Covet

by Tracey Garvis Graves

  “You probably don’t remember me, but you pulled me over for a burned-out taillight about a month ago,” I say.

  He nods. “I do remember you. Did you get it taken care of?”

  “Yes.”

  Smiling at me, he says, “Good.”

  “We had a question we were wondering if you could answer.”

  “Sure,” he says. “What is it?”

  “We live in Rockland Hills and the speed limit on our street is virtually ignored. I called and we’re on the waiting list to get a speed limit sign. Do you know how long it usually takes?”

  “How long have you been waiting?” he asks.

  “Not long,” I admit. “Maybe two weeks? I’m just curious about how long it usually takes.”

  “It depends,” he says. He opens the door of the police car, leans in, and emerges with a business card and a pen. “What’s your address? I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Really? That would be great. Thank you.” I give him my address and after he writes it down he slips the card into his pocket.

  “No problem,” he says. He scans the crowd, his eyes roaming left to right, but his body language seems relaxed as he leans back against the car.

  Elisa’s phone rings and she pulls it out of her pocket. “It’s Skip. I’ll be right back,” she says, walking away to take the call.

  Now it’s just the two of us. Feeling awkward, I start to say good-bye at the same time that he says, “Are you from around here?”

  “Yes,” I say. “What about you?”

  “Overland Park.”

  “Shawnee Mission district?”

  He nods. “I went to West.”

  “I went to East.”

  “When did you graduate?”

  “Ninety-four,” I say.

  “I was ninety-one.”

  That makes him thirty-seven. There’s another awkward lull. Neither of us say anything but when he smiles and looks at me, all the nerve endings in my body start vibrating, as if he can generate an electric current by virtue of his expression and his proximity. Strange, because until now I’ve never been one to swoon over a man in uniform. My feet move, seemingly of their own volition, and I take two steps toward him.

  “I like your hat,” he says.

  “Thanks.” I realize I’m staring and finally break eye contact. “Do you like working the parade?” I ask. Maybe this is a welcome change from his usual police responsibilities.

  “Sure. It’s fairly tame. Later is when it gets ugly,” he says. “Holidays and hot weather bring out the worst in people. Lots of alcohol abuse. We’ll see a spike in domestic assaults.”

  “That’s horrible,” I say, thinking of the fights that will break out later and the fact that there will be children in many of those households. The sound of the marching band draws nearer. “I hope I’m not in your way,” I say to Daniel, embarrassed that maybe I’m keeping him from doing his job.

  He smiles and shakes his head. “You’re not.”

  Elisa returns. “Skip said they’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “Do you have kids marching in the parade?” Daniel asks.

  “Yes. Our sons are with the Cub Scouts, and my daughter is with her dance studio,” I say. “They were really excited.”

  “How old are they?” he asks.

  “Jordan is seven and Josh is nine. Elisa’s son, Travis, is ten.” Out of the corner of my eye I see the marchers approaching. I hear the sound of the band, including the loud crash of the cymbals and the distant roar created by a large number of cheering children. Elisa gives Daniel a quick wave and says, “Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too,” he says.

  “I better go,” I say.

  “It was nice to meet you, Claire.”

  “It was nice to meet you, too. Thanks for checking on the sign.”

  “Sure,” he says. “Have a good day.”

  Elisa and I make our way back to our chairs. A few minutes later, Chris and Skip and the kids walk up to us and soon three enthusiastic voices are telling me about the parade, and I switch gears and give Josh, Jordan, and Travis my full attention. They want to go to the carnival now; it’s all they can talk about. We tell them to be patient and that we’ll head over in a minute. Chris gathers up my chair and the one I brought for him and we prepare to relocate. I grab the blanket and a small cooler that contains beer, water, and pop.

  “Let me carry that,” he says, taking the cooler from me.

  “How did the kids do?” I ask.

  “They got tired near the end, but they had a great time.”

  “Good.”

  He studies me for a second. “You’re dressed up,” he says.

  I glance down at my outfit and notice that one of the kids has already slimed me with a smear of something sticky and blue. I rub at it with my finger, which only makes it worse. “A little bit,” I say.

  Chris loves skirts. When we were first dating I wore them all the time, especially after he told me how good he thought I looked in them. “You look nice,” he says, smiling at me.

  “Thanks,” I say, and smile back at him. I can’t remember the last time he paid me a compliment. He sets off toward the park, hurrying to catch up with the kids, who are trying to sprint ahead, and I follow him.

  We buy wristbands and the kids stand in line for each ride, despite my observation that they all look a bit rickety. Sandwiched between Josh and Travis, Jordan waves frantically at me as the Ferris wheel begins to move, transporting them high in the sky. I smile at the joy on her face. When the ride ends we follow them as they rush to the next one. After they’ve ridden everything at least once, Jordan gets her face painted like a tiger while Josh and Travis eat corndogs and drink fresh-squeezed lemonade. When Jordan is done I buy her a cone of pink cotton candy and laugh when some of it sticks to her whiskers. “Don’t wipe it off,” she says, worried that I will smudge the paint. The kids jump in the biggest bounce house I’ve ever seen and, miraculously, no one throws up. Shortly before 9:00 P.M. we choose a grassy spot and settle into our chairs, the four adults sitting side by side and the kids on the blanket in front of us to watch the display. The crowd cheers when the first round of fireworks explodes in the night sky.

