Time Out by Cathy Eaton

A brand new year! I partied hard with my girlfriends on New Year’s Eve. We had toasted my success. We had toasted the guaranteed publication of my novel. We had toasted my new life. But forty-seven was way too old to be drinking and dancing and drinking some more ‘til dawn’s dreary trumpet call. In the morning the mirror had blurred the truth as it reflected my bloodshot eyes, fewer than normal crow’s feet around my mouth, my shoulder length wavy gray hair – more tangle than style, and the extra 30 pounds I had intended to lose for the last decade. I was putting that way of life behind me for a while. I was taking time out.

The next morning my head was holding its own little party with a bunch of tiny elves setting up a carpentry shop. Some were sawing right through my cranium while others were pounding nails straight into my temple. No more drinking, excessive drinking that is. I was on a mission!

But there was no way I planned to start acting like a nun and foregoing life’s little pleasures. I definitely wouldn’t be cutting out a glass or two of wine over dinner, and I’d be seeing the girls for our Friday nights out. I just needed to set my curfew a little earlier.

A sabbatical!!! Well almost a sabbatical. At least I had the semester off. There was just the minor matter of not getting paid for six months of not teaching. But hey, Salem Middle School was holding my job for me when I returned. The literary warrior! The published author! About the money or lack thereof to be more precise, it shouldn’t be a big deal. I’d quit my health club, promised myself not to buy any new clothes until the fall, and cancelled my car insurance. After all, I’d never had an accident in my entire life. I had saved enough money for mortgage payments, groceries, utilities, and house insurance on our three bedroom split-level with a couple hundred a month left over. And besides, what are credit cards for if not to provide for the little extras in life.

I was an artist now. I didn’t need money. I could live on inspiration, sweat (I did know that writing was hard work) and fresh air. I planned to do tons of healthy and cost-free walking. My body would be fit and would become the temple that provided the energy boost for exercising my creative muse.

I realize I have forgotten to mention my son, Sam, who’s six inches taller than my five foot seven and a measly 30 pounds heavier. He totally understood how I needed the time and space to write my novel, to make my dream of publishing happen. We had talked about it for several months and agreed we could live frugally for the time it took me to finish the book.

You need to realize that Sam was seventeen, played sports, and was madly in love with a terrific girl. Since he had a job, he’d be able to pick up all his expenses and even have some left over to contribute to our household costs. Sports would keep him too tired to get in any trouble, and Sherri would occupy the rest of his free time. How fortunate her parents were Baptists. No need to worry about the sex stuff.

Teenagers love their independence, so I expected I would barely see him. I planned for us to have a couple of healthy meals together every week. For the short term, we’d become vegetarians and shop at Sam’s Club to cut down on the grocery bills. He had mentioned that he needed to learn how to cook for when he’s out on his own, so I figured I would cook two dinners a week and he offered to cook another two. That’s when we would be spending our quality time together. My son would not be neglected. I would not be stunting his growth by ignoring him; instead I would be contributing to his growing up by giving him space and responsibility.

As you can see, I was not going into this sabbatical blind. I had everything covered. What could go wrong?

I had a contract for my book, and I’d already punched out 10 of the 30 chapters. I did all that writing when I had no life: teaching six classes to pimply faced, hormone-run-a-muck middle-schoolers during the day and waitressing for their snotty but very rich parents at night. Hence the extra money I’d saved. I figured I had nearly two interrupted weeks to pour into each chapter. I really had no other responsibilities to worry about. House cleaning could take a backburner. Neither Sam nor I were slobs anyway. I’d do laundry twice a month on the Sundays when my son and I did our special brunches together. That had been a tradition ever since his dad, Frank, waltzed out of our lives four years ago to join forces with a Hawaiian hula lady – well actually a stewardess based in Honolulu.

My heart was broken – irreparably for four months – until I discovered that writing was much more fulfilling than listening to Frank gripe about his engineering job and lousy commute to Boston. Hanging out and laughing with my divorced girlfriends while we learned to line dance and took karate classes was much more fun than dressing up and dining out with Frank’s stuffy friends. They split the evenings between bitching about how hard they worked and bragging about how much money they made.

