by Shannon Hale
“I feel awful, frankly, my red blood cell count aside. Early reviews for A Boy Called Skeeter aren’t promising. Celeste is in Milan for a couple of months, and I’m filming next week, so there isn’t enough time to join her. The house was so empty.”
“I’m afraid you’ve exchanged one cavernous wasteland for another, but just wait until the kids get home from school—blessed bedlam. And in the meantime . . .” She grinned. “I have the makings for zucchini bread.”
“Zucchini bread? Shall we top it off with turnip muffins and asparagus cake?”
Becky sat up. “You’ve never had zucchini bread? Criminal. Get Sam and come to the family room. You can entertain him while I bake.”
“Er . . .”
She started toward the family room without looking back. “It’s about time you learned to like children.”
“Er . . .”
“You’re such a wuss. Come on.”
He followed, holding Sam away from his body so the boy dangled from his hands like something dirty. She rolled her eyes, set him up with some books on the couch, and plopped Sam on his lap. As she forced zucchini through her food processor in the kitchen, she could hear Felix’s stiff, forced voice.
“ ‘Once upon a time there were’—why are you squirming? Don’t you like this book? Ahem, ‘there were three pigs: a big pig named Pig, a bigger pig named Pigger, and the biggest of the three named Piggest’ . . . you’re squirming again. Becky! This book is boring him!”
“It’s not the book’s fault,” she muttered.
“Pardon?”
“An actor, paid ridiculously huge sums to speak lines on camera, and he can’t even read a child a picture book.”
“He isn’t my ideal demographic.”
“Try using some inflection. At this age, a kid doesn’t understand all the words. But if you don’t sound interested in the story, he won’t be.”
“If he doesn’t understand, then what is the point?”
“I’m not even going to answer that,” she sang back.
By the time she’d dumped the canned pineapple into her standing mixer (that’s right, the most valuable item in the house, so thank goodness Felix hadn’t been a robber), Felix was employing nasal voices for the pigs, and Sam was enthralled.
With the first couple of loaves baking, Becky joined them, sitting on the floor. Sam hopped onto her lap, and Felix wiped his brow.
“It’s not that I don’t like children; I just don’t comprehend them. What’s their purpose? Why can’t they just say what they want? Why are they always touching things and knocking things over and whining?”
She dumped a basket of socks on the floor and began to sort and match. “Here’s the thing: Given your profession, you should have that skill of observing people and getting inside them and understanding them, blah blah blah. Why can’t you just do that with children? I mean, you were a child once.”
“I hatched from an egg at age twenty-three.”
“I almost believe you.” She squinted at him. “What were you like younger?”
“Same but smaller, with slightly less facial hair.”
“Stop. You don’t have any siblings?”
“No, it was just me and Mum. When I was five, the father figure left us for Spain and had the good grace to die a few years after that.”
“I bet your mother loved you half to death.”
“Yes, that would describe it.”
The conversation had turned a little chilly, and Becky backed away from the pit of unsaid things. This was not the fodder of their friendship, and Becky was feeling waterlogged with the awkwardness drowning the room. She cleared her throat.
“Even more reason for you to catch a sniff of normal family life and learn to fall in love with the wee ones. Here, let me get out of your way . . .”
. . .”
“No, don’t leave us alone!”
“Just have fun with him. He’s a happy kid, it won’t take much. And if you’re capable of multitasking, go ahead and sort the socks while you’re at it.”
She showered for the first time that day, blew her hair dry super-quick, and put on jeans and an almost clean shirt. (She was back into prepregnancy clothes by now—huzzah!) The jeans were freshly washed, and made her feel prettyish—they came out of the dryer a little tighter and held everything in, sort of pants and girdle in one. Her butt alone felt ten years younger.
It wasn’t until she was rubbing lotion over her face before running back into the kitchen that the whole man-in-my-house complication occurred to her. From the moment he’d walked in, it had felt as normal as having Melissa drop by or her brother Ryan come over to play.
