The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)

Hanging with Mrs. Cooper

Previously: "The Mother of My Enemy Is Me!" 

This is nice, you tell yourself as you sweep through the house, picking up loose items—books, boots and bills; spoons and drinking coasters—and putting them away. What a nice house. What nice things we've got!

What a nice position you've got.

Kelly Cooper is on the cusp of forty. (In fact, she's been "on the cusp of forty" for a couple of years now, and for the last few she's been "on the cusp" only if a cusp is the sort of thing you can stand on and look back at what you've passed.) But forty is an age where with a lot of hard work she can still look good and feel, if not young, at least young-ish, while enjoying much nicer things than she had when she was in her twenties.

So you find yourself humming lightly and running a soft, shaggy duster over the spines of the books on the top shelf of the decorative book case. No one in the Cooper family reads if they can help it (Kelly least of all), but the books—all the same size and thickness, bound in brownish-red leather and stamped with tiny letters of gold—look good in the cherry-wood case. The air of faux-literacy extends to the entertainment center, which is a refurbished library card catalog whose false, hinged front hides the giant flat-screen TV, cable boxes, and Blu-ray and game players. You smile on the end tables with the glass vases filled with polished stones and silk flowers; the framed art reproductions (bought from museum gift shops) that hang here and there on the walls; and the antique dining room set (inherited from a great-aunt) that is only used on Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Most of all, you smile at the feeling of shapely limbs and good muscles pumping inside the tight, button-up shorts and the starchy, sleeveless blouse as you bustle around the house. Only after your cheeks start to ache do you realize that you're beaming like an idiot.

* * * * *

You are in the downstairs bathroom, tying your loose, floppy hair up into a bun, when you hear Rob coming in from the garage. Plastic bags rustle and rattle. You give yourself a quick glance in the mirror, straighten and firm up your boobs, then sweep out to help him unload the groceries. "I thought I lost you," you tell him. "You were gone awhile."

He grunts. "I had to go to Wal-mart for the grapefruit."

"I appreciate it." You hug him from behind and kiss him on the shoulder. "Love you."

He grunts again. You give him a quick squeeze and let go before he can get the idea that you're interested in anything other than a hug.

"Jordan not back yet?" Rob asks.

"No. He texted to say he was getting supper with friends. We could talk to him again," you add as Rob mutters under his breath, "about moving in with Jack and his friends."

"He needs to get a job. When I was his age—"

"When you were his age," you interrupt, and push yourself up against him as instinct takes over, "you had a job, a live-in girlfriend, and a little baby boy. So it could be worse."

Rob Cooper turns around and looks down at you. He's lost most of his hair, he's getting a paunch, and there's a little bag of fat hanging under his jaw. But under the mossy ruins you can still see the lacrosse player who banged Kelly Smith in the back of his dad's truck on their first date, and dropped out of college for three years to work two jobs in order to support her and him when she swelled and bloomed and dropped a little boy into his hands. He was a lot sexier then as a rugged lacrosse player than he is now as a marketing manager for the KountryFresh Restaurant Supply Corp. But it's the latter who pays for the house and furnishings that you were enjoying.

Rob pulls you close. "If Jordan's not coming home till later," he murmurs. "And where's Chelsea?"

"Out shopping. She should be back soon, but she's going to a party tonight. And Jordan'll be out with his friends till God knows when."

"So, just us?" He bends to nibble and nuzzle at your ear.

"We could go out too."

"We could do it in the living room." He pinches your butt, and you gasp.

"I want you to take me on a date," you tell him. "No reason the kids should have all the fun."

"I was planning on having fun."

"It's more fun if we go out. And if we start having fun now," you remind him as he takes the side of your neck between his teeth, "the milk'll spoil."

* * * * *

Well, thank God for Kelly Cooper's instincts, you tell yourself later that evening as you pedal the exercise bike while Rob takes a nap on the sofa. Acting like a married woman, spur of the moment, isn't something you could have done on your own.

Or acting like a mother—that's something else you don't think you could have managed on your own, despite seventeen years of being on the receiving end of it.

"Chelsea?" you holler when you hear the door to the garage open and shut. "Is that you? Can you come in here a minute? I'm in the exercise room!"

