by Merry Jones
Nora’s mouth hung open. Was her mother serious? “He doesn’t listen to me—”
“Why doesn’t he? If you want him to work with you, Nora, try being nicer to him. You aren’t exactly an angel here.”
“What did I do?”
“Really? You want a list? How about breaking his ant farm?”
“But I didn’t—”
“A word to the wise: you can’t catch flies with vinegar.”
No, Nora supposed that she couldn’t. But she didn’t want to catch flies. And neither vinegar, nor fly-catching—nor Tommy’s ant farm—had anything to do with her problem.
“I just want him to respect my privacy.”
Her mother seemed harried, distracted. She scooped the clothes off the bed and drew a deep breath. “Nora honey, it’s time you learned. In a relationship—any relationship—you have to pick your battles.”
“What battle—”
“Your brother has a brilliant, inquisitive mind. He’s not your average kid, he’s unique. You need to appreciate him and stop wasting energy on small stuff. Communicate. Compromise. Always be willing to give more than you get. That way you can coexist in peace.” Promising to be back in half an hour, Marla hurried out of the house. The edges of that piece of paper peeked out of her hip pocket.
Nora, riddled with advice, was on her own.
Friday, August 10, 2018
N
ora set her book down and eyed the phone, half-hidden in rumples of rose floral comforter. From across the hall, she could hear Dave reading Dr. Seuss. He’d be busy for a while.
But no, she wasn’t going to be that kind of wife, one who checks up on her husband, who monitors his phone calls. If she did that, soon she’d be reading his texts and email, or stalking him when he went out.
Don’t look for trouble unless you want to find it.
How many times had her mother given her that warning? A thousand? If it wasn’t the most frequent Marla Quotation, then it was definitely in the top three. Nora could see her, her crimped chin-length hair dyed medium ash-brown, her nails filed into rose-colored ovals, and her lips painted a shade of rose, always rose, never a deeper red or lighter pink.
A memory surfaced of Marla standing in her bedroom with a piece of paper clutched in her fist. “Don’t look for trouble,” she had breathed, “unless you want to find it.”
At the time, Nora had been, what, eleven years old? Twelve? She’d walked in on her mother examining the paper, had watched as her mother’s fingers tightened around it, crushing it. What had that paper been? A receipt for a hotel room? For jewelry? A love note? Nora couldn’t imagine. Her father, Philip, had been a pharmacist, a balding guy with glasses and a voice like talcum powder. Not a player.
So why had her mother’s nostrils flared and her eyes glowered? Why had she sighed so deeply before uttering her advice? Don’t look for trouble.
Probably she hadn’t glowered, sighed, or slumped. It was more likely that Nora had embellished the memory, turning it into some unsolved parental mystery. Besides, her advice was hardly unusual. Marla had had tons of adages: If you expect nothing, you won’t be disappointed. Let well enough alone. Don’t cry over spilt milk. Don’t rock the boat. What you don’t know can’t hurt you. Things can always get worse. No matter what, family comes first.
Nora rattled through half a dozen more before realizing how utterly sad they were. Had her mother been depressed? What had Marla been like as a young woman, before she’d been a mother spouting tired adages? Back in the ‘70s, as a teenager, had she been popular? Had her heart ever been broken? Or had Philip been her first love? Had she been happy in her marriage?
What had she found in his pants pocket?
Across the hall, Ellie pleaded, “Now read this one, Daddy. Please?”
“No, Ellie! My turn to pick!”
Dave explained that it was already past their bedtime and overruled their argument that, in summer, they had no bedtime. The girls begged and cajoled, not letting him go.
But he was finishing up. Time was running out. Nora eyed his phone. All she had to do was pick it up, turn it on, and press an icon or two to see if anyone was habitually calling or texting him. And if the habitual caller/texter was a woman, Nora would find out who she was and what she was texting.
Don’t look for trouble, Marla’s voice echoed.
But her mother hadn’t followed her own advice. She’d taken the paper from her husband’s pocket. Besides, wasn’t it better to know the truth?
