Pammy was drawn to those claw-grabber stuffed animal vending machines while she was pregnant with Ramona. She was so exceptionally good at maneuvering those metal fingers with the joystick, by the time Ramona arrived in her cotton-candy nursery she had the company of hundreds of Pammy's plush prizes. Pammy was also an amateur photographer, so the first pictures that decorated the pink walls were shots of her vending machine loot posed in different settings. They were crammed into the vinyl backseat of her Volkswagon Rabbit, lined up sandy-pawed at the seashore, swinging and sliding on the jungle gym down the street. By the time Ramona was several months old, Pammy had won so many stuffed animals that it was impossible to corral them. They spilled out of the refrigerator box her husband salvaged from the next door neighbors, and gradually appeared in other parts of the house. A parade of ponies, puppies, bears, and tazmanian devils crept its way out of the nursery and under the bathroom sink, in the cracks of the sofa, on top of the microwave, under the dining room table. Victor had had enough. Taking a plastic unicorn's horn to the tender arch of his foot for the fourth time was enough reason to throw open the front door and, grabbing armfuls of Pammy's objects of obsession, send them on another outdoor expedition.
When Pammy's car crunched into the drive and her bootheels clicked up the walk, she didn't miss a beat when she saw her winnings lying facedown in the grass and smooshed against the chainlink fence. She sat Ramona down amidst the animals and went in to retrieve her camera. Victor had been spying her approach from behind finger-split venetians, and slunk into a dark corner of the livingroom when she entered. He hit the replay button to practice his imaginary spar with Pammy, reviewing his lines in the reenactment until they slid peppery like garlic butter across his tongue. And just where do you have in mind to put all this plasticrap waste of wages? He pictured her feigned wounded shock, her downcast eyes burning swirls into the carpet, avoiding his confrontation. She never was fond of arguing, but when poked with a hot enough prod the words that escaped her bit and scratched like a mad squirrel released from a bag. This time he would be prepared. He wanted to make her see her ridiculous obsession for what it was. Just think of all this useless shit as college money poorly spent! He could almost feel her hand light on his arm, trying to rub away the rage that singed his armhair. It was so typical of her to attempt to manipulate him with her insincere feminine caress.
It would then be his aversion that spurred the next phase of interactions. He knew she would slide her stance to fill his view, no matter where he was looking. He would purposefully look at his feet so she would have to awkwardly crouch and crane her neck up uncomfortably in order to meet his gaze. She looked so absolutely asinine in this position, it was part of his punishment. Then she'd shrug up her narrow shoulders and upturn her palms in twisted supplication. What has gotten into you, honey? All this exertion over stuffed animals? I hope you learn to control your anger before Ramona's memory is crammed with images of her red-faced father stomping around pissed off about her toys. The bitch! She always had to turn it all around onto him. Keep cool. Don't let her fucking conniving get to you. With balled-up fists weighing down his stiffened arms, his clenched teeth would emit a stream of hot air. This is not about my anger, Pammy. This is about your inability to stop bringing home vending machine junk! She would invariably face his confrontation with an accusation cleverly disguised as concern. But honey, it's just not healthy to deal with issues in this manner. When you have a clear head and a calm composure, we can talk about your little complaint. When the argument took this turn, Victor never knew what to do with his next move. Her tactics always incited a frustration so volatile it could detonate with the slightest gesture, the impending concussion wave pervasively destructive.
In the past he would have not had the experience required to ventriloquize the explosion. His only choice then was to follow her sarcastic emotional forgery with forceful ineptitude. He'd take her bait to blow up, and end up being the bad guy, losing the war. But crunched sheetrock, misaligned doorjambs, acrid burnt tires, and fenders dinged on fenceposts taught him an eventual lesson. He would use the undeserved guilt she threw at him as a fuse. He'd devise a Spiderman palm-throw, diving down subterranean at his feet and up through the soles of her slick boots, to that bagged-squirrel bomb ticking in her mindscheme. He knew that if he calmed down, extinguishing any ember capable of igniting the rage, he would only give Pammy the satisfaction she craved. His point would be dulled and ineffective. No, it was essential to accomplish this vicariously obliterating implosion, this ultimate mind-fuck to top her serpentine strategem.
Pammy clicked in through the front door, eyes darting around the room quizically. She didn't see him in the dark corner. She found her camera and returned to the sun slanting obtusely on the lawn. Almost simultaneously, the venetians let in slivers of the dropping light. Slats of sunset illuminated Victor's tense face. He scrutinized Pammy's actions and disposition for deviant intent. She was on her knees arranging stuffed animals around Ramona on the grass. She wet her finger and guided a curl into a loop on Ramona's forehead. Clever distraction, he thought. It would only take a word. He could blow her plan to bits even with the right solitary gesture. He knew it was possible, wars were won with concise single bullets. He struggled to find that all-encompassing definitive action. He replayed the battle once again in its entirety as he watched Pammy snapping her camera in sun-backed arcs around Ramona, cooing and whistling to grab her attention. Wasteful spending. Ramona gummed a rubber pig's ear, hiccuping and squealing as Pammy stood over her. Victor tried out how "Enough" would sound, defined with a throat-cut motion. Check your anger level. Too unrestrained. He ducked his head down, imagined throwing her a weighted, silent glare beneath heavy brow. Too ambiguous.
Victor absorbed the glimmer of green as the sun hunkered down below the city-scape horizon. Pammy plunged into the pile of plush and plastic, scooping Ramona up and twirled around to face Victor's furtive watch. Could she see him? Her face beamed beatific and she sung a silly teddy bear picnic song, skipping toward the window. She approached the glass so swiftly, so closely, and abruptly spun on her toe, entering the door instead of slamming into the window. "Victor honey," she hummed, "it was about time for Ramona's first yard camp-out. Great idea! Where's the tent?" She fluttered about the house in a stammering waltz, gingerly pecking at detonation wires, disarming him completely.