Chelsea, looking freshly made up and in an entirely new wardrobe, appears in the doorway. Her expression is carefully neutral.

"What time are you going to your party tonight?" you puff as you push yourself into the last mile of your cycling routine.

"Gordon's picking me up in half an hour."

"You'll be home early?"

"Well, no." Her eyes dart. "We were going to go out with Maria and Steve, a few more people, afterward."

"So what time will you be home?"

Now a pink spot shows in Chelsea's forehead. "I don't know. Um ... midnight?"

You don't believe it for an instant—it's been two years since Chelsea was back home from a party before three in the morning. But you smile at her, for she's just handed you a nice length of rope.

"Okay, honey, I'll wait up for you then. So can you make it closer to eleven?"

Now alarm does show on her face. "You don't have to wait up—"

"But I want to, I want to hear all about the party." You double your pace on the bike, racing toward the finish. "Also, can you give me the phone number of the parents? In case I need to call or text."

"You can text me!" Chelsea exclaims. Now she looks frightened.

"I know that, sweetcakes," you pant. "But maybe ... I don't want to ... embarrass you ... by texting you direct."

Worse and worse— green tinge shows at her throat! The only thing more shameful than getting a text from her mom (as you well know) would be getting a mother's phone call via her host's own parents.

"Well, okay," she stammers. "I mean, you can text me, you don't have to bother them, in fact I— Um—"

"Yes? Oh, whew!" you exclaim as the bike beeps, letting you know you've met your mileage quota for the day.

"Well, nothing," she mumbles. "I'll go find Maggie's mom's number for you."

"Thank you, Chelsea. You know, I just can't help worrying about you sometimes. Your father and I were talking this morning— Well, never mind." You wave her off as you pick a bottled water up off the nearby stand.

Chelsea stares at you. Then, stiffly, as though treading barefoot across a field of broken glass, she ducks out of the exercise room.

She's not going to a party, you find yourself thinking as you catch your breath and rest your burning calf muscles. The party's just a cover. She and Gordon are going to hang out up at the school, in the fuck room. That's what I would do if I was in high school again.

Then: Huh. If I was in high school again ...

* * * * *

Saturday. Chelsea ran out the door early, as though sensing that you had plans for her, and has been gone all day, and it's late in the afternoon before Jordan, the Coopers' college-age son, storms into the house looking unshaven, sweaty, bleary-eyed, and sick. After a quick shower upstairs, he stretches himself across the second sofa with his cell phone, and grunts a wordless negative when you ask if he's going out with his friends again tonight. His face is red and puffy, and he seems to have a hard time getting comfortable on the couch. Hungover, you think. That must've been some party last night.

Well, he can take it. He inherited his dad's physique, and his talent at lacrosse.

But it puts paid to your and Rob's plans for the night. Which isn't a real loss, as far as you're concerned. You've got Kelly Cooper's twenty-plus years of memories to know what Rob Cooper's cock feels like when it's jammed up inside her.

So you and Rob thaw out a pizza—low carb, so the crust tastes like construction paper—and watch a British import on Netflix as Jordan dozes while trying to watch a ball game on his phone. Rob is very tense, and you can tell he wants to yell at his son, but you coo and prattle and squeeze his knee to keep him distracted and docile.

And, silently, you run down the options you've been toying with all day.

Come Monday at the latest, you're going to have to tell Blackwell where you've switched into. He liked your alias as Yumi, but will he be happy with you set up independently as a housewife? He'd probably like it better if you appeared in a guise closer to Yumi's: as Chelsea or as Jordan.

But you like the idea of not being dependent on him. If you secretly turned the entire Cooper family into fakes, you'd have that independence, and you'd be able to appear to Blackwell as one of the kids.

You're also tantalized by the possibilities in an earlier thought: What if Kelly Cooper was in high school again?

* To stick it out as Mrs. Cooper: "Sunday Fixings" 
* To switch Chelsea and her mother: "In Which "Freaky Friday" Gets Another Remake" 

*
"Table of Contents (Vol. 1)" 
"The Book of Masks (Vol. 1)"