Spring Fevers

by Matt Sinclair

  "Janet, you signed this already."

  "What's that?"

  "Hannah's report card."

  "It's on the table."

  "You signed it."

  "Yes." She sounded frustrated. As if chicken fettuccini was all that complicated.

  "But I hadn't seen it yet."

  "You're looking at it now, right?"

  "Yes, but I wanted to see it."

  "No one's stopping you." She was really starting to annoy me. Does she do that on purpose? "Bob, it doesn't matter which of us signs the report card."

  "Well, what if her performance is unacceptable?"

  "You had report cards in school, right? It's not a negotiation. We're being told about her progress."

  I sighed.

  "If you have a problem with your daughter's performance, then—"

  "My daughter? All of a sudden she's my daughter?"

  "She's your daughter, Bob. I should know. I was there. Do you want a progress report on dinner?"

  "Huh?"

  "Because if you keep this up, I'm going to smack you on the head with the pan and you'll understand everything you need to know about tonight's dinner. Is that acceptable, or do you want to negotiate?"

  "I'm going upstairs to talk with our daughter."

  "Good. I'm going to see if I can jerry-rig an IV drip to a bottle of Chardonnay while you're gone."

  Sarcasm, thy name is wife.

  * * *

  I knocked on Hannah's door and got no response. I tried once more, and after getting the same silence, I pushed the door open and peered inside.

  "Hannah Banana?"

  She was at her computer, swaying to what I assumed was music from what I assumed was her iPod or Blue Tooth, or iPad, uPaid, uFool. I thought about how, by the time Hannah has kids, we'll probably have communications software embedded in our skulls so we can use telephones telepathically. I preferred the old curly cords and rotary dials, but progress is a good thing, I supposed.

  I walked over and tapped her on the shoulder. She must have jumped half a foot.

  "Jesus, Dad! Can't you knock?" Her voice was loud to overwhelm the music that bled from her ears.

  "I did. Twice."

  She pulled out an earbud. "What do you want?" I only had half her attention—at best. The other half was on her IM conversation. Lots of LOLs and shortened words.

  "I wanted to talk about your report card."

  "It's on the table."

  "I know."

  She typed in code and received coded messages in return so fast I couldn't tell what was said.

  "Can I speak with you or do I need to get online and IM you with my questions?"

  "Speak."

  "Listen, young lady, I want your attention."

  "I have attention deficit disorder. Take a number."

  I wondered how my wife was doing with the IV wine drip. Hannah must have been driving her nuts.

  "I'm not going to take a number. I'm going to speak with you directly if I have to unplug the computer to do it."

  She sighed. Sounded just like her mother. "Give me five seconds to let the girls know I'm signing off."

  She tapped out another coded message. I recognized the LOLs that streamed in response.

  "Thanks," I said, trying to exude sarcasm. It didn't come naturally.

  "Right. What's up?"

  "When did we stop talking normally to each other?"

  "You said you wanted to talk about my report card. Focus."

  "All right. What's with the B+ in English? You've always been an excellent writer."

  "It's not just about writing."

  "No, of course it isn't. But you're a good speller, too. I'm just trying to find out how you didn't get an A. English has been your best subject for so long."

  "Must be all the pot I'm smoking."

  My heart started racing and my legs felt weak. "What?" I croaked.

  She turned around and faced me. I could tell at once she was joking. The smirk was all Janet. Hannah had learned it well.

  "Oh, Jesus!" I said. "For a moment I thought you were serious."

  Hannah laughed. "Give me a little credit. If I were actually doing drugs, do you think I'd just tell you?"

  I almost lost my footing again and one of my eyebrows started to twitch. "You can tell me anything, Hannah Banana." I couldn't stand anymore and planted myself into a beanbag chair. It wasn't much better than standing.

  "Whether I can tell you is different than whether I will. I would expect you to know that. Step zero."

  "What do you mean?" Even as I sat, I shook like I needed to go to the bathroom.

  "Because I know. And I believe Mom knows."

