guy. You never know. It could happen.

I pick up the phone to call Heather, but then put it back down. She’s probably sick of me, and besides, she’s happily married. And sometimes it isn’t healthy being around a smiling, doting couple. So I’ve got to turn to my last resort—my family.

I call my brother.

He answers with his usual flair.

“Hullo?” he says.

“Hey, what’s shakin’ bacon?” I ask, jumping in.

“Same shit, different day,” my brother says. He’s got a knack for words, that guy.

“I was thinking we could get some burgers,” I say. This tactic, the burger tactic, usually works. My brother is a sucker for a free cheeseburger. And he knows that when I call him, it means I’m the one who’s paying.

I’m paying for Ronnie Piatro’s company because I’m lonely and I’ve just killed a small animal.

“I’m kind of tied up,” Ronnie says.

“I just killed a raccoon!”

“With your car?”

“No, I accidentally poisoned it. I was trying to make these poison brownies to deliver to Carlton’s office but I ended up killing a small, innocent animal,” I say, and I realize I’m talking fast. Like a crazy person.

I hear my brother take a deep breath into the phone.

“I’m going to pray for you, Maddy,” he says. And he means it. He pauses and I can almost hear him praying for me.

We’re both silent on the phone, and I don’t interrupt. Because I know my brother is a serious prayer freak. He takes prayer
very
seriously.

Finally, he sighs into the phone, “I’ll meet you at The Tavern in one hour.”

Bingo.