Best Day Ever

“McDonald’s,” Mia says with that tone of disgust she uses for all things—people and situations—that are below her. Recently, Mia has become a firm anti-GMO, anti-fast-food mom. She was leaning that way before her recent illness, but now she’s militant. I applaud her for the herculean effort it takes to say no to two boys who will, as soon as they are old enough to hang out with friends at malls or go to the movies alone, be the first ones in line at every fast-food restaurant in town, stuffing themselves with all things nonorganic and fried. I also have pointed out, at least once each year as we drive to the lake, the fields as far as the eye can see of Monsanto Roundup Ready corn and soy proudly framing the highway. It’s almost un-Ohioan, Mia’s stance on the issue.

We should embrace what we are, don’t you think? We’re a no-till farming, profracking, pro-GMO, pro-Monsanto state. It’s our heritage, I tell her. Did you know Columbus is a fast-food mecca? It’s true. We are the test market for most major fast-food chains. Us folks are the definition of America. We are the barometers of taste, at least the kind of taste that comes when you can buy an entire “meal” for under a dollar. We’re the hometown of Wendy’s and White Castle and of several others like Rax that have come and gone. Remember Arthur Treacher’s Fish & Chips? Yep, that started in Columbus, too, thanks to Wendy’s Dave Thomas, who made his fortune as a Colonel Sanders Kentucky Fried Chicken franchisee. Makes me hungry just thinking about that battered British fish. Not that I regularly partake in any of these low-class foods myself. When I do it’s just a guilty pleasure. Everyone has his occasional vice.

“Do you want anything?” Mia asks, her hand already opening the door.

“Fries?” I ask, just to get a reaction. It works.

“Honestly, Paul? I meant do you want water or coffee or something. You know how I feel about this so-called food. A poor diet leads to a shorter life, all the studies agree. I’ve been reading a lot about this, remember? I’m trying to get healthy and it wouldn’t kill you to work on that, yourself.” She leans forward and points her finger at me like I’m a child. I feel her eyes on my stomach. I suck in.

The magazine ruffles in the wind from the open door and the blonde female singer on the cover looks as if she’s waving to me. She’s cute, I notice. I reach out and smooth the cover with my hand, touching the cool, glossy paper.

My wife softens her tone. “I’ll get you a water. Hydration is key to health,” she adds and then slams the car door before I can reply. I watch her walk away. From behind, she looks like the same woman I married a decade ago. Her hair still swings halfway down her back. Her butt is small and firm and perfectly toned. She looks very much the same, but she’s not. Not at all. None of us really stay the same, though, do we?

My transformation is more apparent, I realize, as I look down at my middle-aged, small beer belly and sigh. It’s comprised of something called internal fat, I’ve discovered, a fat that appears suddenly, like an army of ghosts, and then digs in to stay. It’s distasteful to think that fat isn’t just sitting in a layer on top of my belly, like I’d imagined, but is actually tucked in beside all of my organs, oozing around them like it’s a part of the whole, not an addition to the top. It’s in the ice cream, it’s not the cherry. Basically, they can’t liposuction it off and they can’t freeze it away. The only way I can shed this thing is through hard work—less food, more exercise.

I plan to tackle this unwanted midsection addition soon. It’s next on my list. I’ll eliminate it as I do anything I set my mind on. It’s just a matter of willpower and mental fortitude. I’ve got those, don’t worry. When I suck in my stomach, as I did for Mia, it doesn’t follow my command, not nearly enough. I’m on it, soon.

Unlike me, in the last six months or so, Mia has really thinned out. She’s shed the baby fat even though I swear she eats more, and more often, than I do. And though she looks fit, she’s also a bit worried about the weight loss. I tell her that’s crazy, most middle-aged women would die to have their weight melting away despite eating anything they like. And she looks good. She took up jogging a year or so ago, but cut back on that. Just doesn’t have the stamina these days. Mostly, she uses the free weights in our basement. Sometimes she’ll still walk around our block, if she has the energy.

Maybe she’s so thin because she stopped eating meat—excuse me, “animal protein.” That could be, but I attribute it more to stress; you know how parenting can take a toll on your intestines sometimes. Worry ties your system up in knots, or so I hear, not being prone to worry myself. They checked for ulcers, but she didn’t have any. Just a mystery, I guess.

She even went to this one doctor who had her hold different vitamins and minerals in her hand, and then pushed on her arm. I mean really? What does that do? Spend your money is what. Mia came home with hundreds of dollars’ worth of herbal treatments. None of it has helped, of course. She’s big on drinking water now, too. Staying hydrated. She tries to drink only from glass bottles. Good luck with that here, honey.