Nora picked up Dave’s phone. Pushed the button that lit the screen saver. Younger versions of Sophie and Ellie popped up. They were standing in front of a Christmas tree wearing Santa hats, Sophie’s mouth open in laughter, Ellie’s stretched into a clownish grin. The shot had been taken by a professional photographer a few years ago, back when they’d still sent Christmas cards. How old had the girls been then? Two and three? It was sweet that Dave had this picture as his screensaver, with Sophie’s curls pressed into Ellie’s cheek and their eyes catching the light. Nora’s finger went to the picture, tracing the line connecting their faces, gently touching their noses, their chins.
Raucous laughter erupted across the hall. Dave’s baritone growled, playing a monster. Were the girls out of bed again? Would they scamper into her room, trying to escape bedtime by hiding under her covers?
If she was going to learn anything, she had to act now. She punched in Dave’s password. She’d known it since Ellie had been a baby, since the day a car had run a stop sign and T-boned them, crushing the driver’s side door. Ellie, in her car seat, had been unharmed. Dave had taken the brunt of the impact—a dislocated shoulder and a cracked rib—so Nora had used his phone to call for help. Where had they been going that day? The mall? The grocery store? Nora didn’t remember, but she remembered the password: Stolilime.
Bingo. Dave’s phone came alive. Now, all she had to do was press an icon.
She hesitated, fingers shaky. How harmless the phone seemed, tiny enough to fit in a pocket. Looking at it, no one would guess that this sleek, skinny rectangle could be life-shattering. At least, marriage-shattering.
Don’t—her mother’s rosy lips whispered—look for trouble.
Nora took a breath. Her mother was wrong. Finding trouble was different than causing it. If Dave was cheating, his cheating was the trouble, and it would still be trouble whether she found out about it or not. Wouldn’t it?
Maybe not. Didn’t she already know everything she needed to know about Dave? He was home now, earlier than she’d expected. His presence meant something, didn’t it? Even if he was having an affair, which he wasn’t, not after last time, but even if he was, he wasn’t letting it keep him from his family. It must only be a phase and it would pass.
After all, Dave was committed to Nora. He depended on her. She’d helped him prep for his bar exam, picked out the suits he’d worn to interviews. She’d given birth to his children, after laboring and popping hemorrhoids and enduring his peppy relentless coaching for twenty-three and seventeen agonizing hours. When his father died, he’d clung to her, weeping. No flimsy affair would be enough to destroy or even dent their marriage, that’s how closely their shared history bound them.
They’d barely recovered last time. It had taken years. After that, after what they’d been through, he would never. She was almost absolutely sure.
Nora clutched the phone, her hand stiff like a crow’s claw. Her throat closed, refusing to take in air. Her children’s voices faded, sounded far away.
Thunder rumbled outside. Nora turned toward the window, surprised to see rain slashing at the pane. The day had been cloudless. Where had the storm come from?
Across the hall, Dave’s reassuring voice was saying goodnight. “Remember,” he said, “you’re safe. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Nora glanced at the phone, the doorway, back at the phone. Just before Dave walked in, she pressed the off button and put it back exactly whe
re he’d tossed it. Instead of snooping, she would simply muster the nerve to ask him straight out. She had a right to know. She was his wife.
When he walked into the room, Nora made herself smile. “What a storm—”
“They told me what you did.”
What? Her eyes went to the phone. How could they know?
Dave scowled as he unbuttoned his shirt. “What were you thinking? Were you trying to scare them?”
What was he talking about?
He sat on the bed and took off his shoes—shiny black slip-ons with tassels. “For God’s sake, Nora. You didn’t have to slaughter it.”
What? Oh. The spider?
Lightning flashed, overpowering the lamplight and for a moment turning the room and Dave ghostly white.
“They said you freaked out.”
She’d freaked out? The girls had been hysterical, screaming for her to kill it.
“It was really big.”
“They showed me how you kept pounding it after it was dead. They said pieces of it were flying everywhere.”
