Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married (3 page)

They were sitting on folding chairs and smoking. One kid with dark greasy hair and a pimple-pocked face tore off a hunk of bread and hurled it at a bunch of dogs standing on the cement slab below. There were a dozen dogs or so standing there, all rough looking and full of mange. They snapped and snarled over the thrown morsel and I asked the boys why all these dogs were there. The kid with greasy hair told me they were stray dogs. The island is full of them. They roam around in packs and knock over garbage cans. “It's a problem,” the kid said. “That's why we poison 'em.” Then he whipped another hunk of bread at them.

“Poison?” I croaked. “What do you mean,
poison
?” Apparently it's common practice to feed stray dogs food laced with rat poison. It cuts down on the population. I watched the boys throw three more chunks of bread to the dogs before it dawned on me and I asked them, “Is there
rat poison
in that bread?”

Yes. There was. Didn't they just tell me that?

“But . . . but . . .” My brain raced stupidly around my head for an answer. “But that one is
a puppy
!” I finally said, pointing to the little pudgy mutt pawing the gravel below us. He was all white except for a black dot near his tail. Somehow
this
was the only argument I came up with, as if people who poisoned dogs for fun would care that one of them was a puppy.

“Yeah, get him,” the greasy-haired kid said lazily, as though I'd just alerted him to which dog I'd like them to poison next. A boy chucked a bread ball at the little dog and without thinking I shouted,
“No no no!”
while leaping over the edge of the loading dock, landing painfully on my ankle. On the ground I started clapping my hands and stamping my feet, separating the dogs and driving them away from me. The dogs all stared at me, not sure what I expected.

That's when it occurred to me that there was nothing I could do if they decided to attack, and wouldn't that be perfect?
UNLUCKY WOMAN ON VERGE OF WONDERFUL LIFE WITH NEW HUSBAND TORN TO DEATH BY WILD DOGS ON HER HONEYMOON.
“Shame on you!” I shouted. I was looking at the dogs but shouting at the boys. I didn't know if either group was aware of this. “That's
no way
to treat a
living
animal!” I yelled. “You should be
ashamed
of yourselves!”

Using disgust as a shield, I pushed my way toward the little dog and scooped him up. The puppy let me do this without so much as a whimper and I held him up with both hands. That was when I realized the poor little guy only had three legs. “Shame on you!” I repeated angrily at the boys. I cradled the pup, sniffing his neck, which smelled like garbage left out in the sun. I left, indignantly brushing past surly canine faces around me. “You should know, I'll be informing the hotel manager about this,” I told the boys on the loading dock. They hadn't moved from their chairs. “I'm going to tell him that you're out here poisoning these dogs!”

Mistake #9: Complaining to the hotel manager.
My ardent appeal to the mean little hotel manager was met with irritation. It turned out he paid the kitchen crew extra to “assist with maintaining the hotel's ongoing high standards.” He paid them to poison dogs, five bucks a body. The hotel manager scolded me for entering restricted employee-only areas and then he started asking me where the dog was. “What dog?” I asked.

“The one they said
you took
? The puppy?”

“Huh. Never heard of him.”

The manager said
any guest found with an animal in their hotel room will be kicked out immediately, and all refunds will be forfeited
. I told him he was one heck of a
Christian,
letting his staff kill God's creatures left and right. I defied them all. I hid the three-legged puppy in our bathroom for three days, refusing to let housecleaning in. I put newspaper down on the floor and sneaked him bacon. Brad, recovering in bed, said I was crazy; there were dogs running around loose all over the island. “What difference does saving one dog make?” he asked me.

“It makes a big difference to one person I know. To Ace
.
”

I named the puppy Ace, because he's a lucky little guy.

I was lucky too. Ace was great company. He accompanied me all over the island as Brad slept in the room. I hid him in my bag with loose muumuu over him and sneaked him past the front desk. We went out for lunch together, we went to the beach, we went sightseeing, we even went on a paddleboard ride together. Then Brad got better and started accompanying me on short trips downstairs and the maids found Ace snoozing on his bed of towels in the bathroom. They reported me to the manager, who threatened to kick us out.