But he’s not my brother, she reminded herself. And he’s a man. And I’m married, and alone with him in my house.
Usually she was so strict about those things. As soon as she and Mike married, she’d become conscious of a layer between her and other men. She no longer reached over to touch their knees when making a point, as she would with her women friends. Her brothers she could still hug, tousle their heads in passing, rub their backs to say hello. Cousins and uncles were different too—any relative. So in one way, she reasoned, it wasn’t so unusual to have a man in her life she treated differently from the rest. If only Felix were family, then their relationship wouldn’t be strange.
Because it didn’t feel strange. It should, said the logical part of her brain. But it doesn’t, said her heart part, where that soft little tug encouraged her to keep him close. Boundaries were getting fuzzy. She’d have to talk this over with Mike.
She rushed back to check the loaves just as the timer was ringing. Then she heard it—little-boy laughter.
She peeked around the corner and spied Felix on the floor with Sam, singing the lyrics to “Short People.” He shook the little boy’s legs as he sang about the bitty feet and tickled his hands for the line about grimy fingers. Becky glanced at the unmatched socks—nope, apparently Felix wasn’t a multitasker.
“ ’Gain, ’gain,” Sam said, enjoying the humiliation tremendously.
So Felix sang it again, shaking body parts and tickling along with the song. Becky leaned against the doorway, soaking it in. The sound of her little boy’s laugh made her heart feel so light it might float away, and seeing that Felix caused the joy about burst her through. She remembered Celeste’s face as she gazed at baby Sam, and had a wild hope that she might send Felix back to his wife converted to having children.
Felix noticed her and let go of Sam’s toes, looking highly embarrassed to have been caught playing with the child.
“You have a singing voice,” she said. “I didn’t know that. Do you do musicals?”
“Not since university.”
“You should sing in a movie. You’d knock them dead.”
Felix shivered. “Musical movies are nasty business.”
“I know—a film version of Anything Goes. You’d be hysterical as the uptight Englishman who falls for the nightclub singer.”
Sam, bored with the talking and the lack of tickling, began to hike up Felix’s back.
Felix shrugged his shoulders in an awkward attempt to interact with him. “I’m an actor, not a producer.”
“But you have producer friends. I haven’t seen you do a real comedy in years, and you’re so good at it. Plus you’d sing! Talk about a talent showcase.”
“Your son just sneezed on my neck.”
“I’m taking that as a committed yes.”
There was a honk and Becky ran outside to fetch Hyrum from her friend Jessie’s car. Jessie had violently curly hair in a pale brown ’fro. She was tall and toned and looked great without makeup, her eyelashes long and dark and lips pink naturally. It really wasn’t fair.
“Felix Callahan is inside my house,” Becky said through tight, conspiratorial lips as she unstrapped Hyrum from a back seat.
Jessie grinned. “Really? Can I—” She glanced back at four impatient five-year-olds waiting to be carpooled home. “Never mind. Are you goin
g to bring him to the potluck to night?”
“Possibly.”
Jessie raised her eyebrows. “Wow, you are daring. I won’t complain, though, since I’ll get to sneak a peak.”
Becky herded Hyrum through the front yard and into the house at a record speed of three minutes even, and reintroduced her five-year-old to her friend.
“Look how long my tongue is,” Hyrum said, sticking it out with a bleh noise twelve inches from Felix’s face.
Felix recoiled. “Ooh. Long. Yes.”
It really was impressively long, Becky thought as she tidied up the family room before Mike got home. She herself often bragged, “You should see my Hyrum’s tongue. He could catch a fish with it.” She was sorting toys into their boxes, only half aware of the continuing conversation on the couch.
“Look how long my tongue is. Bleh . . .”
“Yeah, that’s a proper tongue.”
“Look how long my tongue is. Bleh . . .”
“You mentioned that before.”
“Look how long my tongue is. Bleh . . .”
“Er . . .”
“Look how long my tongue is—bleh. Look how long my tongue is—bleh. Look how long my tongue is—bleh . . .”
“Becky?”
