Excerpt of Where's Stanley? by Donna Fasano

Just Another Day

Before the duffel bag even had a chance to hit the floor, Fiona said, "Pick that up, Sam."

Her son tossed her an eye-roll that could only come from a fifteen-year-old. He grabbed the canvas strap without a word, slung it over his shoulder and took the stairs two at a time.

"And put that sweaty uniform directly into the washer." Fiona hated shouting, but Sam would surely claim not to have heard her if she didn't.

She dropped her keys on the lowboy by the front door, and saw that her daughter had finally gotten herself from the van to the house. "Your dad will be home any minute. Set the table for dinner."

"It's Sam's turn," Cassie reminded her flatly.

Fiona wanted to groan. Sam had hit puberty as if it had been the proverbial brick wall. He couldn't remember a darn thing lately. Forgot homework assignments, books, practice times, phone messages, you name it. He could go from being jovial to surly with nary a lick of warning. Getting him to complete any task was enough to wear a person's nerves raw. However, Fiona knew it was a battle she had to wage or else Cassie would begin to complain about the unfairness of the Rowland house, and then her firstborn would quickly move to the unfairness of the world in general. No one could work a whine like a seventeen-year-old female.

"Okay, okay. I'll get him to do it. How about pulling the laundry out of the dryer and —"

"Can't," Cassie chimed. "Gotta search the Net. I'm supposed to bring maps of Ancient Egypt to study group tonight for our World History project."

"That's fine. Just fine." Fiona set down her purse and started toward the back of the house, muttering, "I'll gather up the laundry. I'll wash the laundry. I'll fold the laundry and I'll put away the damn laundry." No one could hear her grumbling. No one was interested, either.

Even though she found herself complaining every now and then about how little help she received from her family, she was pleased that her children's lives were so full. The private schools they attended offered grueling college preparatory curriculums, and extracurricular activities abounded. All of them had to do some hopping in order keep pace with the schedules they'd set for themselves.

She sighed as she entered the kitchen. The rich scent of rump roast and onions hung heavy in the air. Tuesdays called for an easy Crock-Pot recipe. Most days, Fiona was so busy she didn't know if she was up or down, coming or going. Tuesday shifted life into overdrive. All because she stubbornly refused to give up these sit-down family meals.

This was the one night she felt as if she, Stan and the kids were a cohesive unit. A loving, caring, nurturing family rather than a pack of gypsies scattered across the countryside. And she'd have her one night of family togetherness, darn it, even if it meant smacking knots on the heads of each and every member of the Rowland household.

Fortunately, measures that drastic were rarely necessary. She opened the fridge and pulled out the salad fixings. She didn't mind admitting that she possessed quite a flair for threatening.

Once the lettuce had been washed and torn, the tomatoes chopped and cucumber sliced, Fiona picked up the bowl and deposited it on the dining room table on her way to the stairs.

"Hey," she called toward the upper regions of the house.

"Dinner in ten minutes. Sam, get down here and set the table." Then she went back through the kitchen and down the stairs into the basement to take care of the laundry. Out of the dryer, into the basket. Out of the washer, into the dryer. Out of the hamper, into the washer. A ritual filled with such fun and excitement it endangered the soundness of her mind.

She trudged up the steps with an overflowing basket of clean clothes and set it in the family room. The folding would have to wait until later, while she relaxed in front of the television.

Sailing back through the kitchen and dining room to the base of the stairs — she didn't need a fancy pedometer; she fulfilled the suggested daily requirement of ten thousand steps just keeping this bunch moving — she shouted, "Sam! Now!" She gritted her teeth when the faint strains of video games drifted from above. Sam should be in the kitchen helping out, not killing rogue warriors. "Don't make me come up there."

Evidently, she'd mustered the right amount of menace in her tone because the beeps and explosions ceased and she heard Sam's footsteps clomping down the hall. Why did teenage boys have to walk like Frankenstein's monster?

By the time she'd goaded Sam into completing the simple task of placing plates, glasses and cutlery on the table, Fiona was sorry she hadn't opted for takeout pizza. Cassie only made matters worse when she breezed into the room ready to nitpick.

"You've got the fork on the wrong side, dweeb," she sneered at her brother.

Fiona wanted to ask her daughter when she'd turned into a Martha Stewart clone, but she squelched the comment.

The fuse on her sanity was shortened even more when everyone was ready to sit down to eat, but Stanley had failed to arrive home. He knew how important these family dinners were to her, and timing was everything on Tuesdays. He worked late most days, then went out several nights a week to shoot pool, play poker or teach his accounting class at the local community college. He also made himself available for tutoring those students who were gearing up to take the certification test. Stan had lots of interests, and Fiona didn't mind. But he certainly should be able to arrive on time for one measly meal together each week. That wasn't too much to ask.

"Let's sit down and get started," she told the kids. "Dad's probably on his way."