  "Mom knows what?" One of my feet tapped as if trying to keep step with a Django Reinhardt song.

  "That you've been cheating."

  "What?" I turned to look at the door, expecting to find Janet there, but the door was a little ajar, just as I'd left it when I came in. "What are you talking about?"

  "Do you really want me to go into this?"

  It was a fair question. If I left it there, then we never discussed it and I could keep myself in the dark about whatever devilish thoughts clouded my daughter's mind. But I didn't know what she knew. In my mind, I heard my wife's constant remark: "Bob, you're more nervous than an old dog at the vet."

  "Perhaps we should leave it be, then."

  "All right." She turned back to her computer. "Oh, and thanks for never calling me Hannah Banana in front of any of my friends."

  I left the room. It wasn't till I was brushing my teeth later that I realized we'd never really discussed her grades.

  The next morning, when I parked my car in the office lot and took out my one cigarette of the day, I wondered if my furtive smoking habit was what Hannah was talking about. She had her learner's permit now. Maybe she had discovered the pack of cigarettes I kept in the glove compartment. Of course, if I raised the topic again and I was wrong, then I would have exposed my little secret. And if she knew of something else, then she'd realize I had another secret. She was a clever girl, my Hannah. She must have picked it up from me.

  * * *

  "Bob, what do you think of inviting the Andersons over to play cards Friday night?" Janet was slicing the meat on her plate as if it was the simplest question she'd ever asked.

  I held my fork in front of my mouth. "Cards? When's the last time we played bridge?"

  "Well, that's my point. We used to do lots of things back when we saw people. I think it would be fun to be sociable again."

  "Why the Andersons?"

  "Don't you like the Andersons?"

  I looked at Hannah, who remained inscrutable. "Sure."

  Hannah smirked. "Is that, 'sure, you like them,' or 'sure, invite them over'?"

  "You planning on playing cards?"

  "No thanks. Other than poker, playing cards hasn't been in style since maybe the 1970s. But it's fine for you two. You're old."

  Janet laughed. "I can't wait till you're our age."

  "You're assuming you'll still be alive."

  "Ha ha," Janet said, though her smile was gone.

  "To answer the question," I said, "it's yes to both."

  "Wonderful, I'll let them know."

  As I brushed my teeth that night, a soft knock tapped on the bathroom door. Assuming it was Janet, I opened it up. In popped Hannah.

  I spat.

  "What are you doing up?" Toothpaste splattered the mirror.

  "Rinse."

  "What?"

  She pointed at the sink. "Rinse."

  I did as she said.

  "Are you really going to play bridge with the Andersons?"

  "Sure, why not?"

  She closed the bathroom door behind her. "I'm going to be blunt. Don't lie to me. Are you or were you having an affair with Mrs. Anderson?"

  I didn't know what to say. But I raised my eyebrows.

  "Crap!" she said. "I think Mom knows."

  "Knows what?"

  "A
bout the affair."

  "I'm not having an affair."

  "You didn't answer right away. You're having an affair. I can't believe you don't trust me with information like this."

  "A: I'm not having an affair with Mrs. Anderson. B: You're seventeen years old. If I were having an affair—which I'm not—I would not tell you about it. And C. Why do you think I'm having an affair with Mrs. Anderson?"

  "What's wrong with Mrs. Anderson?"

  "Nothing, but why would I have an affair with someone who lives down the street?"

  "These things usually happen close to home."

  "We're not talking about a car accident. You're accusing me of adultery."

  She said nothing. I half expected her to say "same thing."

  "Who are you having an affair with?"

  "What makes you think I'm having an affair?" I wiped my face with a cloth. "You know what? I'm not having this conversation with you. I'm going to bed. Good night."

  I was almost out the door when she said, "It must be Mom, then."

  I turned to make sure Janet wasn't in earshot, then quietly went back into the bathroom. "What are you talking about?"

  "Nothing. Forget I said anything." She sat on the closed toilet.

  "What's got you so spooked? Start at the beginning."

  "The beginning?" There were tears in the corners of her eyes. "When was that?"

