I know what she means. I thought the same thing about her.
“Whereas you, on the other hand… I don’t know, Trace, you’re just more real, more interesting. And you’re funny too.”
The kids have got over the shock of Kate’s scream and are mewing their discomfort again. Kate gives me this pleading look, her eyes big and green and watery, like a pond covered in algae.
“Please will you have lunch with me? My shout. I can’t face going home just yet.”
“I can’t Kate. I’ve gotta get Hayley to daycare. My shift starts in an hour.”
“Why don’t you leave her with me? It’d be nice for her and Corbin to have a play-date. I can drop you off at work too, if you like.”
“If I cancel now I’ll still have to pay for it.”
She shrugs, and a look of desperation creeps into her eyes. I don’t want to but how can I refuse? I’m worried she’ll start bawling again if I don’t agree. “Okay, Kate, if that’s what you want. I’ll rearrange things.”
“Oh, thank you, Tracy! Where shall we go?”
“Wherever you like,” I say, forcing a smile.
She smiles back then starts up the car and pulls back onto the road. I make a call to Hayley’s daycare to tell them she’s not gonna make it today. Kate turns into the carpark of The Lakeview Café, a little further down the road, where she gets out and unbuckles Corbin.
“Aren’t you takin’ the pushchair?” I ask.
“No, there’s an enclosed play area inside,” she replies.
I follow suit with Hayley and she stops crying when I put her on the ground. She doesn’t want to hold my hand though, and wobbles along behind me to the entrance, Kate and Corbin beside us. Once inside we get a table next to the playpen. There’s a kid already there and we plonk Hayley and Corbin down next to him before heading up to the counter to order.
For a bleak winter weekday, I’m surprised how busy the place is. The diners include some other mothers with children—a couple of kids in highchairs, the one in the play area, plus two or three older ones sitting at tables.
“What would you like?” Kate asks.
The food in the cabinets looks delicious. “Umm, let’s see. I’ll have a toasted panini, and Hayley’ll have one of those little mince pastries and a croissant.”
“And to drink?”
“Hayley can have a juice. I’ll have a beer, thanks."
“What kind?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Speights Old Dark,” I tell her. Dark beer is supposed to help with your milk production and I got a taste for it when I was breastfeeding and needed all the help I could get.
I head back to our table and sit down while she orders. The kids are happy in the playpen—all three of them are smiling as they crawl in and out of a plastic playhouse, climbing up the little ladder and going down the slide. The cafe is cosy and warm, with an open fire crackling in a recess in the back wall. On the front wall there’s a bank of wide French doors, now closed, through which I can see the pale grey expanse of Lake Dunstan with ridges of darker grey mountains beyond.
Kate returns to the table with a foldout highchair, followed by a waitress with a second one. They set the highchairs up and Kate sits down at the table. The waitress leaves, then returns with our drinks. Kate thanks her and takes a big swig of wine.
I get my phone out. “I’m textin’ Davy to tell him he needs to pick Hayley up from yours when he finishes work. What’s your address?”
“Forty-two Cairnmuir Cres.”
“Ta. He finishes at five. He should be there straight after.”
“That’s fine. Lawrence won’t be home till late anyway. He’s avoiding me.” She gives a long, sad sigh. “What’s he like, Davy, with Hayley?” she asks.
“Oh, he’s good with her. And she loves spendin’ time with him. Never does any fuckin’ housework though. Why?”
“I just don’t know what’s going to happen with Corbin. I don’t want Lawrence to even touch him, you know? He doesn’t deserve to, not after what he’s done. But Corbin just loves Lawrence.”
“He is his dad, Kate. You can’t change that.”
“I know, but it makes me so angry. We didn’t create this. It’s all on Lawrence’s head!”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Which is why you need to talk to him. You can’t let it drag on any longer.”
“I know,” she says, and then turns her head and looks out over the lake.
We sit in silence for a while and I wonder what I’d do if Davy cheated on me. It’s hard to imagine. He may be poor and dopey and we might’ve had a kid far too young, but he’s got a big heart and I know he loves me, and God knows I’m not the most lovable person.
I look at Kate, her face in profile, shadowed by the light bleeding in through the French doors. Her shoulders are hunched and there’s lines around her eyes and while she’s still a beautiful woman—far more beautiful than me—she looks tired and she looks old.
She takes another swig of wine and turns to me. “This is nice. Thanks, Trace, I needed this. I think I’ll have the courage to confront him tonight.”
“If he comes home to see all his shit burnin’ on the lawn I reckon he’ll open the conversation.”
She laughs and then the waitress arrives with our meals. Kate goes to pick Corbin up for his lunch, but before she can do so he gives Hayley a big shove and she falls over onto the concrete floor and starts crying.
“Corbin, no!” Kate yells.
“It’s okay, Kate, it’s no big deal.”
Hayley’s still wobbly on her feet, and does it to herself twenty times a day, but Kate doesn’t see it that way. She grabs Corbin, sits back on her chair, lies him face down on her knee and yanks down his pants and nappy and gives him three smacks on the bum with the palm of her hand, hard with back-swing. Corbin screams and all around the room eyes stare in our direction.
I bend down and pick Hayley up to give her a cuddle. Then I turn back to Kate and say, “You sure you wanna look after two kids this afternoon?”
Kate scans the room and gives me a panicked look.
“Oh, Jesus!” she says, and then bursts into tears.
I cringe and feel bad for her, and bad for Corbin too, but mostly I just feel better about myself.
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J.B. Reynolds
J.B. Reynolds lives in rural Northland, New Zealand, where he raises children and chickens. He writes humorous short fiction in which tragedy meets comedy and character reigns supreme. His first short story was published while he was a university student, and in between that and a return to serious writing in 2016, he has worked as a graphic designer, landscaper, ski and snowboard technician, film critic, librarian, apple picker, and baker of muff
ins and teacakes.
Nowadays, when not writing, he’s a husband, father, and high school teacher (not necessarily in that order). He enjoys sailing, cycling, and playing music, really loud, when his wife and kids aren’t at home. He has a big garden where he likes to get his fingernails dirty, and he loves to eat the things that grow in it.
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For Danny.
Acknowledgements
Numerous people have helped me with this story and I’m hugely grateful for their varied contributions. I’d especially like to thank my wonderful editor, Lesley Marshall, whose grasp of the English language is much better than mine.
Next, I must thank my beta readers; Peter Graham, Cara Wood, and of course, my number one beta reader—my wife.
Thank you to those from the amazing literary community at Scribophile who critiqued or commented on my story, especially Chris Morey and Karen Over. What Friends Are For is a better story because of your input.
Last, but not least, thank you to all the members of my launch team, the Tsubaki Samurais, and anyone else who was generous enough to write a review for launch day—you know who you are.
What Friends Are For is published by Tsubaki Press
www.tsubakipress.com
[email protected]
Copyright © J.B. Reynolds 2017
All rights reserved
jbreynolds.net
Cover design by J.B. Reynolds
Cover and pirate images © Fotosearch.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-473-41290-6 (Epub)
What Friends Are For Page 3