Is anyone still following Greener Grass? Helloooo? It's been a long time since I've posted an installment and I apologize for my distraction. If you've never read this before and would like to, you can find the first part of the story in my right sidebar under I Like To Write.
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Dave was worried Megan wouldn't show up the next morning and he'd be forced to work from home with Eli, Joshua and Caitlyn bugging him for glasses of lemonade and snacks and games. But Megan came at her normal time with coloring books and new crayons for the kids.
She set them up at the kitchen table, smiling shyly at Dave, as she always did.
As he backed his car out of the garage, he thought how odd it was, first of all, that he'd made out with a teenager who was his kids' babysitter, that she was acting like it had never transpired, and that this had become their routine. Leaving his children with her while Tamara galavanted around the country (outside of the country?) and he had to keep slogging to work day in and day out.
No one would get it if he took leave because his wife had disappeared. And as much as he hated the pump station, he knew that focusing on it was good for him, kept him from sitting home and dwelling on Tamara's whereabouts.
And, holy hell, Where was she and why hadn't she called in three days and was this going to be his life forever? Counting on a babysitter to raise his kids? If he kept up with this lustful shit, he wouldn't even have her anymore. It couldn't, after all, end well with Megan. Dave knew that.
A couple miles from his office building he had to pull over in a narrow alley behind a dry cleaner and a sandwich shop. He had to pull over because he was shaking and feeling ridiculously sorry for himself. He had to pull over because he feared he might vomit into his lap.
He leaned his seat back and gulped in giant breaths of gray city air. He eyed the fire escapes and reeking dumpsters but didn't see them.
When he got to work, he tried to slip into his office without rousing anyone's attention. Theresa noticed him, though, and said, "Good morning, boss." He thought she'd spiked her voice with sarcasm, that Megan had told her mom what happened.
He may as well find out what he was dealing with right then, he decided. "Hey, Theresa," he said.
She was unwrapping a Tootsie roll. He saw ebay up on her computer monitor. A pile of untouched folders sat on her desk, files he'd asked her to consolidate.
"How's home?" she asked.
He switched his briefcase from one hand to the other. "A little...unsettled." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Messed up." He hoped Theresa would see the anguish in his eyes and cut him some slack for kissing her daughter.
But her face was it's usual passive self, her mind distracted by online auctions. "Gosh, I'm sorry about that, Dave. Here, I brought this in for you." From under her desk, she pulled a still warm casserole dish. "It's only baked macaroni and cheese. But it'll help you and the kids get through another dinner."
"Wow, Theresa. Thanks."
She waved him away. "Believe me, it's not much."
He took the casserole dish into his office and set it on top of a filing cabinet. He could smell it, the hot, bubbly cheese, and wanted to dig right in. It sure beat the fish sticks and french fries he'd been throwing together.
He sat down, turned on his computer and mentally prepared himself to work on the pump station. All he really wanted to do was park it at home and watch Megan wrangle the kids, to talk Tamara into coming home, to reclaim his old bike, the '88 Harley he'd sold soon after Caitlyn was born, and tear around Wisconsin countryside, smelling the sweet hay and the manure and the tractor-trailer exhaust.
"Ok, dammit, pump station, pump station, pump station," he massaged his temples and thought about how Tamara used to do that for him–rub his head with her fingertips–to ward off impending headaches. When had she stopped? He couldn't remember. But that sweet little habit of hers had tapered to nothing, to critical sidelong glances and snipes about how he picked up non-organic milk from the Pick'n Save.
Just then, his phone line bleated. He waited for Theresa to get it. When she didn't, he glanced at Caller ID and saw that the call came from his home number, and snatched up the receiver.
"Sorry to bug you at work," Megan said. If her voice hinted at the slightest acknowledgment of their kiss or held any glimmer of seduction, he would've sat back in his seat and grinned, ready to flirt, anything to put off the fucking pump station.
But her words came quickly and frantically as she said, "It's Joshua. He fell off the play structure and he's, like, really hurt."
"What do you mean, really hurt? Won't he stop crying?"
"He's not crying," she said. "He won't even wake up."
