Treading Lightly

“Because it’s too dangerous, and he’s not the most athletic person on earth.”

“So? What does that have to do with anything?”

“If the raft goes amuck, he’ll have a hard enough time saving himself, much less rescuing you!”

“First off, the raft isn’t going to ‘go amuck.’ Secondly, there will be a guide in there with us. You don’t think he’s going to let me drown, do you? He’ll lose his business!”

“He’ll have other people in the boat with him, and he’ll save them first, assuming your father will save you—which he won’t because he’s an inept spaz who couldn’t save a drowning fly from a cup of coffee—and you’ll be left, dead, floating down the river after you hit your head on a rock!”

“Mom, how do you think of these things?”

“They just pop into my head.”

“Well, get it to pop out! That’s not going to happen!”

“How do you know?”

“Because the odds are astronomical!”

“Don’t raise your voice to me, young man!” she screeched.

Her son stared at her in disbelief; he was no longer amused and hate now flashed from his eyes like daggers.

“Oh my God. Now look at what you’ve done. You’ve got me sounding like my mother!”

“Another bitch on wheels,” he muttered under his breath.

“That’s it! Get to your room!”

“My pleasure!” The entire building heard his door slam. How did things get so heated so quickly? They both needed time to cool down. And what she needed was to ram a hot poker up her ex’s butt for putting this maniacal pipe dream in her son’s head. Martin knew damn well she wouldn’t let Craig go on a trip like that. As far as she knew, Martin himself wouldn’t want to go on a trip like that. He was probably having another of his midlife crises, which she could care less about. What did concern her was that he had to throw it out there, knowing their son would want to go, and also knowing she’d be the bad guy by putting her foot down with a resounding no. That son of a bitch.

Trying to distract herself from her ex’s latest manipulative stunt and her son’s formulaic response to his artful maneuver, she moved to the pile of mail and ripped open the top letter with pent-up anger. Not noticing it was from the Internal Revenue Service, she hadn’t expected to read the imposing and alarming words the businesslike letter contained.

“Damnation! I can’t believe it! Why this? Why now? Why me?”

She threw the letter on the table and immediately ran to her room to her trusty computer to fire off an emergency message to her agent.

Sid:

Help! They’re after me! The stinkin’ IRS wants more money! Lots more! What’s up with that? They state that I couldn’t possibly have made so little in the last two years. What do I do about this? They’re saying I owe thousands in back taxes!

And have you sent out the last manuscript I sent you? I know Evette doesn’t want it, but there’s got to be someone out there who does!

—Janine

Her ire spent, she stomped back to the kitchen to grab some ice cream. That would help her mood. “The IRS! Those bloodsuckers. Does it look like I’m rolling in dough?” Some Cherry Garcia was what was needed right now. With chocolate syrup. Lots of chocolate syrup. Grabbing a spoon in anticipation, she opened the freezer to find a huge gaping space where they kept the ice cream. Two half-gallons were gone. Vaporized. The Chunky Monkey and the Phish Food were missing. (Phish Food being Ben & Jerry’s chocolate ice cream with gooey marshmallow, a caramel swirl, and fudge fish. Not, you know, “fish” food—food for fish.)

She shook her head but dared not ask her son if he had eaten them. In his present frame of mind, she winced at the thought of his possible response and figured he must’ve been the one to eat it. Who else would have? Unless her former stalker was back. But she hadn’t heard from him in a while. Perhaps she had another stalker. A new stalker. A violent stalker. The thought scared the heck out of her—worse than this IRS scare.

She thought about her previous stalker situation.

Only she, Janine Ruvacado, would have a stalker who actually broke into their stalkee’s apartment, ate their food, and tried on their good lingerie and shoes. She shook her head and smiled with the memory. Fans. Obviously she couldn’t live with them (if they were obsessed and touched in the head), and, as she was finding out lately, she couldn’t live without them either (if she needed or wanted to make a living).

