Machisma

She did her best but when her step­son Eddy Jr. (he of the dark blue eyes with the mica flecks in them) lost his licence after get­ting a dwi, which meant she had to drive him every­where, and her step­daugh­ter Emily (small-breasted, nar­row, firm — at least for now) got knocked up and quit school so she could “zone in on the fetus” — never mind she had no job or skill or any other sys­tem of sup­port — and her boss made yet another pro­duc­tion change that it fell to her to incor­po­rate and then some­how atone for to every­one else down the entire chain of cor­po­rate com­mand, and her own kid finally got in to see the school-district psy­chol­o­gist, who diag­nosed him with Asperger’s Disorder (as though labelling his total inabil­ity to get along with any­one was going to go any dis­tance toward resolv­ing the prob­lem), which her hus­band between farts and snores on his Barcalounger pointed out was no con­cern of his, she totally lost her grip. She slammed right out the door. Never to return. 

Well, no. That’s not exactly how it happened.

First she gave her employer two weeks’ notice and spent the bal­ance of her tenure doing all the leg­work and paper­work nec­es­sary to replace her­self. At home, she cooked casseroles and put them in the freezer, and stocked the fridge and cup­boards with enough food to sus­tain them until it occurred to Eddy Sr. to get his aunt from Sudbury to come and help — or until he sleep-walked over to Shooters and found him­self another sucker­broad. Then she bought a bus pass and put it in an enve­lope for Eddy Jr., along with every bus sched­ule he might need no mat­ter where he hap­pened to find work, plus a note explain­ing the trans­fers he’d have to make if he went to his girlfriend’s place. She stuffed another enve­lope for Emily with the pam­phlets about pre­na­tal health she’d col­lected on her noon hours, and a print­out of a list of links to sites for gov­ern­ment sup­port and even abor­tion coun­selling in case it should come to that. Then she bought a book about Asperger’s and packed it into Billy’s suit­case along with Billy’s clean and neatly folded clothes, and she handed them to his father on a Saturday morn­ing when, per­haps due to the court order she’d finally got her lawyer to threaten to ini­ti­ate, he showed up for a sched­uled week­end for the first time in six months — pass­ing over the suit­case with one hand and the scream­ing kick­ing skin­ful of their com­min­gled genes with the other. After that, and a great long sob in the bed­room — which only four years ear­lier she’d dec­o­rated in chintz and bam­boo with such faith in new begin­nings — she showed them all what she was made of and she slammed right out the door. Never to return.