Mia has pulled her hair into a ponytail, I notice. I can see her standing at the counter, placing her order. The other thing I see is the other customers, the men, checking her out. Yes, guys, she still has it, I confirm with a nod to myself while watching them all watch her. She is walking toward the car now, a plastic water bottle in each hand and a big tooth-whitened smile eclipsing her face. She was voted best smile in high school, and it’s still there, that smile. Although it’s bigger now, I suppose. Our gums recede with age, making all of us long of tooth, and Mia especially. But don’t get me wrong, only I would notice such a thing. Her bright blue cotton sweater, blue jeans, and white tennis shoes make her stand apart from the rest of the people going in and out of the McDonald’s parking lot. Everyone else seems more muted, a black, gray and navy composite of people dressed for business, farming or trucking. It’s an eclectic yet monochromatic bunch this morning, except for my wife and her bright blue.

Mia pulls open the car door and slips inside. “Good choice. Cleanish bathroom. Short line. Here’s your water,” she says as she hands me the cold bottle. The plastic is cheap and crackles in my hands. It’s the type of water bottle that will spill out half its contents when I open it, I know it is. The bottle will have a label explaining why this cheap, shitty plastic is better for the environment than any other, more sturdy plastic. I know it’s just cheaper. I also know I should have gotten out of the car to open the bottle. I should have gotten out, just to stretch. Perhaps I should have gotten out of the car and opened the door for my wife. I’ll do that when we stop for gas in a little while. We have all day and she could use a reminder that chivalry is alive and well thanks to Paul Strom.

“So you think Taylor Swift is cute, huh?” Mia asks as I pull out of the McDonald’s parking lot.

“Who?” I ask. I know who the pop starlet is, everyone does. I even like her song, “The Story of Us.” But why would my wife ask such a random question?

“I saw you checking out the cover.” Mia holds up the gossip magazine while tilting her head. Her eyes are shining as if she has caught me drinking milk out of the jug. I love drinking milk out of the jug, but alas, if my wife catches me, it’s that same disappointed, shiny-eyed look I receive. Usually, she adds a hand on the hip, but that’s hard to execute in the front seat of a Ford Flex.

“Why would I check out some magazine when I could be checking out my beautiful wife?” I protest, pushing the accelerator hard to merge back onto the highway. I’m glad they finally finished the fifty-million-dollar project to widen this freeway to three lanes on either side. I slide back into the flow of traffic without a problem. They have spent more than a billion dollars on this road since it opened in the 1960s. What I would do for a billion dollars. Taylor Swift has a billion dollars, I’m sure. “She’s a very talented young woman, but I had no idea that was her on the cover. They all look the same with the makeup and airbrushing and all.”

“You’ve got a point there,” she says. She has opened the magazine on her lap, to a different story now I see. She twists open her bottle of water and, as I could have predicted, spills a fourth of it on the magazine. “Darn it.”

How adorable. Mia’s ban on swearing in front of the boys has resulted in this childlike response from my wife, even though the kids aren’t around. I should tell her to express herself freely in my company.

Before I can think to stop her, she has popped open the glove compartment and she’s rummaging around in it. “I don’t have any napkins in there,” I say quickly. I feel my palms begin to perspire. I check myself in the rearview mirror and notice my forehead is shiny, suddenly damp. It’s so hard to keep secrets these days. People can find out anything, ruin all kinds of plans. Sometimes, all it takes is just opening the wrong door. “Just close that back up. Here...” I know my voice sounds terse but I can’t help it. I reach into the back seat to grab my gray cotton sweater, and toss it into her lap. “Use this.” My voice has returned to its normal tone. That pleases me.

“You’re acting weird,” she says, instead of thanks. I’m going to let it go, though. She doesn’t know I have a surprise hidden in there, part of our special day. I can’t tell her that so I say nothing as she mops up the magazine with my sweater. She could have simply ripped out those two pages. Maybe there is someone important in there. All I see is another guy with a two-day beard, sparkling brown eyes and a thick head of hair. Another Buck look-alike. There really aren’t any men in her magazine that look like me, not now anyway. Actually, that’s not quite true. I could give George Clooney a run for his money, and I’m taller, too. When I was younger, watch out world. I would have been on the cover, you know, Sexiest Man Alive, if I had wanted to be. But I hate all that celebrity garbage, as I told you.