She popped up to attention. “What? Oh. Yes, Hyrum, we all see how long your tongue is. It’s impressively long. It’s catastrophically long. It’s amazing! Go play in your room please.”
Hyrum needed no further incentive to be alone and trotted off . Felix cleared his throat.
“So, that’s the chip off the old block, eh? He’s . . . er . . . what am I supposed to say now?”
“You’re supposed to exclaim about how smart and good-looking and clever my son is and say you wish he were your very own.”
“Right. Yes. Your son . . . has a very long tongue.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Callahan! You are all compliments today.”
“Hmph.”
“I really am glad you’re here, grumpypuss.” She leaned over and nearly kissed Felix on the cheek, as she might have done to one of her children, but stopped herself short, ruffling his hair instead. It was stiff with gel. “Ouch! Your hair just stabbed me.”
“Uh, hi there,” Mike said from the doorway.
“You’re home early!” Becky went to him, this time delivering a cheek kiss that she didn’t have to pull short. Mike’s presence filled up the house, relaxed Becky’s bones, and made her realize she’d been more anxious about having Felix there alone than she’d guessed. But the next day was Saturday and Mike would be home, so the problem was temporarily solved. “Felix is going to stay the weekend. Isn’t it great?”
“Yeah.” From Mike’s reserved expression, “great” wasn’t the word he would have chosen. But he shook Felix’s hand and smiled. “Welcome.”
“Dada, Dada, Dada,” Sam was chanting as he toddled over.
“Actually, I thought I’d get a hotel,” Felix said.
“No, stay here. That’s great, that’s fine,” Mike said, holding Sam upside down by one ankle and swaying him back and forth to evoke the maximum amount of squeals.
“The girls will camp out in the basement,” Becky said. “They’ll love it, and I know you’ll be in heaven in Fiona’s twin bed with Little Mermaid comforter and matching shams.”
“Little Mermaid comforter?”
“And matching shams. We don’t cut corners here, mister.”
Felix offered an impossibly fake grin. “I can scarcely wait for night to fall.”
Becky left the men in the family room to get to know each other while she finished up the zucchini bread and changed the sheets on Fiona’s bed. When she peeked from the kitchen, Mike was on the sofa playing with Sam. Felix was on the love seat flipping through a magazine.
Becky rolled her eyes and hand-washed the mixing bowl. For years she’d yearned for a dishwasher. She’d never had one, not in her parents’ home, not in college or her first apartment with Mike. Then for Mother’s Day 1991, a brand-new Maytag dishwasher in almond (to match the fridge) with a fat red bow! She wiped down the front of it at least once a week just to make sure it still shined.
But half the time, she found herself hand-washing the dishes anyway. The warm water, the suds and strokes—it was meditative, like pruning rosebushes or folding laundry. She entered a Zen state, taking chaos and filth into her hands and turning it into order and cleanliness.
So she washed and thought. Felix was in the other room. She felt a little patter of excitement like she did whenever Mike first set up the Christmas tree. Yeah, Mike clearly wasn’t in on the whole patter-of-excitement part. But it was good for him, she thought, as she ran the spatula under the faucet, sending suds bubbling down the drain. It was good for a man to be reminded that his wife was interesting to other people. Last night she’d worn her deliciously satin pajamas to bed and he hadn’t so much as touched her knee.
Felix was here. And the sweet, warm scent of zucchini bread filled the house with contentment.
The girls came home. Fiona at age eleven was unimpressed with the actor and soon absconded to the basement with Classy and Fabulous, a photograph-heavy biography of Coco Chanel. Becky had been mystified by that choice, but her rule was her kids could pick out their own library books. Polly, enchanted by Felix’s accent, scooted closer and closer to him on the couch until their sides touched. Felix tried making faces at her, but she just stared. He cleared his throat.
“Polly’s second-grade class has been learning folk songs,” Becky said. “Felix, would you sing ‘Danny Boy’ with her?”