Brad calmed him down with a large cash bribe and he promised we'd get rid of the dog immediately. Luckily I was able to find Ace a new home, with an elderly woman living nearby. She sold baskets by the roadside and kissed him on the forehead. “I can be a good mama for him,” she said, and agreed to take Ace home. I gave her enough money for a year's dog food supply. My ever-indulgent husband let me. He just shook his head and said I was crazy.

Mistake #10
:
Booking a romantic moonlit dinner.
We only had one night left, so I booked what was to be the
highlight
of our trip, a romantic moonlit dinner for two on our own private island at sunset. We decided after much debate to go for it. We let a festive wooden boat drop us off on a tiny island three miles offshore, and they told us they would return in two hours. The captain said we'd find our gourmet candlelight dinner waiting off the end of the dock and bathroom facilities just beyond it. We nearly ran down the dock to the beach, where we found a small raised platform and a lovely table with plates covered with silver domes. It looked just like the brochure.

Under our plates were round battery-operated plate warmers, which kept Brad's filet mignon warm and my chicken Kiev toasty. A chilled bottle of champagne rested in its battery-operated cooling bucket. As a spectacular sunset unfolded before us, we sighed, smiled at each other, and clinked glasses. Finally, a small piece of sanity. We ate dinner, then we ate dessert, which was chocolate cake with fresh strawberries. After dinner we took a leisurely stroll around the circumference of the tiny teardrop-shaped island and found a sand dollar, a pretty feather, then another feather, and then a desiccated dead seabird. We kissed, hugged, and reviewed the many events of the past week. Finally we made our way back to the dock and waited for the boat. We waited . . .
and waited . . . and waited.

No boat. Once we thought a boat was headed for us, but then it turned and veered away. We hadn't even thought to bring cell phones. It was getting cold. And windy. I thought briefly of sitting on a plate warmer. As the sky darkened we discussed our options. We talked about the currents, the tides, and every castaway/maritime disaster and shark movie we'd ever seen. We could see the lights twinkling on the shore and even tried to light a signal fire, but without matches and only dying plate warmers, it was useless. We huddled together under the table, now strewn with empty glasses and debris. The only other structure on the island was the Porta-Potty, and I just couldn't. We were rescued the next day by a passing pontoon boat of teenagers. We staggered into the resort sunburned, dehydrated, and covered with bug bites. Nobody at the hotel had noticed we were gone, not even my sister.

The only not-mistake?
The only decision that wasn't a mistake was one I made the morning we left. It was raining and we packed in silence, despair setting down on my shoulders like a heavy, damp blanket. I kept trying to think of something funny to say that might lighten the mood, but everything I thought of sounded stupid. Finally we piled into a pink taxicab and headed for the airport. A few yards away from the hotel, however, I shouted
“Stop!”
and the cab screeched to a halt. I jumped out and Brad stuck his head out the window. “Jen? What's going on?” I marched toward a row of aluminum garbage cans by the side of the road. There he was, poor little guy. Ace. He was eating garbage by the side of the road. That devious old woman took my money and tossed my dog out the minute I wasn't looking. Ace started hop-walking toward me, tail wagging. I scooped him up and we got back into the taxi.

Brad said, “Honey, you can't bring a dog home. They'll stop you.”

“Well, darling”—I put on my sunglasses—“they can certainly try.”

2

Home Is Where the Hell Is

A
irport security is not what it could be.

Ace sails through the TSA inspection, riding through the X-ray machine while sound asleep in a bundle of muumuu fabric inside my canvas bag.

“But what're we going to do with a
dog
?” Brad asks when we're in the air. “My mother won't like a dog in the guesthouse.” I remind him we're not going to live in his parents' guesthouse for very long. He promised we'd move out as soon we came back from our honeymoon.

