The Kept Woman Read Free Page B

arrangements for him?"
    Sam swallowed a bite of burrito and felt her heart being swallowed along with it. "I've tried every approach out there," she said, hearing herself default to the sympathy tactic again. "I tried the star chart on the bathroom door, forced him to wear big-boy underwear, gave him a quarter for each successful potty, applauded every time—oh God! Look, Mrs. Brashears, my other two kids did the potty-training thing so naturally, I just don't understand this!"
    "Ms. Monroe—"
    "I even promised him we'd get another dog if he could only—"
    "Bribery will never build a child's independence or encourage creative problem solving, and I certainly don't think adding another dog to the mix will help your family dynamics in any way, shape, or form."
    "Right." Sam took a swig of Diet Pepsi and checked her watch. If she left her two o'clock under the heat lamp too long her foil would fry.
    "And if I may say so, Ms. Monroe, it appears to me that you are having some difficulty being present for your children lately. You might want to consider a more flexible work schedule, perhaps going part-time until—"
    "Until what ? Until my ex-husband surfaces and pays all his back child support?" Sam jumped off the counter and stood in the middle of the salon's little kitchen, staring blankly out the small fogged-up window over the clothes dryer, calling to God or somebody to give her patience enough to survive this phone call—this day—without completely losing it.
    "All I'm suggesting is—"
    "And just an FYI, Mrs. Brashears: I've been up to my butt cheeks in independence and creative problem solving for the last three years! How dare you imply that I'm not taking care of my kids!"
    Sam heard an offended gasp on the other end of the phone. Though it would mean the end of Dakota's private school experience forever, Sam couldn't help herself. It was time for a Montessori smack down.
    "My determination to take good care of my kids is the only reason I've let your ridiculously uppity school hold me hostage for the last six months—it's kept me sane to know Dakota was safe and nurtured while I work. But Wee Ones has more rules and regulations than the IRS!"
    "Ms. Monroe. Really—"
    "I work incredibly hard to keep a roof over Dakota's head, along with the heads of his brother and sister, which makes a total of three heads, unless you count the dog, and that would make four heads! And if you add my own head, we're talking five! Five heads on one hairstylist's salary! Now how's that for family-fuckin'-dynamics ?"
    After a moment of stunned silence, Mrs. Brashears cleared her throat and said, "There are many other Wee Ones mothers in your position, Ms. Monroe, and I can assure you that their three-year-olds have successfully navigated sphincter management."
    " Sphincter management? " Sam burst into laughter. "Oh jeez, I've heard it all now."
    At that moment, the salon's apprentice poked her head into the kitchen and hissed, "Your two o'clock's gonna burst into flames."
    Sam put her hand over the receiver. "Take her out from under the lamp. I'll be right there."
    "You have one week, Ms. Monroe."
    Sam sighed. "Yeah. OK. Look, I'm sorry for saying the 'f-word,' but if you could just give me just a little more—"
    "One week." Mrs. Brashears hung up, and Sam stood in the middle of the salon kitchen, a barely touched chicken burrito clutched in one fist and the cordless phone in the other, and she let the tears flow.
    For two whole minutes, Sam let her shoulders shake and her spine soften, and she cried. Then she hung up the phone, threw away her lunch, blew her nose, and went back into the salon. She strolled through the clary sage-scented rooms color-washed in a Sonoma green, where the sounds of New Age flute and wolf calls floated through Marcia Fishbacher's vision of a southwestern oasis in the heart of downtown Indianapolis. Sam held up her chin, straightened her back, and knew that though everything in her life was falling apart,