Polly’s voice was dry and soft, and always made Becky think of buttercups because her mother had once remarked, “If buttercups could sing, they’d sound like Polly.” Felix sang softly as well, and his robust man’s voice on harmony and her little-girl sweetness on melody was breathtaking.
They finished, and Polly snuggled in closer, hugging his arm. He looked at Becky and mouthed, “I am in love.”
“I knew you would be,” she said.
Polly was Becky’s secret weapon. Add the duet to Sam’s laughter, and Becky was feeling quite triumphant. She turned to share her happiness with Mike, but he’d already decamped to the office to make work calls. He didn’t pop up again until the whole family was readying for the potluck dinner at the church building.
“Sorry we’re not having a family dinner for you to night,” Becky said. “But Mike’s in the bishopric in our ward and—”
“Slow down, you’re speaking Mormonese.”
“He’s . . . there’s no professional clergy in our church. All the members take on different volunteer jobs and we switch around from time to time. He’s in the bishopric, which is three people who oversee the entire ward. A ward’s like a parish, you know, a certain neighborhood that all meets together as a congregation—”
“You’re quite bad at this.”
“I know! There’s just so much lingo! When we have an hour, I’ll give you Mormonism 101.”
“Your excuse to try to convert me to your secret, cultish practices.”
“You wish. Anyhoo, because Mike’s in the bishopric, he needs to be there. I’d let him go alone and the rest of us could stay home, but I signed up to bring zucchini bread. And besides, I know how much work the Activities Committee goes to for these nights. I teach Sunday school now, but I used to be on the committee and I’d really like to support them.”
“Of course. I’ll tag along to night, get an insider’s view of your life. It will be a delight.”
He was wrong.
In which two worlds collide, taxis are not readily available, and no one learns a helpful moral
Mike had to go to the potluck early, so Becky was left to get the four children ready and shepherd them into the car. It took twenty minutes.
“Mom, can I bring my Game Boy?”
“No, Hyrum. Fiona, put on your shoes please.”
“I can’t find my pink ones.”
“Just wear your brown ones, sweet
ie.”
“Eee, eee!”
“We’re eating in a minute, Sam. Polly, I asked you to take off that tutu. Shoes, Fiona.”
“I can’t find my pink ones.”
“Just wear your brown ones. Hyrum, if you’re ready, wait for us in the car.”
“Can I bring my Game Boy?”
“No, just go please. Sam, careful, don’t—!”
“Uh-ooooooh.”
“Aw, Sam, what a mess. Fiona, can you toss me that rag?”
“I’m looking for my pink shoes.”
“Wear the brown ones, Fiona.”
“Eeee!”
“We’re going to eat at church, Sammy. Careful, don’t walk in the—great. Sam, take off those socks.”
“NOOOO!”
“We need new socks, these ones are sopping with milk. New socks, Sammy.”
“NO! EEEEE!”
“Here’s a banana. Hyrum, I thought I told you to get in the car.”
“I’m just finishing this one game.”
“No, get moving. Lovely twirling, Polly. Now just twirl your way out of that tutu. Fiona—”
“I’m looking for my pink—”
“Fiona Jack, for the love of all that is holy, WEAR YOUR BROWN SHOES!”
“Found ’em!”
Four kids shoed, seated, and strapped in, Becky sat in the driver’s seat and exhaled.
“Alrighty,” she said with a bright smile. “Off we go!”
Felix was gaping. “How do you stay sane? Not that you are sane in the strictest sense, but you are functional, and I cannot fathom how.”
“What, that? You get used to it. I mean, what if I had four children who stood quietly in a row waiting to be told what to do? Cree-py. Well, some days I think I’d trade a few toes for that miracle, but long term, no thanks. Give me kids with a little verve any day.”
“You are a goddess.”
Becky wished Mike had heard that. Some days he came home and gave her that look—you know, that “I’ve been out earning money while you have nine free hours, and I come home and the house is a mess and I have to wonder what have you been doing with your time” look. Some days it made her want to throw her body over the sticky linoleum and weep with shame; some days it made her want to slug him in the jaw.