  I was totally confused. When did our happy little family become tawdry and mysterious?

  I squatted down on the floor between the sink and the tub. "What makes you think one of us is having an affair?"

  She stared at the ceiling and was silent for a long moment. "Well, you were doing some really weird stuff about six, seven months ago. That was the first step."

  "The first step?"

  "Actually, I suppose I first thought it was happening when I found rubbers in your dresser. That was step zero."

  Now I was silent. For a long time.

  "Dad?"

  "So … okay. Step zero?"

  "Are you upset with me?"

  "No, honey." I said this immediately, since stunned silence had been the wrong approach earlier. "I'm not quite sure what I'm feeling at the moment, but I don't think it's upset."

  She sighed.

  "You're aware that your mother and I have sex, right?"

  The tears returned to her eyes. "I don't want to hear this."

  My laughter took me by surprise, though it felt really good. "You accuse me of having an affair with a neighbor, but you don't want to talk about the possibility that your parents might be having sex?"

  "This is not a conversation any kid wants to have with her parents. Did you talk about sex with Gramma?"

  "No." I chuckled again. "And you have the good grace to remind me that I'm older than your grandmother was when I was your age."

  "You and Mom still have sex at your age? Ick!"

  * * *

  On Friday, after my morning shower and bathroom routine, I stepped outside to grab the paper, when who jogged past but Don Anderson. I waved and he noticed me, but he didn't acknowledge me. Not so much as a head nod. Ordinarily, I'd have thought nothing of it. In fact, I would have forgotten all about it before I tweezed the sports section out of the pack. But after my conversation with Hannah, I was … well, sensitive I suppose. Don's little jogging snub—rather, what it might mean—was still in the back of my mind as I slurped the last of my cereal.

  In the hallway, a snap sounded. I turned to see Hannah tiptoeing into the dining room. "Sleepwalking?"

  "I didn't want to wake Mom," she whispered.

  "Your mother slept through the burglar last month. I don't think you're going to wake her by walking into the kitchen."

  She tried to stifle a chuckle. "Oh yeah, the burglar."

  I let it go. The burglar had only swiped some money that I'd left outside my wallet. It could have been much worse.

  "Anyway," she continued, "I just wanted to say you should convince Mom not to call the Andersons about bridge."

  "I told you, I'm not having an affair with Mrs. Anderson."

  "Fine. But I still think bridge is a bad idea. Trust me."

  "Well, let's do this instead. I'll suggest to her that we put it off if you promise that you'll leave your report card at my place on the table when you receive it."

  "You realize that Mom could very easily open it even if it's at your place."

  "She wouldn't. It's a federal crime to tamper with mail."

  My daughter sighed. "It's addressed to both of you."

  She had a point.

  "Just agree and I'll acknowledge that it's not entirely in your control, just like I have no control over your mother deciding that she wants to play cards regardless of how insistent I am that we cancel. Okay?"

  She shook her head, but her eyes glistened with sadness. She looked like she was seeing me for the last time. "Okay." She even put her pinky out and we pinky swore on the deal. I couldn't remember the last time my little girl and I did that. I smiled.

  * * *

  "Bob, why didn't you say anything about this last night? I've already ordered sandwiches and bought a couple bottles of wine. Sheila was so happy when I called her." Even over the phone, I could feel the heat of Janet's frustration.

  I pushed some papers around while my secretary, Erin, waited for me to clear my desk. "It's a nagging feeling, Janet. And I have to tell you, I didn't feel better about it when Don Anderson totally snubbed me this morning when he was jogging."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I waved and he totally ignored me."

  "Maybe he didn't see you. My goodness, what time was that? Six a.m.?"

  "He looked right at me. It was like he thought I was planning on ripping the tendons from his ankles."

  "You weren't standing out in the yard in your underwear again, were you?"

  Silence.

  "Good God, Bob! Who does that? Now I'm amazed Sheila said yes."

  "Okay, okay. We'll play cards. I'll drink some wine or beer or club soda and we'll have some laughs."

