In Training

by Sharon Mollerus

“Speak, darling!” Jeanine said.

“What do you want me to say?” Oliver asked. “Can’t you do that outside?”

“Don’t worry, the fan’s on.” She blew the rings of smoke straight up and they caught in the unsteady blades.

“How about this new study on the connection between smoking and stroke incidence in women?” Oliver tapped the folded journal by his plate.

“Speak about your day please.”

“These toxins are bonding with the wallpaper.”

“So let’s strip and paint it. I told you I hate these big yellow daisies and the glowing green stems, all happy happy.” Jeanine accused the wall with her pepperoni pizza wedge. “Speak about your day.”

“Pregnant fourteen-year-old placed in foster care. Meth mom has parental rights severed, three sons. Two families rolled off welfare, on the streets in a week. Will that be satisfactory?” She nodded and munched down.

“How about yours then?” he mumbled, with a mouthful of salad with sprouts and sunflower seeds, glazed over with homemade carrot dressing.

“New shepherd, high-strung. Eight to ten weeks in-home training. Three shampoos and cuts. One hit and run, poodle put down, hysterical old lady in the waiting room, wanted reward flyers posted for the speeding red pickup. The usual kid and puppy classes and follow-up newspaper potty-training.” She glugged down her cola.

“How about this?” He tapped the ad in his magazine and sipped his cheerful green sportdrink. “Best way to stop smoking cigarettes now is this patch combined with three sessions a week of peer motivation therapy.”

“I should take up cigars. They haven’t found a cure for that, I hope.”

“Just something to think about before pregnancy, dear.”

“Whose?” They cocked their heads, narrowed their eyes, tapped foreheads and kissed. “You’re a good husband.”

“You’re an awful client.”

“Have you seen my pills?”

“What pills?”

“Rollover, darling,” she said, and he turned his rear off the chair while she patted down his back pockets.

“You suspect me?” he asked, licking her neck.

“I’m going to my trainer’s meeting. Be back at 8. What are your plans tonight?”

“Breastfeeding fathers support group. Back at 7:30.”

“You have another wife somewhere, sweetums?”

“No, just like to be prepared.”

“I know some good neutering services.” He whimpered and laid his chin over his folded arms on the table.

“What about gum? Have you ever tried that?” he asked in bed, with a copy of Social Work News spread out over his covered legs.

“I hate that smacking sound. Why?” She was thumbing through a glossy copy of Cosmo while Oliver was sneaking peeks across her.

“Why? Why?” he tickled her, glancing down at the page with the babe.

“Would you fetch me another glass of water, my little studmuffin?” she stuttered through her guffaws.

“Sure, hotcakes.” He came back from the kitchen with two tall glasses clear and tinkling with ice. She took hers with a kiss and squish of his butt.

“Gin and tonic again,” she squinched her face. “Very nice. The third you’ve slipped me. Isn’t it bad for you?”

“Not for me.”

“You must have something in mind. Lie down, lover boy,” she purred, patting the bed next to her. He dropped his paper to the floor, drank his ice water down and climbed in. He reached for her.

“Aren’t you going to tell me where my pills are?”

“What pills? Do you know what the increased incidence of breast cancer is for women over 30 taking birth control pills and smoking?”

“What women over 30? And you do know what pills. That’s the third bottle you’ve gotten into. What do you do with them?”

“I see how far they’ll roll across the counter, and sometimes they accidentally spin into the sink or even into the toilet when I’m a good shot.”

“Bad boy.”

“Won’t you come to the doctor’s too?” She asked. She was in bed cutting diaper coupons out of the new parent magazine.

“Sorry, not today; I’m not feeling so hot.”

“It helps to eat a soda cracker.” Oliver got up and ran hunched over, in his briefs, to the bathroom, one arm holding his stomach, the other cupped over his lips.

“You know I can’t exercise without motivation, honeybunches. When are you going to do the daddy stretches with me?” Jeanine called over the retching in the bathroom.

Oliver came out walking upright and stood next to her.

“I still think it’s couvades,” she said.

“Roll over, sugarpie, and show me your tummy,” he groaned. She pivoted toward him, and he knelt at the bed and put his ear to her belly button. He heard a rumble and got a kick in the cheek.

“Fetch the paper?” he asked.

“Won't you eat your spinach, babydoll?” Jeanine asks with the little silver spoon of green mash poised over the high chair tray. “Zoom.” She glides the spoon through the air toward the tiny, pouting mouth and backs off the pink barricaded runway.

“Chi-chi doesn't want to,” Oliver said. Cheryl leans her face toward her father and assents with a drumroll, “dadadadada.” She has a curl on the top of her head tied with a pink ribbon and round blue eyes and a very intelligent grin, as her parents both agree.

“Little Cherie want to grow up big and strong?” Mommy asked.

“Chi-chi,” Daddy said for his daughter.

“Cherie. That’s what she calls herself.”

“She calls herself Chi-chi. I think we should respect her choice,” he said. “Your turn to get up tonight.” He yawned. He never heard the answer as he dropped face forward into his pureed spinach.

2005