November 1980 – Fairfield, CT
"Why are you doing this?"
"Because even with the increased travel fare, the money this could save my budget would buy a shit ton of equipment. I have to see if it's legitimate." He took the folded sweatshirt out of her hands, rolled it, and shoved it in his giant, canvas duffel.
"Doesn't it mean anything to you that it's his birthday?"
Michael rolled his eyes, and used all his effort to yank the bag's industrial zipper closed. "He's three, Angela. He won't even remember. But I'll remember if I passed up this opportunity to watch a bunch of preschoolers pin the tail on a donkey," he said with a grunt.
Angela kneaded her temples with her fingertips. "You know, I understand if our jobs get in the way of a lot of things. They have, they do, and they will. But this is our child. Do you really want him growing up thinking you don't care?"
He cocked his head at her, "Why is it different for him?"
The space between her brows crinkled as an unwelcome realization started to come, but he broke her concentration.
"Look, Angela. We have to do what we have to do. This is what works for me. I'm not trying to hurt Jonathan." He put his hands out, placating, and spoke softer. "I'll make sure he knows I love him. But there's no reason to throw away a chance like this for mere tradition. He won't remember this, but I will."
So will I. "So, you're doing this because you resent me working, and you're just, like, 'fuck it'?"
"I'm doing this because I'd be an idiot not to. The leeway it will provide my budget more than makes up for your tantrum." He stepped passed her.
She spun around to confront him. "My tantrum? If I have a problem with something you're doing, it's because I have a problem? How else am I supposed to bring it up?"
He turned back to her at their open bedroom door. "How about proportionately? How about looking at the whole situation, instead of being pigeonholed into my supposed deviance? This isn't the end of the world."
"What if Jonathan has a problem with it?"
"He won't."
"Shouldn't you have a problem with that?"
"What?"
"Shouldn't you be bothered if he doesn't care that you're not there?"
He thought a minute, then tipped his head. "Yes. But only because you're raising our son to believe that certain days are more important than others. Kid parties are for the parents. How does that benefit a child? One day a year, we act like he's the King of Siam, then the next day, we're telling him he has to eat peas. It's asinine."
Angela's confusion twisted her whole face. "What?"
Sighing, Michael shook his head, and walked back up to her. Putting his hands on her upper arms, he rubbed them a little and spoke softly. "Look, honey. I think we've been going about this the wrong way. We're mad all the time because we keep expecting something from each other, and we aren't willing to give it."
Suddenly, Angela felt like the morning after with Brian. Wait- What?
"Let's just do what we can do, okay?" Michael let his hands slide down her arms. "Trust me. This isn't that big of a deal."
What isn't? The party, or me and Jonathan? She stood there, looking at him, scared and stunned.
"I'll call you from the airport," he said before leaning down to peck her lips. He picked up his suitcase, and walked out.
Angela didn't move. His poison kiss had left her paralyzed with confusion. He wasn't mad; he wasn't bothered. So, did it make sense for her to be? She tried to find her bearings. He seems like everything is fine. So, is it? She was reminded of her earliest misgivings in the desert. I was freaking out, but he knew we were okay. …Maybe he's right - maybe this is just another day to Jonathan. He'll have a nice time, and tell his daddy about it when he can. That makes sense, right?
November 1980 - Fairfield, CT
The phone behind the couch rang, and Angela hurried to answer it. Michael had been gone for two weeks, and she never knew when he'd call.
"Hello?" she rushed, dropping formality, hoping it would be her husband.
"Hi, baby," Michael's voice crackled through the phone. Angela breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a long time anyway, but this was her first experience with him being in Africa, and she didn't know what to expect.
"Hey!" she cooed softly. It's so good to hear his voice. "How are you?"
"Wonderful!"
"Yeah, so the recon is going well? Is this a good guide company to use?"
Michael let out a laugh. "I don't know that I'd call it a company, but I wouldn't want one, either. This guy is perfect. He's taken me to several locations, and I think we'll be able to get all our gear in, too."
Angela breathed easier, just listening to the joy in his voice when he talked. He seems at ease, so I'll be at ease. What other measure did she have? "That's great, honey," she said softly.
"What?"
She spoke louder. "Oh, I was just saying that's great." She would never get used to this static.
"Yeah, it is! Okay, so, I know this wasn't the plan, but he's got some other places he wants to show me. He thinks they're better than what I've already seen, and I've got to check them out. But it's gonna be at least another two weeks."
"Two more weeks? You'll miss Thanksgiving."
"Look, honey, we can order a turkey dinner when I get back, okay? Or we can just wait 'till Christmas. But I can't come all this way and not look into this."
Angela's eyes felt hot and started to sting. Why am I always crying? I hate that! She couldn't think of anything to say. It wouldn't matter what she said.
"Angela?"
"I'm here," she said absently, distantly wondering if that was a lie.
"Look, I've got to go. But I love you. I'll call you when I can. Bye."
Click.
Angela kept staring off into the void in front of her. She was still holding the phone to her ear. What difference does it make?
December 1980 – Wallace & McQuade, NYC
Angela looked up when she heard a knock at her door. "Come in!"
Paxton popped his head in the door. "Angela, I'm going to need you to run the focus group tonight."
Angela's eyes widened. "Oh, Mr. Paxton, I really can't tonight-"
"I'm sorry, Angela. But Joe just went home sick. You're up."
She scooted her chair back, and walked over to the door. "Normally, it would be fine, but my husband is coming back from Rwanda in a couple of hours. I haven't seen him in a month-"
"Angela, look, my hands are tied. You've got the least seniority. I guess if you could get Jim to take it…?" he said with a shrug.
Angela's eyes shut briefly. "Okay," she said quietly.
Paxton nodded, and then let go of the door. It fell into place while she stood looking at the crack. Great.