In the first six weeks chapters poured out of me. My confidence in my writing prowess was unshakeable. The first hitch didn’t happen until 45 days into my writing marathon. Valentine is the time for love, so Sam sprung his surprise on February 14^th. He counted on me falling for big brown eyes, soft strokable hair, and an uncontrollable wagging tail. He convinced me – I am tempted to say conned me – to keep one of the adorable Golden Retriever puppies from the litter of six that Sherri’s family dog birthed. Let’s hope that Baptists don’t take their sexual cues from their pets. It was an unplanned adoption, but I couldn’t resist. I had three more chapters banged out, and my editor was raving about the dastardly deeds my Scottish clansman was devising to keep the dreaded English from stealing any more land.

Sam, having turned eighteen the week before, had been promoted from busser to waiter. He assured me that the extra tips would easily pay for Hector’s (named after my Scottish hero) puppy food, shots, leash, bowl, and toys. I thought I’d be happy to have the company of the puppy, and I was convinced Hector would be my incentive to start the walking I had so far avoided. New Hampshire snow, ice, slush, and mush had discouraged any walking during my first six weeks of writing. Hence the extra five pounds.

I did love stepping out with Hector for several brisk 20-minute walks each day. The frigid wind slapping my face and nipping (how cliché!) my toes, ankles, legs, and chest translated itself into descriptive winter scenes that the Scottish rebels had to endure. What I didn’t love was being Hector’s constant companion. The day he chewed my computer cords was the day I banished him to the kitchen from the dining room that I had converted into my study. Driving to three different stores to replace the frayed cords made me lose an entire day of writing. I put up a baby gate to keep him confined, away from my writing sanctuary: floor to ceiling books in orange crates, card tables to spread out my copious research notes, and a four-year-old computer made up of generic components. His whimpering and sharp, high-pitched puppy barks wore at my nerves. Each time he chewed through part of the plastic webbing, I wove stronger webbing with wire coat hangers that I straightened out and wrapped across partitions on the baby gate.

It’ll come as no surprise how I delighted in getting out of the house on Tuesdays and Thursdays and found quiet and inspiration at the Highland Archives in the Mackenzie Wing at the Harvard University Library. How I loved being transported to 18^th century Scotland, its political upheavals, its barren landscape, harsh weather, and the traditions and costumes of its warring clans. Historical accuracy is one of my passions.

The third Thursday in March was the Thursday that Hector used his sharp little toe nails to rip up part of the kitchen linoleum. His razor puppy teeth chewed a three by three foot section into shreds. Sam and I shut Hector in the bathroom while we tried to repair the damage. We spent two and a half torturous hours that night attempting to glue back the pieces. Imagine rubbery puzzle pieces that are curled at the edges from slippery puppy mouth.

Having no more time or patience to devote to Hector’s mischief, I covered the mutilated gap in the linoleum with a hooked rug my grandmother had made in the fifties. A new kitchen floor wasn’t in our budget. It was clear that we had to figure out a solution for a puppy that was driving me crazy and interfering with my writing. Did I mention the gnawed chairs and window sills? Sam and I couldn’t agree. The argument lasted less than ten minutes, but the 20-hour headache it precipitated lost me two days of writing.

“I expect you to buy a fence for the backyard,” I began in my most reasonable manner.

“No.” Sam’s succinctness, inherited from his engineer father, wasn’t going to cut it.

“I expect you to pay for a fence and put it up,” I continued, being firm and specific.

“A fence is not in my budget.” He raked his fingers through his spiked black hair as he unrolled his lanky frame from the kitchen barstool and stepped over the baby gate.

“Come back here,” I yelped in a less than civilized manner.

“Mom, I’ve got homework to do,” he stated without an ounce of barbarianism in his voice as he grabbed his backpack and headed down the hallway to his bedroom. For a moment I stared at his Scoopy-Doo boxers, riding three inches higher than his low-slung cargo pants.