  "Hannah said she was spending the night with her friend Cindy. I think her exact words were, 'There's no way in hell I want to be around this house Friday night!' She gets that from you, you know. I don't talk like that."

  I chuckled; she was right. "I'll see you when I get home."

  Erin unbuttoned her shirt.

  * * *

  That night, I came home to find Hannah hiding behind a bush near the garage.

  "I thought you were hanging out with Cindy."

  "I will be, but I needed to talk to you one more time."

  "Honey, I tried."

  She stared at the ground. "Are you and Mom happy?"

  "All this over a game of bridge?"

  "I don't care about the card game. I think there's something happening. I think you and Mom are going through some sort of problem. What did Gramma call the period before Gramps died? A rough patch."

  "How many guys have you dated?"

  "That has nothing to do with anything."

  "I'm trying to make a point."

  "What's your point?"

  "That married adults—and you'll probably be one too in the not distant future—sometimes have periods where things don't go smoothly."

  "I know."

  "Do you? You're not only jumping to wild conclusions based on the flimsiest of evidence, you're also displaying a fair amount of naïveté about relationships in general. I'm not complaining about it. In fact, it makes me feel more comfortable that you're not doing anything too stupid with any boys you might like."

  She knocked her hand softly against the house repeatedly. "I can accept that you and Mom still …" She shuddered. "Still have sex. And I suppose that's good. Truth is, Cindy told me I was being stupid too. We've been talking about a lot of things and she's helping me realize that maybe I have some incorrect assumptions."

  Voices coming down the road sounded a lot like the Andersons. I whispered to Hannah, "
Then why are you here warning me about the Andersons?"

  Her face puckered up so tight I thought she was going to cry. "I just can't shake this feeling that something's wrong."

  I chuckled and spread my arms out for a hug. My daughter melted into my arms.

  "I'm sorry."

  "There's nothing to apologize for. I love that you love your mother and me so much."

  I broke the embrace, held her by the shoulders, and looked with love at my only child. "Now, get to your friend's house. I have a card game to play."

  * * *

  At Janet's insistence, we played men versus women. I'd forgotten how good a player Sheila Anderson could be, and Don and I soon were behind. I finally won a bid and Don took his opportunity as the dummy to head to the bathroom.

  While Janet was playing her card, Sheila stroked my leg with her foot.

  I placed my card down, shoved their trick to Janet and looked at Sheila.

  Her foot continued along my calf muscle.

  "Your lead," I said.

  She looked up at me and smiled. "Let's see what you can do with this."

  She placed a low non-trump heart that I easily topped with a heart from Don's hand.

  "Oh, Sheila, what did you do that for?" Janet said.

  "I already played my good heart."

  "Table talk," I joked.

  Janet put her card down and I played mine; Sheila continued playing footsy.

  The night pretty much followed that way, with Don drinking too much wine ("I'm fine. I'll run it off tomorrow," he said whenever his wife complained) and Janet oblivious to Sheila's frequent passes at me.

  When Don started having trouble staying awake, the game died down. At one point, Janet excused herself, leaving Sheila and me effectively alone.

  "What do you think?" she said. "Should I suggest a few rounds of strip poker?"

  "That could be different. Let's see what Janet thinks." Yet, despite her assault on my leg, I could see in her eyes that she was cool to the idea she'd suggested.

  Janet soon returned and Sheila suggested the two of them help march Don back home and call it a night.

  "You don't need me," Janet said. "Why don't the two of you take him back, and I'll clean up here."

  "Nonsense," Sheila said. "I bet you and I could handle him just fine. Bob, you take care of things here while Janet and I take Mr. Party to bed."

  * * *

  All in all, I thought I'd kept what could have been an embarrassing situation fairly well in check. While they were gone, I cleaned the card table and opened another beer. I sat on the couch to watch some television and somehow fell asleep. The next morning, I awoke on the couch, the beer tucked into the cushion where I'd propped it. My throat was dry and I sipped the warm beer. Disgusting. But it served its purpose. I walked into the kitchen and shoved it into the fridge for later. Gotta love Saturdays.