  Daniel is out there somewhere, I imagine. Leaning against his patrol car, watching the fireworks.

  Keeping everyone safe.

  When we return home I hustle the kids off to bed. They’re hot and dirty, and need showers, but they’re so tired I decide the world won’t stop turning if we wait until morning. Besides, there’s no way Jordan will part with the tiger makeup just yet. Despite the late hour, Chris sits down on the couch and powers up his laptop. “You’re going to work?” I ask.

  He looks up at me. “I need to get a head start on these reports.” His desire to prove himself to his new boss is all-encompassing, and I know he’s eager to prove his worth, to make himself indispensable to the company. I’ve had years to adapt to his workaholic nature, and I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. When we were younger and newly married it didn’t bother me as much. He wasn’t out at the bars like the husbands of some of my friends (or, God forbid, the strip clubs), and I took pride in the fact that Chris had his head on straight and I never had to worry about where he’d been.

  I didn’t miss him as much back then because we still spent plenty of time together, preferring each other’s company over anyone else’s. I’d wait up for him and he’d come home at eight or nine, or sometimes even ten, and loosen his tie and I’d heat up whatever I’d made for dinner. He’d eat and we’d make love and if we didn’t get to sleep until after midnight, it didn’t matter. I had the boundless energy of a woman in her early twenties, and sleep was a commodity I hadn’t yet learned to cherish the way I would after the kids came along.

  We’d only been married for six months when we decided to sta
rt a family. When I got pregnant I spent some of the hours that Chris was at work turning one of the three bedrooms in our cozy little starter home into the perfect nursery. I agonized over what color to paint the walls, choosing a gender-neutral shade of light green since we didn’t want to find out the sex of the baby. We picked out the furniture and Chris put the crib together one night while I hung up all the clothes that I’d prewashed, holding the outfits up to my nose and inhaling the fresh, clean smell. The dresser held tiny pairs of socks and sleepers, and the bookcase in the corner contained all my childhood favorites as well as the entire Dr. Seuss collection.

  When Josh was born I took to mothering with a vigor that surprised me, blocking everything but the baby out of my life. When my maternity leave was almost over I gave my employer my two weeks’ notice and decided to go the freelance route so I could work from home. I breast-fed, so Chris didn’t have much to do except make sure the car seat was installed properly and make diaper runs. For months, Josh and I cuddled in the rocking chair in the nursery, with the middle-of-the-night feedings quickly becoming my favorite. I was exhausted at first, but the glow of the night-light and the absolute stillness of the house—and Josh’s contented sigh—satisfied me more than anything in my life ever had.

  Chris stood in the doorway one evening when he got home from work, watching as I fed Josh. “Do you need anything?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered, barely taking the time to look up. “I don’t need anything at all.”

  There was no reason for Chris not to work as many hours as he wanted. I was the kind of wife—the kind of mother—who had everything under control at home. And when Jordan came along I attended to her with the same devotion I’d given her brother, working twice as hard to make sure I had enough time and attention for both of them. If Chris ever felt left out, he didn’t show it.

  Once Jordan was sleeping through the night, I’d awaken periodically, listening from our quiet bedroom convinced I’d heard a cry or a sound. When I realized everyone was still sleeping I’d wake up Chris and we’d come together quickly. He was always receptive, and making love in the middle of the night was my way of compensating for my absence during those early years of parenting. It had nothing to do with obligation, though; I needed the closeness, the connection, as much as he did. Maybe more.

  When I come back downstairs after making sure the kids are tucked in I find Chris rifling through a stack of paper, a pen clenched between his teeth. Even though Chris hasn’t slept in our bed in a long, long time, I make a request. “Come up when you’re done.” I can’t handle a blatant rejection, so I clarify. “I just want you to lie down with me,” I say. “Please.” I hate that I sound as if I’m begging.

  He looks up at me and takes the pen out of his mouth. His desire to get back to his spreadsheets is almost palpable, but his expression softens and he nods and says, “Okay. Give me a half hour.”

  But in the morning I wake up alone, and when I walk downstairs to start the coffee I find Chris asleep on the couch, spreadsheets and laptop on the floor in front of him.

  12

  chris

  The sound of someone moving around in the kitchen wakes me. I hear the sliding glass door open and Claire speaking softly to Tucker. The water runs and I picture her filling the coffee pot and starting breakfast. I’m still in the shorts and T-shirt I wore to the parade, and I blink a few times, trying to clear the cobwebs; there’s something I didn’t do. My laptop pings, alerting me to an incoming e-mail, and I notice the spreadsheets covering the floor. I remember Claire’s request and the look on her face last night when she asked me to come upstairs.

  Shit.