“Get your butt back in here before I flail you alive.” My threat drew him back, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth.

“Having trouble separating your Scottish rhetoric from our lives, Mom?” he quipped as he took out a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator and gulped a few draughts from its spout.

I ignored his bad manners and in a firm, no nonsense tone explained, “Sam, you promised you would pay for the puppy’s expenses.”

“Mom, I’ve got expenses, too. In the next month I’ll be forking out money for the yearbook, my baseball cleats and a new glove. Some of my shorts are too grubby to wear and will have to be replaced. I have to buy some button-down shirts and a few ties to wear on game days. And the prom, well that’s a killer. Tickets, tux, limo, corsage and dinner – a quick $350. You can look after Hector in the house. It won’t kill you.”

“A promise is a promise.” I could be succinct, too.

“Mom, I leave for school at 6:30 on the bus with all the pathetic freshman and sophomores, run three miles before baseball, work 22 hours a week at a smoke-filled restaurant, getting home past midnight three nights a week, and I’m keeping up my B average.”

“Your point?”

“Look at your life. You sleep in, type up a couple pages a day, take several strolls with Hector, and twice a week you go to Cambridge and drool over designs on hilts of ancient swords while you are looking up two-hundred-year-old Scottish weather reports.”

I refused to be suckered into feeling any guilt. He had no idea the tiring gymnastics my mind performed to create dynamic characters and thrilling plot twists. “You can tap into your savings for the fence.”

“Actually, I’m going to use my savings to put a down payment on a car.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I refuse to bum rides from my friends anymore to get home from baseball and to go to work. You promised, if you remember, I would be able to use your car most of the time since you were going to be very, very busy working on your great masterpiece.”

I cringed and began cleaning the surface of the stove, which was stained with bubbled-over-gravy for instant mashed potatoes and the splattering of fried egg lunches. It’s true I had promised he could have the car most of the time. But Tuesdays and Thursdays I was in Cambridge, and Fridays and Saturdays I was out with the girls. “All right, you can get a car if you can swing the payments and pay the insurance. I’ll buy the fence.”

Sam’s jaw coming unhinged and the bear hug he gave me almost erased the worries I had about my son affording a car and more importantly keeping it and himself in one piece while he zipped around in his new vehicle.

I bought the fence, and Sam helped me pound in the metal posts and string the chicken wire around the yard. I was so proud that I found it at a yard sale instead of going to Home Depot or something. Sam kept his mouth shut and bit his lip when I confessed that I had paid $50 more than the lady was asking because I felt sorry that she had to move to Alabama to take care of her sick uncle. Our puppy, gaining muscles but lacking coordination, loved being out in the fenced-in yard, and I didn’t care about the holes he dug. Caring for the lawn could be postponed until next year. When Hector barked at all the squirrels and chipmunks that raced up and down trees in their romantic spring frenzy, I tuned him out by listening to bagpipe music on my headphones while I typed away at the siege scene.

April was a productive month. Five chapters flowed out of my fingertips, developing a fiery romance (unlike anything I had ever experienced or would run into in my lifetime) between a black-haired Scottish lass named Pamela and Hector as he rose in the ranks of the militia. Too bad Hector didn’t guess that she was a Fergusson on her mother’s side, so he never realized she was conveying secrets to her clan leader. I finished the village massacre scene. Enough blood and hacked up limbs to give Brave Heart a run for its money. Now I had to figure out how Hector could escape the damp cell in which Pamela’s treachery had trapped him.

Sam bought a green ’91 Toyota Corolla. His baseball team won nine games in a row. Although I never managed to see any of the games or his shortstop saves, I had appropriately ooohhhhhhhed and ahhhhhhed over his blow-by-blow reports of the endless double and triple plays he bragged about.