Well, that was true. Nora cringed, remembering. “It took all my nerve, Dave. You should have seen it. It was gigantic. It
actually jumped, and then it ran. I was afraid it would get away.”
“You should have let it go,” he said. Dave stepped out of his slacks, hung them up. If she looked in a pocket, would she find an upsetting piece of paper? Nonsense. Dave’s side of the closet was open, displaying his suits, hand-made and expensive, arranged in a neat row, organized by color and fabric. Nora’s favorites were the charcoal pin stripes that complimented his graying temples. But today, in the heat, he’d worn a taupe shade of summery
wrinkle-free linen. He hung the jacket over the pants.
“I should have let it go loose in the house? Are you kidding?”
Thunder clapped outside, sharp and followed by another flash of lightening.
“No, I’m not kidding. Why kill it? It was only a spider.” His face was severe. Gravely serious. Why did he care so much about a stupid spider?
“Only? Oh my God, Dave. It was huge. You weren’t there. The girls were screaming—”
“Oh, come on, Nora. We’ve talked about this. We agreed to teach the girls respect for animals—all animals.”
He had nothing on now but his briefs. Some men looked silly, but Dave looked good in underwear. His shoulders were wide and muscled. His abs were still discernable under a belly just soft enough to be considered mature. His chest and legs were solid and dusted with just the right amount of soft brown hair. Best of all, though, was his butt. Tight, round, and not too narrow. Nora wondered if the Other Woman appreciated that butt. And thinking of her, how was Nora supposed to broach that subject while Dave was fixated on the assassination of a spider? Maybe this wasn’t the right time. Besides there was no Other Woman. Dave’s persistent lateness was because of depositions and various client meetings, just as he claimed, and his crankiness was due to stress.
Dave’s phone lay exposed on the comforter beside the briefcase, feigning innocence.
“Nora, seriously. You know how sensitive and impressionable they are. Ellie’s so nervous she bites her nails and won’t sleep in her own room.”
“Dave. The girls are fine.”
“Really? Can’t you see how your behavior today affected them?” He stood beside the bed with his arms extended, as if
arguing a case before a jury in his Jockeys.
Nora kept her voice low so the kids wouldn’t hear. “Of course I see. I showed them how to face up to fear and take charge even when they’re scared.”
Dave smirked. “I don’t think so. I think you showed them that it’s okay to slaughter an innocent creature.”
What? Why was Dave seriously making an issue out of a dead spider? Nora wasn’t going to apologize. Nor was she going to defend herself and mention that she’d actually considered setting it free until it jumped and scared the bejeebies out of her. She ran her hand through her hair, and a lock flopped into her eye. “Dave. Get over it. It was a spider.”
“Exactly,” he gestured grandiosely, exhibiting his biceps and triceps. “A living thing that had just as much right to live as a
parakeet or puppy—”
“So, what would you have done, Doctor Doolittle? Pick it up and pet it? Invite it to tea?” She crossed her arms, tilting her head up to meet his eyes.
“I’d have picked it up, yes. I’d have carried it outside and let it go free. I certainly wouldn’t have gone postal on the thing.”
Nora fumed. “Fine. Next time I see a mosquito biting you, I won’t swat it.”
“I’m just saying you could have made an object lesson out of it.”
“So, I guess we’re vegans now. You wouldn’t want to encourage the slaughter of an innocent chicken.”
“Come on, Nora. All I’m saying is you should try to set an example, okay?”
Another clap of thunder. A flash of lightning spilling through the windows.
Nora’s brows furrowed. What was Dave doing? Why was he so being critical? He couldn’t really care that she’d killed a spider. She listened to the water running, to the brushing of his teeth, the rinsing, the spitting. She waited, preparing. When he finally came to bed, she’d plain out ask him. She practiced the words in her mind: Are you having an affair?
Rain pelted the windows. Lightning flashed yet again, casting stark light over the room. In an eyeblink, Nora saw the rumples in the comforter, Dave’s shoes on the floor, the doorway out to the hall. The phone.