“Remember?” I say, smiling.

Brad just groans.

“You said we'd find a house of our own, Brad. You know, our own house with its own address and its own cable connection? So your mother never lectures me on Satan's grip on the Independent Film Channel again?” I say this as sweetly as my shattered nerves will allow. The truth is, we've been fighting about it for eons. “Besides,” I tell him, “your mom will love Ace. He's like her first grandchild.”

“Right.” He snorts. “What about Trevor?”

“Trevor's not a grandchild. He's like a grand-oddity.”

We land on schedule and Brad's parents pick us up at the Minneapolis airport. Mother Keller wears a pea-soup-colored linen pantsuit. She's surprisingly pleased with Ace. “My goodness, it looks like you've started your family after all!” she says. Mr. Keller, who says I should call him Ed, gives me a big squeeze and winks at me. “Bring us back any other souvenirs, Jen-Jen?”

“Um . . . like what, Ed?”

“We were hoping for a bun in that oven!” He grins.

Ick.

No surprise though. Are they ever hoping for anything else?

Hailey and Lenny take a cab home while Brad and I bundle our ragtag luggage into the car. It's warm out but not humid and tropical like Saint John. The Kellers drive us home in their big white Lexus SUV, which smells of new leather and continually broadcasts Christian talk radio. Ace sleeps on my lap. Mrs. Keller peppers me with awkward questions, questions I don't want to answer, like,
How was the trip? Did you guys have fun? Did you get to go scuba diving?
Finally, when we're almost home and salvation is almost delivered . . . Brad's father turns down the wrong driveway.

“What's up, Pop?” Brad says. “Why're we going to the Morganthalers' house?”

“A-
ha
!” Mr. Keller says, his eyes twinkling. “It
was
their house, dear boy.
Was!
”

I sit up; my heart skips a beat.
“What's going on?”
I nearly whine. I'm so exhausted. I just want to get home and take a bath, where I'll begin concocting the elaborate lie that will take the place of my actual honeymoon.

“Don't worry.” Mother Keller pats my knee. “You'll see.”

Right.
It's when she says “don't worry” that I worry the most.

The car rolls up to the front door of the Morganthalers' house, a huge behemoth of a house, a monstrosity of confused design best described as a New American McMansion with Swiss turrets, Victorian elements, and Mediterranean accents.

Ed stops the car.

“So,” he says. “We have a little surprise for you kids!”

I moan quietly and Ace starts to get squirrelly in my lap, licking my face.

“Welcome home, son!” Ed Keller beams.

“What?” Brad says.

“What?”
I echo.

“We bought you a new house!” Mother Keller says. “Isn't it wonderful?”

“You bought us a house?” I chirp, looking out the window.

“Right next door!” she says evil-gleefully.

“No . . .” I shake my head.

“Oh yes, we did,” she says. “Come and see!”

They all pile out of the car and I sit there in stunned silence. “But . . . this is the Morganthalers' house,” I say meekly. “
They
live here.”

“It
was
their house, Jennifer. They moved. Now it's
your
house.
You
live here!”

“No . . .”
I groan.

Brad tugs me out of the car and I lose my grip on Ace, who wakes up and springs happily out of my arms, tumbling after Ed Keller through the front door. I'm lost in a daze. Speechless. It's like a slowly unfolding nightmare. You want to wake up, a voice in your head keeps repeating,
It's not true, it's not true . . .
yet it is true, and waking up is not an option. I find it's all freakishly, inexplicably true. We have a nasty dose of reality here; it's undoubtedly a good thing that I'm too jet-lagged and exhausted to voice my opinion too clearly. It's enough just to wrap my gerbil-size brain around the situation. The Kellers bought us a house . . .

The house right next door.

Kill me.