“How can those leeches at the IRS think I’ve got money flying in? I can barely afford to keep my human-vacuum of a son supplied in Cherry Garcia and Phish Food!” She slammed the freezer shut then pulled it open again. “Just look at that freezer!” There were two icicle-covered lumps that had not been touched since Hoover was president. They were there when she moved in, and Lord only knows what they were. No one ever dared to find out by defrosting the things. If you could pry them out of the frozen tundra to thaw! “I should invite those sons of bitches here and let them look at the opulence I live in! One look at the Taj Mahal I call home, and they’d back off pretty damn fast,” she muttered.

Acid rock came stabbing through the airwaves at a Concord-equivalent level of volume. And her already pounding temples were now pulsing in 4/4 time. “Great.”

She thought she’d heard the phone ring but wasn’t sure. The kitchen phone was LED-less.

“Hello?” she screamed into the phone. “What? I can’t hear you. Hang on a minute.”

She stormed down to Craig’s room, pounded her fists on the door and screamed, “Turn that down! I can’t hear whoever’s on the telephone!”

When the volume was turned down with no other comments coming forth, she stomped back to the kitchen to pick up the extension she had left on the table.

“Hello? I’m sorry. My son…”

“Can’t you control that boy, Janine? Letting him listen to stuff like that will send him right on the road to drugs and alcohol!”

She rolled her eyes heavenward. Thank you, God. This is exactly what I need right now. My mother, Attila the Hun, spouting off childrearing advice with the authority of Dr. Spock. “Mother,” she said softly, taking a deep breath while trying to fight the urge to scream. Will you please be quiet and mind your own business, you insufferable witch! “It’s always a pleasure to hear from you, but Craig will not start drinking and doing drugs by listening to rock music. All the kids listen to this stuff.”

“And they’re all doing drugs! Don’t you read the paper or listen to the news?”

“Yes, Mother, on occasion I read the paper and listen to the news. But you can rest with assurance that Craig’s not doing those things because he listens to heavy metal.”

“Don’t patronize me, Janine. I watch Oprah! And I’ve seen him when he goes out to his druggie concerts with his cronies!”

Cronies? Who refers to preteens as cronies? “He and his friends have fun dressing up when they go to concerts, Mother. That’s all.”

“He wears more makeup than you do! Well, anyone wears more makeup than you do. You really should take more pride in your looks, Janine. You weren’t born with much, but you can remedy that with some makeup. Just ask your son! He’ll show you.”

She took another cleansing breath. It wasn’t working. The urge to scream Will you please be quiet and mind your own business, you insufferable witch! was still upon her. “It’s a little black kohl around his eyes for the funny effect of it, Mother.”

“Well it looks ghastly. And you shouldn’t let him do it. Any caring mother would not let their son go out of the house looking like that.”

Will you please be quiet and mind your own business, you insufferable witch! “Thank you for your support, Mother, but it’s really harmless, and to be honest, I have to choose my fights with him now that he’s a budding teen, and that’s not one fight I want to waste my time or energy on.” She sighed audibly, hoping her mother would get the hint.

“Speaking of wasting your time and energy, Janine, as I was saying, you probably should take your son’s lead and think about wearing a little makeup yourself. You’re not getting any younger, dear, and no offense, but you can use all the help you can get in the looks department. You get your looks from your father’s side you know, not mine.”

Will you please be quiet and mind your own business, you insufferable witch! “Yes, I know, Mother. You’ve been telling me for over forty years now.”

“Which goes to prove my point, dear. You’re getting older and you’re still unattached. And what man in his right mind will want an old, reclusive, irritable woman who doesn’t even attempt to make herself look attractive? Or at least as attractive as she could possibly make herself look—if she’d take some time and do something with her hair and her makeup. You can’t change what God gave you, dear, but there’s certainly enough beauty products and makeup out there that can help you take a shot at fixing what you weren’t born with.”

Janine smiled. This ought to get her. “I cut my hair off a few days ago.”

“What?” The older woman gasped. “Why would you do such a thing? Your hair was one of the only appealing things about you!”

“Why, thank you, Mother. And now I don’t even have that in my favor.”