“I’m going to call Claudia. Can I use your phone so it’s on Bluetooth? I want her to have the boys call us after school, just to check in,” Mia says. We have been gone for about an hour so far. This is ridiculous.

“We haven’t been driving for that long. The boys are at school, and I guarantee you they’re having too much fun with their teachers and their little friends to spare us a thought. We can call them this afternoon. We don’t need to talk to Claudia.” Sometimes my wife acts like the kids are still babies in playpens. That bugs me; them, too. They’re big guys, both in elementary school. They’ll be men before we know it. My parents started treating me and my brother, Tom, like grown-ups as soon as we started school. Dad wanted us to toughen up, fend for ourselves, especially me since I was older. Ah, the good old days. Speaking of Tom, I wonder if I should tell Mia that I think Claudia is on drugs, but decide not to rev her up further. “You need to relax, let go a little.” I pat her thigh for reassurance.

I feel her eyes on me. “I know. But the thing is, they’re my life. You encouraged me, begged me, not to work outside the home, so I quit my job at the ad agency, the job I loved, and built my whole world around the kids. They just don’t need me so much now that they’re in school most of the day.” Her voice is quiet, her eyes shiny but this time it’s because they are filling with tears.

“You raised them well. Now it’s time for them to learn independence so they can tackle the world. Boys pulling away from their mommy is natural. It’s how they become young men,” I say. “You still baby them too much. But that’s part of what makes you a great mom, the kind of mom I knew you would be when we first discussed your staying home. Don’t cry, honey.” Honey, such an interesting word to apply to a person. I guess she is dripping, sappy, syrupy, her tears like actual honey drizzling from a spoon. “This is our weekend. The boys are fine.” With their druggie babysitter, I don’t add.

I flash Mia my biggest rectangle grin, adding my signature wink, the account-winning combination. It’s the smile that launched a thousand new accounts for the advertising agency—until it didn’t. I swallow, holding the smile to reassure Mia that this is a joyful day filled with fun. “This isn’t a day for tears,” I tell her softly. I am a kind, loving husband. I understand her pain, I do. “This is our special day, a day for reflection and for being thankful for everything we created. A day to enjoy being together.”

“Of course,” she says, taking a big drink of water from the crinkly plastic bottle. Hypocrite. She reads my mind, a wifely skill I can’t say I’m overly fond of, and says, “They didn’t have any glass bottles, Paul. I need to start grabbing my glass water bottles for road trips. I don’t even know if I have any at the lake.”

“I don’t think you realized the peril of plastic water bottles last season,” I comment mildly, and now she smiles.

“Well, you know I’m right,” she says.

“Every woman’s favorite phrase,” I tease. We’re back to happy ground, I notice. She’s even tapping her right thumb on the bedraggled magazine, keeping time to one of our favorite songs, “Still the One.”

Until.

“So how is Caroline doing? Still flirting with you?”

I take a deep breath and squeeze the steering wheel.

11:00 a.m.

3

I check my expression in the rearview mirror, forcing my face into a blasé look of nonchalance: mouth relaxed, shoulders down. Poker-face Paul. I inhale a deep breath. I’ve got this, I do, but then I feel the heat on my cheeks. I pretend to check the driver’s side mirror.

“Caroline?” I ask, stalling for a moment as a shiny silver frame holding a photo of a smiling young couple thuds into my awareness. I shake my head, erasing it. My brain has enough to do. I must recollect everything I’ve uttered to my wife about Caroline, and the Thompson Payne office in general over the past few months. Then, like for one of Sam’s first grade projects, I must sort what has been said into one pile and what hasn’t been into another. This is an important exercise, best done on my terms, not hers. Too late for that, though.

“Your jaw is twitching,” Mia says.

It’s true. I unclench my jaw, sliding it back and forth. I take a deep breath and force a smile. This is disappointing, her observation of me. My skills are slipping. Not so poker-faced, after all, these days. I glance at my wife, who is smiling, presumably at my discomfort with this topic.

She adds, “So Caroline is still bothering you, huh?”

“No, not anymore,” I say, speaking slowly to find the right words. “She’s young. It’s her first job. She just didn’t know what is appropriate and what isn’t, that’s all.”

“Everyone knows it’s inappropriate to call your boss at home at midnight,” Mia says. “Especially when you’ve been drinking.”

“She was upset, Mia. I explained all of that.” I check the side mirror and pass the stupid green Honda traveling at a snail’s pace in front of us. It’s almost time for the two-lane road, so I need to get this menace far behind me. “Her father died. She didn’t know where else to turn.”