You could lob a ham sandwich from our front door to theirs, if you wanted to. Or a bomb. We tour the airplane-hangar-size monstrosity and find all our belongings have already been moved in. All our books, clothes, pots and pans—even our toothbrushes are there, sitting in engraved silver toothbrush cups in the master bathroom. Mother Keller did it all while we were on our honeymoon.

“Mom, this is incredible!” Brad says. “Hon, isn't this incredible?”

“Incredible . . .” I smile weakly.

Mother Keller went ahead and decorated the whole house herself. She picked out all the pastel furniture, the flocked wallpaper, even the porcelain figurines and dried flower arrangements. After all, we didn't own nearly enough furniture to fill up this place. Trying to fill this behemoth of a house with our scrappy belongings would be like trying to fill the
Titanic
with the contents of a rowboat. Unfortunately the furnishings Mother Keller chose are more to her taste than mine. The place is all sweet and pastel-y and frilly. It looks like a gynecologist's office mixed with a Christian Science Reading Room, slammed inside a Céline Dion video. I hate it.

The front hall has white marble floors polished to a high liquid shine and a sweeping spiral staircase that twists up around a large, low-hanging chandelier of queer citrine yellowy-green crystal. The living room is douche-commercial peachy pink and dominated by huge peach upholstered couches and brass accent lamps. In the kitchen I find a copy of
Cooking for Dummies
and a plaque on the wall that says
LORD BLESS THIS MESS!
Upstairs in our walk-in closets, I find all of our clothing hanging up or neatly put away in drawers. I burn with shame and the distinct memory of leaving a pair of dirty underwear on the floor in the cottage. Dear God, I hope Mother Keller didn't see them. The tour's almost over, and I'm contemplating suicide by way of skewering a brass fireplace poker into my eye socket, when Mother Keller flips on the lights in the dining room and my whole family leaps out shouting,
“Surprise!”

I nearly have a heart attack. My first thought is,
What's
wrong
with you people?
which isn't fair, because they're only trying to congratulate us on our amazing new house. They've been silently waiting there in the dark, even Hailey and Lenny, who took a taxi from the airport. Dad hugs me, Mom kisses me. They take turns holding Ace, who's nearly hysterical with joy. He bounds up and down the staircase on three legs faster than most dogs can go on four.

Everybody congratulates us on our new home and they all start asking questions about the honeymoon. I don't even get to lie about it, because idiot Hailey is already there blabbering away. “They had a honeymoon from hell!” she hoots. “They had diarrhea all week!”

“It's always
something,
” Mother Keller says.

“I
told
you to pack Imodium,” Mom says with a sigh.

“That's a doozy of a honeymoon!” Ed laughs out loud.

“Oh!” Mother Keller yelps suddenly. “Jennifer! The dog is peeing all over the house!”

“Ace?” I look around, bewildered.

“Oh my, what a mess!” she says, blotting the carpet. “Quick, grab that napkin. Oh, Jennifer, really. You're not here
two minutes
and you've already turned your house into a mess.”

My house
. What a joke. I feel like I might faint.

Brad's older sister, Sarah, arrives and she starts in immediately. She tosses back her shiny auburn curls and says, “Diarrhea on your honeymoon? What a
loser
my brother is! It's always a disaster when he travels with women. Always. Like the time he went on spring break with what's-her-name. The Asian one. Anyway they both got gonorrhea.”

She gives me a big saccharine-sweet smile.

That's Sarah for you. A Prada-wearing piranha.

“All right then!” Ed says. “I'm getting everybody some apple cider! Hey, Bill here?”

Sarah says her husband is outside. She made him repark the car.

Poor Bill.

Being married to Sarah must be like marrying a black widow spider. The question isn't whether she'll kill you, it's when, and how much of your dry husk will remain. Mother Keller offers to show my parents the new snow blower in the garage and I'm alone with Sarah momentarily. She turns and whispers conspiratorially. “Did you know Dad's retiring?”

“I heard he was thinking about that.”

“Oh, I'll
bet
you did.” She winks. “Bet you want to know who's the new president too! Don't assume Brad's becoming president.”