Angela hung her head for a moment, before lifting it high. She cleared her throat, then walked to Peterson's office and knocked.
"Yep!"
"Jim, hi," Angela took a breath. "Uh, Joe's sick."
Jim smiled at her fiendishly. "I heard."
Okay, so he knows what I want. She took a breath.
"Look, my husband is coming in from Africa. Would you please take the focus group tonight?"
He kept his knowing smile lit. "Ah, so it's been a while - hot and bothered, huh? What's in it for me?"
Angela glared at him. You disgusting troll. She shook her head, and regrouped. "What do you want?"
He stared at her for longer than felt normal. "I don't want to do the turnpike PSAs – any of it. Layouts, budgets, approvals. Nothing."
"An entire account for an evening of casual work?"
"One would hope you'd have a better time than that."
"Ugh! You're revolting, you know that?"
"Hey, I'm just saying your business is how it's costing and benefitting you. How it costs and benefits me is not your concern."
He's right. Ugh! I hate that.
Angela squinted her eyes. "Fine," she said, pinched.
"Done!" he proclaimed.
Just as she turned to open the door, Peterson piped up.
"And Angela?"
She turned her head back to him, defeated.
"Try to relax a little. Your hubby will have a better time," he laughed devilishly.
Her fury returned, and it took everything in her not to slam his door. Biting down hard on her back molars, she left with as much dignity as she could.
Angela did a complete redo on her makeup before she and Jonathan left for the airport. He was big enough now that she didn't usually worry about needing to carry him, so she allowed herself to wear the stilettos she had just purchased. She felt they were a saucy accent to the elegant, but baggy, drop waist dress she'd chosen. After she parked, she unloaded Jonathan from his seat, "Ready to go see Daddy?"
"Yes!" Jonathan bolted out of the car into the dark of the garage. Angela nabbed his wrist just in time to keep him from running in front of a car, nearly falling over in her pinprick heels.
"Jonathan!" She breathed, trying to calm herself for several seconds, while still holding his squirming wrist. "You can't do that."
"I want to see Daddy!"
She sighed, understanding. "I know, baby. Me, too. Let's go find him."
She held his hand snugly as they walked out of the garage and through the terminal. Angela was used to heels, but these shoes were made by the devil himself, and Jonathan had no patience for her pain. He pulled at her, and whined the whole way to the gate.
Finally, Angela stumbled up to the gate as the flight attendant opened the jetway. A surprising amount of people filed out. "I guess there were no empty seats on that plane, huh, Jonathan?" Jonathan paid her no attention, but kept looking for his daddy. Angela wondered if the cramped quarters meant Michael was going to be irritated. She prepared herself, just in case.
The pilots deboarded, and the flight attendants started to close the door. Angela frowned, and ran up to one as best as she could. "Wait, my husband hasn't gotten off yet."
"Everybody's off, ma'am," the tired lady said before she picked up her bag, and started hauling it away.
"Yes, but- I'm sorry. My husband didn't get off the plane."
The woman looked at her with less patience than Jonathan. "Then I guess that means he wasn't on there, doesn't it?"
Angela squinted at her, but turned away.
Jonathan pulled her arm. "Where's Daddy?"
She looked down at him, "I don't know, baby."
"I want Daddy!"
"I know," she sighed. "Come on, let's go see if they can help us at the desk."
They couldn't. She'd pulled her tired three year old back through the terminal to the parking garage. Jonathan whined and cried the whole way, yanking her around on her new shoes. By the time she got him in the car, his red face was producing the most obnoxious screams. I'm right near joining you, Kid. He threw his shoe in the front seat. She reached back and took his other one, before he could throw that, too.
"Jonathan, stop!" She held his foot in her hand. "We're going to go home and see if Daddy called, okay?"
Jonathan stopped flailing, but kept crying loudly. She took in a shaky breath, and managed to exit the dark parking garage amid harsh headlights and soul-piercing screeches. Jonathan cried himself to sleep, and Angela was so grateful for the quiet, if she weren't on a mission to check her answering machine, she'd have been tempted to drive as long as she could in the other direction.
She carried her worn out little boy into the house, kicking off her heels as soon as she got through the door. Laying him gently on the couch, she looked over at the machine. Its red light was blinking in the dark room.
She pushed the button.
"Angela! Hey! I hope you listen to this before you leave." She glared at the machine. "It's about…uh, 10:30am, your time. I'm still at Heathrow. They overbooked the flight, so they were looking for volunteers to stay behind. I got a free ticket just by waiting a day! What luck, right? I've been wanting to check out London, anyway. So, yeah, my new flight comes in at 6:48 tomorrow night! I can't wait to see you!"
Angela closed her eyes, and used her hands to hold her up against the console table behind the couch. In her rush to get ready and leave, she hadn't even thought to listen to the machine. She raked her fingers back through her hair, and looked down at Jonathan. He was sleeping so peacefully. Part of her wanted to do that, too, but she was so mad. And it's my own fault! She paced behind the couch, shaking. It wasn't his fault. He called. Why am I so mad at him? She looked over at the gentle smile on Jonathan's face. He looked so much like his father. That's it. He was happy. I'm mad he was so happy to not be here. And I am so mad about it. Again, with the wanting him more than he wants me. Angela really wanted to throw something, but nothing seemed suitable. She sat down on the puffy blue chair by the couch. She remembered that tedious campaign she was now on the hook for orchestrating, and her eyes narrowed. Bolting out of the chair, she marched to the kitchen. She grabbed a spoon, and snatched her butter brickle from the steaming light of the freezer.
A/N: A big shout out to markaleen for the idea behind Michael's issue with special occasions, and to bostonbarmaid for talking me through it, too! I so appreciate the help!