I didn’t expect the knock on the door on Mother’s Day. Sam and Sherri had left an hour earlier to drive to Worcester for Sherry’s family reunion. When I saw the blue uniform, the straight posture, and the deep frown on the officer’s face, visions of a crumpled green sedan, my bloodied son being lifted to a stretcher, and Sherri’s pale body on the side of the road, paralyzed me. My knuckles gripped the screen handle, and I couldn’t make myself push open the door. The policeman eased open the door, slipped his arm around me as he guided me into the kitchen and poured me two glasses of water before I could hear what he was saying.

Nothing was wrong with Sam or Sherri. No terrible car accident. Instead, my neighbors had joined together and filed a complaint! How dare they! The officer explained that Hector’s barking had become a neighborhood nuisance. My choices: keep him inside and quiet, put a muzzle on him, get rid of him, or take him to dog training school. As I looked out to see Hector chomping on a plastic patio chair and took note of the pock-marked yard and mounds of dirt everywhere, and as I glanced down at the piles of dog hair in every corner of the kitchen, getting rid of him seemed my best option. However, it’s an unwritten law in our household that you cannot sell or giveaway children or pets, no matter how tiresome they get.

Puppy parenting. How I resented it! Some days I wanted to boot Hector off a high bridge. Two hours, plus the half hour drive each way, on Monday and Wednesday mornings were now set aside for dog training school. Dog training progressed at a steady pace, but writing slowed to a standstill. Inspired words on the page had taken a backseat to Come! Sit! Quiet! Lie Down! Every couple pages I printed out to read over, I crumpled up, until I could probably have filled a dumpster.

At the end of May, Sam announced that he and Sherri and 20 of their nearest and dearest friends were going to camp out at a nifty park after the prom. Bonfires, blasting music, and a 1 AM cookout were on the night’s agenda while canoeing and hiking were planned for the following day.

“Drinking, drugs, and being busted,” was my snappy comeback.

Sam raised his eyebrows and squinted his eyes as he cocked his head. “We’ll be careful.”

“You’re having the after prom party here,” I insisted.

Sam smiled. “Wish I could help you clean,” he remarked, “but you do remember that our baseball team will be in Vermont for the New England Finals.”

I remembered. Sam and I had each coughed up $100 for the motel room, food, and transportation. I bit my tongue so I wouldn’t blurt out. ‘You tricked me. A prom party wasn’t part of the plan.” How I resented losing more writing days because of the need to clean our neglected house.

That’s when the miracle happened. A charming guy called the next morning and explained how my name had been randomly picked out of the phone book. I was the fortunate winner of free carpet cleaning in three rooms. All I had to do was watch his demonstration. How lucky could I be? Someone else was cleaning half my house, and it was being done for free. I set aside 30 minutes to watch his demonstration and then planned to spend the rest of the morning revising Hector’s clever escape scene in which he disguised himself as a blacksmith assistant.

Instead, the demonstration took two hours on the first carpet. The arrogant salesman kept announcing how amazed he was that one carpet could be so filthy. I made up my mind to make him the model for Pamela’s sleazy uncle in my novel. Rats would be gnawing on his curled mustache and expensive cufflinks before I was through with him. But to my horror I put $1400 on my credit card to purchase a Kirby vacuum and carpet cleaning machine. I didn’t buy into the guy’s line about how he was saving to go to college so he could become a teacher. I knew he had read the little information card I had filled out that included my occupation. What got to me was his description of how this Kirby machine sucked up any disease-carrying dust mites that could get lodged in our lungs. Did I want to endanger my son’s athletic career? No, I didn’t. I bought the damn machine and spent the next two days cleaning every floor, carpet, and piece of furniture.

More days of not writing were to come. The next two were occupied with filling in the holes in the yard, so the kids during the after-prom party wouldn’t trip when they gathered outside. I figured they could build a bonfire if we kept it away from any trees. I even planted red geraniums and purple and yellow petunias in a few window boxes to brighten up the yard.

Meanwhile, my poor Hector lad was still stuck in a tunnel between the manor and the horse barn. Even I knew that finding a tunnel hidden beneath a floor slab in his cell was way too convenient.