Mia gives me the look that says she doesn’t believe me, still. “So you turned her in to HR, but she’s still working at Thompson Payne?” she asks, her fingers drumming on the car door handle. I maneuver the car back into the right lane.

“We don’t fire people who need help, Mia. That’s why we have human resources. It’s their job to explain policies and help make people better employees.” I feel my eyes narrowing. I do not like this topic. Just the fact that I had to speak of human resources brings an unpleasant event to mind. I shake off the remembered smell of Miracle-Gro and old cat.

Mia isn’t backing off. “And we suggest these people who need help, people like Caroline who we have turned in to HR, to our wives as appropriate babysitters, do we? As part of some employee rehabilitation program?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, honey. We were in a pinch, you and me, remember? And that was ages ago. I’m not sure why you’d bring it up today of all days,” I say. I feel my jaw begin to clench again and rub the back of my neck with my left hand. I’d rather be talking about the strawberry daughters. I feel like I’m being squeezed too hard, and all the air is gone.

“Right,” Mia says. “Best day ever, I know. I’ll drop it. She still bothers me, though.”

“Honey, I never even see her at the office.” This is the absolute truth. I feel my jaw calming down as if someone released the vise around my head, relaxed the grip around my chest. Good old Thompson Payne. I’ve spent an inordinate amount of my life at those gleaming suburban offices. Much of my job has been to make sure everyone looks good to potential clients. Are the women wearing heels and short skirts? Are the guys clean-shaven and friendly, nonthreatening but cool? Advertising agencies are all about the sizzle, all about appearance instead of reality. Making a good first impression. And that’s why yours truly was a perfect fit for director of client services. I am like the man in the top hat at the three-ring circus that is an advertising agency. I am the person running the show, communicating with overbearing clients and the crazy creative team attempting to serve them. Running interference between the staff and the partners who are never satisfied even with our vast successes. Do they think it just runs itself? Without me, everything falls apart, as they have no doubt discovered.

When John Larson left three years ago, an exit I’ll admit I had a hand in, I transitioned into his role with ease. And I learned from his mistake. He had trusted me, made me into his number two. I make sure I never elevate any of the account executives reporting to me. They are all equal in my eyes. In fact, I make certain they feel equally unstable, that their jobs are at risk all the time. That keeps me in control. I don’t have a right-hand man. Don’t need one. Never have. I know what you’re thinking, for a sales guy I sound like a loner. The irony is that I do prefer to be alone, most of the time. People in general, employees in particular, can be more trouble than they’re worth. Just ask good old John.

“Have you heard from John?” Mia asks, reading my mind for the second time today. I mentioned, didn’t I, what I think of that particular talent? I turn to look at her but her face is calm, almost friendly, indicating the topic of Caroline is behind us, for now.

“No, not at all. Why the sudden interest in Thompson Payne, past and present?” We’ve arrived at the turnoff for the two-lane road. Once I exit the highway, I’ll turn left, passing one of the iconic old barns that was painted white for the Ohio bicentennial. I worked on that campaign for the state, back when I was a lowly account executive. It was a good campaign. Full of government-funded perks like fancy meals at the taxpayers’ expense, and a lot of time spent driving around and identifying old barns across the state. Perfect for me. A lot of alone time.

“Oh, well, I actually ran into John recently, at Whole Foods of all places. He’s a vegetarian now and he looks really great. He’s lost the beer belly,” she tells me.

I’m making the turn onto the two-lane road as she says this, and I cannot take my eyes off the road to stare at her. I sense, however, that something is up. The tone of her voice has changed. It’s thin. It’s hiding something. The air sizzles between us. How long ago did she run into John? I wonder. How much did they talk, do they talk?

She adds, “He looks great. Says leaving Thompson Payne was the best thing for him. He started his own advertising agency, did you know that?”

Interesting. His noncompete must be up. He won’t be a real threat to Thompson Payne for years, I know. He’ll start by knocking off the small clients who don’t get serious attention from the big guys like Thompson Payne, and then he’ll work his way up the client food chain. It will be a decade or more before he reclaims his status, flying to New York or LA for commercial shoots. I pity him, poor man.

“Good for him,” I say. I do wish him well, of course. Nice guy, actually. He was simply in the way.

I hear my wife take a deep breath, an annoying sound, but I’m focusing on my barn. We’re passing it now, two red silos behind it, green fields, no doubt Roundup Ready soybean, for as far as you can see behind it. Everything here is as it should be, orderly, symmetrical and productive. A beautiful farm. 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?

11:30 a.m.

4

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.