No, she couldn’t ask him outright. Maybe she should rephrase her question. What’s the real reason you were late tonight? Or, Dave, are you hiding something from me? No. Both were too accusatory. However she phrased it, Dave would react poorly. Already irritated about the spider, he’d declare that he was working his ass off and that, instead of appreciating the stress he was under and encouraging the effort he was making to support their family, his wife was accusing him of hiding things from her. He’d turn it around, blaming her for being suspicious. “Dammit, Nora,” he’d snap. “I’m doing my best. I love you. Why isn’t that good enough?”
But what if, as he proclaimed his love, she detected a dishonest quiver to his voice? What if she saw a lie in the small muscles around his eyes, a minuscule twitch or twitter?
The toilet flushed, the water ran again. In a moment, he’d come in.
Nora lay back against her rose-colored pillowcases, closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and told herself to stop inventing trouble and trust him. She waited to feel his weight on the mattress, to share a goodnight kiss.
“Mommy?”
Nora lifted her head. Sophie stood at the door, her eyes wide, head tilted as if asking, “Mommy, what should I think? How should I feel? What’s going to happen?”
The storm had frightened her, she said. But Sophie was intuitive, and Nora suspected that the storm that scared her daughter wasn’t the one raging outside.
Nora guided Sophie back to her bed and stayed with both her frightened girls until their eyelids drooped and their breathing steadied. When she came back to her own room, Dave was on his side, softly snoring.
In the morning, Nora recalled that his phone had rung sometime deep in the night. Dave had taken the call into the hall, whispering so he wouldn’t disturb her. Or so she wouldn’t hear.
Friday, August 6, 1993
T
he first time Annie asked Nora to her house, Nora stopped breathing. Her face got hot and her heart somersaulted so violently that she was almost unable to answer. It wasn’t that Nora had never been to another kid’s house. She’d gone to Natalie’s or Charisse’s a hundred times, ever since first grade. But Annie? Annie was the coolest girl going into sixth grade, if not in the whole middle school.
Annie had long, straight, dishwater-blonde hair, usually French braided. She was taller than Nora and could do cartwheels. She had neon pink braces on her upper teeth
. And—how cool was this—she wore a regular bra. Most of the girls at school were jealous of her. Every single boy had a crush on her. Nora hadn’t been in her class last year, but she’d ridden the same school bus, never imagining that the last week of camp where they were both CITs, Annie would notice her and want to be her friend.
Somehow, Nora had managed to articulate the word, “Sure.”
And, once at Annie’s house, Nora did her best to cement a friendship. She acted like Annie, mimicked Annie’s hushed way of speaking, laughed when Annie laughed, even took almost an hour to fix a French braid just like Annie’s. Her efforts seemed to work. Annie began confiding in her, gossiping about other girls, telling Nora what boys she liked, complaining about her strict parents and three older sisters. Annie even admitted that her bra was filled with tissues and gave Nora one of her sister’s bras so Nora could do the same.
As weeks passed and middle school started, Nora began to trust the friendship. She shared homeroom and English class with Annie and spent less time with Natalie and Charisse, who, by comparison, were dull and immature. But when she was at
Annie’s house for the fourth or fifth time, Annie said a few words that threatened to ruin everything.
The visit had started off fun. Annie’s sisters had friends over too, and while everyone was distracted, Annie motioned for Nora to accompany her upstairs. Nora followed Annie into a long white-tiled bathroom that reeked of hairspray and was cluttered with brushes, hair dryers, toothbrushes, lotion bottles, deodorant, nightgowns, and damp towels. She felt a pang of jealousy, imagining what it must be like to live there, to have sisters—normal siblings who got along, who she could actually talk to, or even have fun with. Annie opened a cabinet and took out a jazzy pink razor and a spray can of foam.
Nora watched with trepidation as Annie pushed the shower curtain back, sat on the side of the tub, slathered her legs with shaving cream, and ran the razor along her skin. She rinsed and dried her legs under the faucet and then held out the can of shaving cream for Nora.