On Friday night, a giant boom, like one of the cannon shots that had scattered Hector’s comrades, scared the shit out of me. I was sitting on the toilet when a huge crash shook the house. I pulled up my pants without wiping and raced out the front door expecting the house to tumble down around me. Instead, Sam’s bright green Toyota had rammed into my blue Saturn, which was scrunched like an accordion between his car and the caved-in garage door.

Sam stumbled out of his car and collapsed on the driveway. How could have I cancelled my car insurance? We were screwed. I shook myself. I had to see if Sam was all right. Later would be time enough to yell at him. I rushed over to him and knelt by his side. Beer fumes washed over me. The little jerk was drunk. How dare he? I took a deep breath, ready to lay into him about how he had destroyed my trust in him. I was ready to cancel the prom and ground him for life.

Tears gushed out of him. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it. I wrecked both our cars and the garage. I don’t deserve to have a car. I’m so sorry. Oh god, Mom, can you ever forgive me?” I cradled his body and rocked him, as I hadn’t done in years. “We lost 11-2. I struck out every time at bat.”

“I should have been at the game, Sammy!”

“No, Mom. I don’t want you to see me as a loser. You have important work to do. I can’t believe how they creamed us. The game was a disaster.” Sammy groaned and looked green. I wondered if he was about to vomit. Instead more words spilled out. “Our pitcher walked a zillion hitters. Lance was just a basket case. That’s why I split a six-pack with him. Mom, I couldn’t let him drown his sorrows by himself. He needed me,” Sammy hiccupped through his tears.

I crooned in his ear, “It’s all right. Everything’s all right. Don’t worry. Everything will be fine.” Why do moms claim they can make everything better?

The next morning we had both our cars towed to Jack’s Garage. The dent in our finances was going to be huge. So much for sticking to our budget. Repairing my uninsured car, paying Sam’s deductible, and fixing the garage door would easily top $6000.

Later than afternoon, Sherri picked up Sam so they could go out to dinner before the prom. She looked adorable, her blond hair in ringlets and her pale pink dress with the low back sculpting her petite figure. I took pictures. Sam with his cropped black hair and dark eye brows looked like a funeral director, whose permanent mournful expression couldn’t be erased. Six couples came over after the prom party, but they all left by 2 AM. Sam just moped around. At one point I had to drag him out of the garage where he was hammering nails, trying to fix the split frame of the garage door.

On Sunday morning, Sam came into my bedroom and sat on the edge of my bed. “I’ve got it all figured out,” he announced. “As soon as I get my car fixed, I’ll sell it. That’ll be $2000. I thought about quitting school, but I know that’s stupid. The semester ends in three weeks. So I’ll up my hours at the restaurant now, and this summer I’ll get a second job. I’m sure we can get a refund for baseball camp. That’s another $400.” He patted my hand. “I promise you, Mom, that I will pay for everything, and you can finish writing your book. That’s what’s important. You have to fulfill your dream.”

Maybe I should have let him sell his car and give up his summer. After all, teens should take responsibility for their actions. Instead, I called up my principal and took the job teaching summer school that she had been pestering me about for several weeks. Sam wouldn’t let me start waitressing again. I wrote every evening from 6 until 11. My dry spell went away. I couldn’t afford to have writer’s block. Sam did take a second job and skipped baseball camp. But we decided he needed a car. We both had a life to live.

My sabbatical is over. My book is at the publisher’s. I’m not expecting huge royalties unless Mel Gibson wants to buy the movie rights to the book and don the sexy kilt again to have another go at a Scottish epic. Fall semester has started, and my evenings are filled with correcting a zillion uninspired essays and boring grammar exercises. I’m not doing my waitress thing, and I haven’t missed one of Sam’s soccer games. But while I was sitting in the stands last night cheering on his team, which hasn’t won a game yet, I took out my steno book and scribbled down the description of the scullery maid, who stows away on the ship Paris uses when he kidnaps Helen and starts the Trojan War.