“No, he hasn't even mentioned—”

“Oh, of course,” she snorts. “My brother never tells you anything, does he. Poor thing. Always in the dark. Don't you just wonder what
secrets
he's keeping from you?”

“Not really . . .”

“He probably has a harem of Asian hookers somewhere. He's always had Egg Roll Fever, you know.”

I choke-chortle awkwardly, wanting to punch her in the face.

Her eyes dart around the room quickly. “I'll tell you something, Jennifer. I've worked for years and years at the company. My brother just got here. While he was off
fucking up
his life
and drinking himself into whatever stupor my parents found him in, I was
right here
the whole time. You know? Working and waiting for my turn. Now Brad thinks he's in line for the throne?”

“No, I don't think he—”

“You know what? I'll tell you what.
No way
am I handing over the helm to my idiot-dipshit little brother. Not without one motherfucking
hell
of a fight. Got it?”

I nod, afraid she might sprout fangs and eat me right there on the spot.

We hear a child shriek in the front hall and my eyes go wide with fear.

Trevor?

Demon Trevor speeds around the corner full-tilt, arms open, and slams painfully into me, grabbing my legs and hanging on like a koala bear, his hands sticky with something.

“Auntie Jen! Auntie Jen!
Guess how old I am.
”

“Forty-seven?” I say. “Forty-six?”

“Seven and
three-quarters
!” he shouts at me.

“Trevor!” Sarah grabs his arm. “You have candy. Why do you have candy? I said no candy! Give me that candy.”

“No!” He sticks his hands behind his back. “Daddy gave it to me.”

“Oh, I'll
bet
he did,” she says. “Give me that candy this minute, Trevor, or I'll tell Santa Claus that you get no presents
ever again.
”

He looks at her.

“I mean it,” she growls.

Trevor lets go of my legs and stares up, his lips trembling.
“Santa?”
he says, and I want to call child services.

“Did you hear me?” Sarah shouts at him. “Give them to me . . .
now
!”

Trevor thrusts two peppermint candies out and starts crying.

“Go wash your hands,” she says. “They're filthy!”

Weeping, he trudges toward the kitchen, head hung low. I swear, there is not enough therapy in the world to fix that kid. “You know,” I say carefully, “a little candy isn't
that
bad . . .”

“Bill?”
she shouts as her husband walks in. He still has his coat on.

“What?” he says. “I was parking the car. Oh, hey, Jen! Welcome back.”

“Bill!” Sarah snaps. “Did you give Trevor candy?”

“Oh. Yeah. It's . . . that sugar-free stuff your mom got. For him.”

Sarah rolls her eyes in disgust. “He doesn't
know
it's sugar-free, Bill. He's got to learn about healthy eating habits or he'll end up with
weight issues
like his father!”

Bill sighs. “All right then.” He nods. “Better go wash up.” He disappears to the kitchen.

Poor Bill.

“God.” Sarah shakes her head in disgust. “Men! Can you believe that?”

“Nope.” I sigh. “I really can't.”

Ed returns with our burning peppery handmade apple cider, which I gulp down, or try to, and Mother Keller returns with my parents, who are mightily impressed with our snow blower.

“That's some snow blower you got out there, honey,” my dad says. “You should make sure that snow blower's on your home insurance.”

Mother Keller announces dinner is served, directing us to the stack of plates on “my” sideboard, where a banquet of her most vile dishes awaits us. “Eat your clam blankets before they cool,” she warns us. Somehow all her dishes always sound vaguely and specifically sexual at the same time. Clam blankets are baked clams and bacon. There are also codfish balls, which are diced cod, potatoes, and egg pressed into balls and baked. Mulled fishwives are sardines soaked in sherry. Meat jelly is exactly what it sounds like. For dessert there's prune whip: Take unsuspecting prunes, soak, and chuck in blender with heavy cream. Puree until they sing and the rest of us weep. I mournfully survey the buffet table.