  She’s been patient. More patient than I’d ever be if our situation were reversed. And yet I couldn’t even give her the one small thing she asked for, which, quite frankly, is a poor substitute for the real thing.

  It will take me a long time to make it up to Claire. Not just for last night, but for last year.

  But I will if she can just hold on a little longer.

  13

  daniel

  I stop by the desk of the officer who handles our public works, including speed limit signs. I don’t know him that well, but he seems like a pretty nice guy.

  “What can I do for you?” he asks.

  “I need you to check a list for me. I know someone who’s waiting for a speed limit sign. Her name is Claire Canton.” I wait while his fingers tap the keys. After the parade I looked Claire up on the online white pages. There’s an associated person in the household named Christopher, who’s obviously her husband. I saw her talking to a tall, blond man after the parade, which is yet another reason why it makes no sense for me to keep thinking about her.

  I can’t stop, though.

  She really does look like Jessie. And her hair. I don’t remember what it looked like when I pulled her over, but at the parade it was straight, the way Jessie always wore hers. But Claire’s mouth, that doesn’t remind me of Jessie at all. Because Claire has really great lips. They’re full, but they don’t look as if she’s done anything to make them that way. There’s no way to not notice them when she talks.

  The officer brings up the list on the computer and scrolls through the names. “It’s gonna be a while. She’s way down there.”

  “Can you bump her up?”

  He looks at me and shrugs. “Sure. How far?”

  “To the top.”

  He raises an eyebrow, and I pretend not to notice. “Friend of yours?”

  I don’t know what the hell I’d call her. I hardly know her. “Yeah.”

  “Done,” he says. “She should have it in a couple days.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I owe you one.”

  He laughs. “I hope she’s worth it.”

  14

  claire

  By the fifth month of his unemployment, Chris wasn’t quite as confident about finding a job. He spent hours networking on the phone in our home office and entire days online applying directly to company websites. He had relationships with four headhunters, but only one of them was still returning his calls on a regular basis. He started to pull away from me, his responses to my questions clipped, shorter. Sleep eluded him completely, and I’d wake up in the middle of the night and find him in the office, the glow of his laptop filling the room with a weak, eerie blue light. “Are you okay?” I’d ask.

  “I’m fine,” he’d say. “Go back to bed.”

  A feeling of unease would wash over me, and I remembered the woman from my yoga class whose husband had lost his job. I wondered if he ever found one. Without a job to go to, Chris simply didn’t know what to do with himself. Our roles, once so set in stone, remained in a constant state of flux and Chris didn’t quite know how to handle it.

  In mid-August of last year, as the first day of the new school year drew near, Josh and Jordan needed clothes. They’d outgrown almost everything in their closets and the items that still fit looked decidedly worse for wear. Josh’s penchant for playing football had ripped the knees from most of his jeans, and Jordan had a tendency to ruin her clothes with large splotches of Magic Marker ink. Mindful of our budget, I avoided the stores I normally shopped at and decided it would be in our best interest to economize. My kids’ clothes might not be higher-end, but they’d be free of holes and unmarred by stains. Josh and Jordan didn’t care where their wardrobes were purchased, and I was grateful that they were too young to pay much attention to the latest trends; those days would come soon enough.

  We drove to T.J.Maxx instead of the mall. In the girls’ department, Jordan zeroed in on a pink and black plaid skirt and a white button-down shirt with a necktie in the same plaid pattern threaded through the collar. “I want to wear this on the first day of school, Mommy,” she said.

  “Sure,” I said, checking to make sure it was the right size before placing it in the cart. “It’s adorable.” The temperature would
still be quite warm when school started in late August, so I didn’t need to worry about buying matching tights; Jordan could wear the ensemble with a cute pair of ballet flats. She selected several more outfits, choosing her favorite styles and colors, while her brother fidgeted. “We’ll pick out your clothes next, bud,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said, clearly bored and grumpy that the store didn’t have a sporting goods department so he could try and talk me into buying him a new football or basketball. He gave me no input when we finally reached the boys’ department, so I picked out his clothes and decided to be happy that he didn’t have a strong opinion about what he wore.

  On the first day of school, after a special breakfast of cinnamon rolls and bacon, I posed them in front of the fireplace and snapped pictures. “I want Daddy to watch us get on the school bus,” Jordan said.

  “He will,” I assured her, though one glance toward the closed office door made me wonder if Chris would accompany us the way he always had in years past. I exhaled when the door opened five minutes later, noticing the circles under Chris’s eyes. Had he slept at all? His shorts looked looser, almost baggy, and I made a mental note to make sure he was eating enough.

  When it was time to leave, the kids hoisted their new backpacks—also from T.J.Maxx—onto their shoulders and followed me out the door, Chris lagging slightly behind.

  Bridget and Elisa were already waiting at the bus stop, cameras in hand. Sam and Skip, looking a bit out of place, wore dress slacks and button-down shirts and looked as if they couldn’t wait to leave for work; this would be their token appearance and it wouldn’t be repeated until the following year. Julia and Justin joined us moments later; I noted her oversize sunglasses, which were hardly necessary because the sky was a dull gray.