Best Day Ever. Kaira Rouda Sturdivant
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Perfection through pesticides and genetic modification. If only people were so easily controlled. Mia is droning on about John.
“After we ran into each other, he invited me to tour his agency. He even asked if I’d consider doing some project work for him, you know, copywriting and some press releases. Just something part-time since, as you said, the boys are in school all day and don’t really need me anymore. Or as much, I should say.”
This road is dangerous. I need to use my full attention to navigate. She knows this, and that’s why she dropped this bomb during this stretch of the drive. I glance over and see her hands clasped tightly together in her lap, her ring sparkling like the edge of a knife when the light hits it just right. I have been holding my breath, I realize, and I let it out with a sigh.
Mia cannot get back into the advertising business—now is not the time. “No, that won’t work,” I say. I know my tone is firm, my voice deep and powerful. My stage voice, that’s what I think of it as. When I was young, in high school, I loved performing in the school plays. Mrs. Belt, my drama teacher, said I had serious acting chops; she thought I would be a star someday. I guess I could have been. I had the looks, the talent. The road not taken, I suppose. “The kids do need you, honey. They’re just acting as if they don’t.”
“I’ve decided I’m going to take him up on his offer. I’ll work from home while the boys are at school,” she says. Defiance is making her voice shake. “I need to exercise my brain again. I almost didn’t tell you, but we’re having such a nice drive, and it’s a beautiful day. It seemed like the perfect moment. Don’t let this bother you, okay?”
I don’t say a word, a silent protest. Inside I feel heat, a flame igniting. We cannot ever predict what our supposed partner is really up to, can we? Even the best of plans can be ruined. That is why I must stay nimble, attempt flexibility. Not my strong suit. I’ll remain calm and later I’ll squash this foolish notion of Mia’s like a cockroach. I’m sure she doesn’t really mean this, that’s why her voice shakes. She’s in unfamiliar territory. This boldness is not like her. And I don’t like it, not at all.
My wife clears her throat, and says, “John told me there’s so much change in the advertising industry in town. He’s heard all kinds of crazy things.”
She pats my leg then and I almost jump. A chill runs through me and I grip the wheel. This is a challenge, I know it, but how and when did Mia become so confident? Where did she come from, this new Mia? And what, exactly, does she know?
Mia’s phone rings and she takes the call. From her end of the conversation, I know it is Claudia. They are talking weekend plans for the boys, I am sure. I tune her out and I take a moment to breathe.
If she already knows the truth, then why isn’t she just coming out and asking me about it, demanding the information? This new, confident Mia certainly seems like she would just blurt it out. This is a surprising development, a stronger Mia. This is not my typical Mia—I know my wife. Therefore, she’s poking around the edges of things she doesn’t quite understand, things John Larson couldn’t possibly know about. She must have a few facts, and they’ve emboldened her. They know nothing. My wife knows what I tell her, nothing more. I take a deep breath and remind myself to relax. Everything is fine. John Larson will not be able to turn my wife against me, no matter how much he dislikes me.
To be fair, John has every reason to hold a grudge. I’ll admit it now. I set him up for his fall. He was once my mentor at the advertising agency, as I explained. He hired me during one of the most trying times of my life, when I’d just arrived back in town from Nashville. He believed in me, all those years ago. And I respected him, too. He was also the one who introduced me to Mia.
I smile at the memory of our first meeting, Mia Pilmer sitting at the glass-topped conference room table, her blond hair shining, her eyes bright and smart. Her long legs accentuated by a tight short black skirt. You could appreciate everything through that glass top, and there was a lot to appreciate with Mia back then. John had told me Mia was the best copywriter on the creative team, surprisingly one of the best he’d ever read, even though she was just out of college and so very young. Eventual creative director and perhaps even partner material, he had said. Thompson Payne and Pilmer it would be someday, John predicted. She was a product of New York University, at least a decade my junior, and from a wealthy New York City family. She was smart, beautiful, pure. The minute I took the chair next to hers, accidentally on purpose bumping my thigh against her leg under the conference table, I knew she was the one. I could feel the electricity zipping between us, drawing us together for all time.
Mia felt the physical attraction, too. I saw her blush as she shyly turned away from me at the conference table. Her mind, on the other hand, took some convincing. It was a sales job, one might say.
John, though, he and I hit it off right from the start. I guess the problem was simply this: at some point, we both knew I was the right man for his job. But he wasn’t going anywhere. The partners weren’t going to make him a partner, there would be no & Larson stenciled on the glass wall, they told him. So he was stuck, poor John. Eventually, I needed to help him move on. I was happy to be of service.
“Claudia says the credit card doesn’t work,” Mia says now, shaking her head at me and covering the phone. “What is she supposed to use to buy groceries? She had to leave the bags at the customer service desk at Kroger. Told them she’d be back to pay. This is embarrassing, Paul.”
“Just tell her to use her credit card and I’ll pay her when we get back,” I say. I am a logical problem solver.
“Paul, she’s a college student. We can’t ask her to do that.” The muscles on the side of her neck are taut, like rubber bands about to snap. I am wearing my calm, reasonable poker face again. Of course I knew the card wouldn’t work, but Mia is understandably surprised. I hope she keeps her head on. I cannot stand it when Mia starts whining and worrying. It’s beneath her, beneath us.
“When we get to the lake, I’ll transfer money to the card. It will work by this afternoon. Okay?” It is my turn to pat her leg. She ignores the gesture and conveys the message to the overtired Claudia. I watch as she presses End on her phone with an overt display of melodramatic disgust. Really? She’s acting like a child. It’s only groceries. Big deal. It’s not like the boys will starve. Our pantry is full of perfectly fine food. We have frozen organic macaroni and cheese lining the freezer. This is ridiculous. Neither the boys nor Mia understand what it feels like to be hungry, to be deprived: to open the door to an empty refrigerator, an empty pantry. So what if they don’t have their first choice of snacks for the weekend?
“Paul, honestly. That’s the only thing I asked you to do to get ready for the whole weekend. Leave enough cash, or enough credit at least, for the weekend. This is unacceptable,” she says. She is rubbing the back of her neck, trying to loosen the rubber bands, I presume. I imagine her shoulders knotted with worry. It’s sad, really, how the little things can get to her so easily. It’s not uncommon lately. She’s filled with anxiety these days, it seems. She’s worried about the boys, about her health, the gutters getting cleaned, the recycling being taken out, about, well everything. Wouldn’t it be ironic if all this worry is the cause of the weight loss? I’ve told her that’s my theory.
Nothing I can say will make the situation better, so instead I turn up the music as Amy Winehouse belts out “You Know I’m No Good.” I love this song, this whole playlist, and I know Mia does, too. Next up, Dinah Washington’s “Cold, Cold Heart.”
“Can we switch to the radio?” Mia asks. And then before I can answer, a static-ridden local station bursts into my ears, a country crooner hurting my psyche. No matter how often I explain to Mia that jazz is the highest musical form and country the lowest, still she tortures me.
The hairs on the back of my