As he held out his plate to be served, Sam launched into a litany, detailing the high points of his day. "And Mr. Richards got pissy today —"

"Sam." Fiona's eyebrows arched, the spoonful of green beans she held hovering over her son's plate. "We do not use the word pissy in polite conversation."

Without missing a beat, he continued, "Sharon and Isabelle were whispering and passing notes, and Mr. Richards got all jacked up about it and gave us all extra homework."

Fiona served herself some beans. "All jacked up," huh? I've never heard that phrase before."

Cassie chimed in, "It means he got pissy."

Her kids shared a snigger, and she couldn't help but chuckle herself. This kind of camaraderie was exactly why Fiona willingly endured a bit more stress on Tuesdays. And her husband was missing it.

The idiot.

Sam went on to tell them about practice. He'd made the cross-country track team and he was doing all he could to prove himself to his teammates.

Two red spots brightened his cheeks. "Dave says Isabelle wants me to ask her to the dance."

Surprise made Fiona want to whoop right out loud, but she contained herself. Effusive maternal reaction could instantly ruin a pubescent boy's whole mood. But this news delighted her. She and Stan had recently talked about how their son seemed to be bebopping through his early teens, seemingly content with sports, video games and his buddies. Before this evening, Sam had never mentioned a girl by name before. If he talked about girls, he usually lumped the female of the species together as a group, typically followed with some disparaging remark. Seems his world was changing, and he was even willing to talk about it. Yes, her boy's spirits were high today, despite the extra homework his teacher had assigned.

"You going to ask her?" Cassie queried carefully.

Fiona noticed that her daughter kept her eyes downcast, her tone curious but nonthreatening. It seemed that Cassie, too, sensed the importance of this moment for Sam.

He shrugged, dipping his head; however, Fiona could tell the prospect of a first date excited him.

Fiona's gaze slipped toward the front door, and the hope of hearing Stan's car pull into the driveway preoccupied her. Dark clouds rolled over her mood.

"You okay, Mom?" Cassie stabbed a tomato wedge. Fiona nodded. "I'm fine, sweetie. But I am going refill my drink." She reached for her nearly full water glass.

"While I'm in the kitchen, I'll give your dad a buzz. Make sure he's on his way."

Fiona snatched up the phone receiver and tried to let go of her anger. Stan's missing dinner didn't necessarily mean he was being insensitive, or absentminded. An accident could have stalled traffic. He could be sitting on I-95 or 202 with the thousands of other people who commuted into Wilmington every day for work. Or car trouble could have left him stranded on one of the narrow, winding roads leading home to Hockessin.

Guilt swam around in her stomach as she remembered thinking ill of him this morning when she'd arrived home from the morning car pool run and found his lunch still sitting on the counter where she'd set it out for him. She'd mentally deemed him an idiot then, too, but a flash of glee had burst through her as she'd placed the brown bag back in the fridge; the thought of not having to make his lunch tomorrow morning had her grinning like an idiot herself. God, how she hated that monotonous chore of making that ham and Swiss on rye every day.

She shouldn't be so tough on Stanley. He worked hard. Handling other people's money was a nerve-racking job, and his accounting class demanded a great deal of time and attention, as well.

His voice mail picked up. She left a message that they'd started dinner without him and that she hoped he was on his way home. Then she punched in his office number. Again, she reached a voice mail system, and she left a duplicate message, this one snippier than she intended.

She hung up the phone, her hand still on the receiver as an odd, whispery voice soughed through her head. Stan hasn't missed a family dinner since — she thought back over the months — well, since last spring. Like every other CPA, her husband's world turned nightmarish during tax season.

Some odd and nebulous gut feeling had her pulling the junk drawer open. She fished out the worn and tattered address book. She really should buy a new one and transfer the numbers and addresses before this one fell completely apart.

She found the number she wanted, that of the only colleague of Stan's she knew. George Harrigan had moved into the office next to Stan's when the man started working for the accounting firm about seven years ago. Stanley and George had hit it off instantly, not just forming a work relationship, but becoming buddies, as well. Fiona had invited George and his wife, Connie, to dinner once, but as it turned out, Fiona and Connie hadn't found a single common thread on which to base a friendship.

Connie had been an up-and-coming exec with the DuPont Company at the time. With no children of her own, the woman simply couldn't relate to Fiona. In fact, she'd made it pretty clear that she couldn't fathom Fiona's stay-at- home-mom lifestyle.

George answered midring, identifying himself straightaway.

"Hi, George. Fiona Rowland here." They exchanged some quick pleasantries, and then Fiona asked, "Have you seen Stan around today? I expected him home by now, and he's not answering his phone."

"I passed him in the hall this morning. I haven't had a chance to sit and talk with him in weeks, though. We're all overworked lately with these new clients coming on board." He huffed out a sigh. "The job security's worth it, I guess."

The tone of his voice implied that the jury was actually still out on that issue.

"He's probably just running late," George continued.

"Don't be too hard on the poor guy when he does get there."

"I won't. Thanks, George."