We got married. I quit my job at the insurance agency and became a stay-at-home mom, even though we could’ve used the money when we bought this house. There wasn’t much left from Derek’s first wife’s life insurance so we had to take on a big mortgage, which of course comes with big payments. I went back on the pill then, because another baby was an expense we sure didn’t need.
As soon as Jenny slept through the night, I got the cinnamon bun and muffin baker job at the Willow Point Café. I enjoy all the cheerful bantering with the other ladies. Plus, it buys the groceries. At first it was only four hours a day, finishing before the cafe opened in the morning so I’d be back home when Jenny woke up. When she was old enough to get herself ready for school, I changed it to a full eight hour shift and left Derek to get Jenny off to school. While I was baking and mothering, Lita concentrated on her career.
Lita is coming for dinner. I make a mental note to tell Derek when he comes in for lunch. I didn’t mention it earlier because he was too focused on the bird feeder catastrophe, but he has to know these things in plenty of time so he can plan his day. I can’t put it off.
I go to the window and call his name. He appears at the door of the garage. “Lunch is ready!”
He nods, then vanishes inside again. I turn the element to low to keep the beans warm until he’s ready to come in.
Jennifer skims into the kitchen, blonde curls framing her pixie face. She looks so much like her father it’s heart-stopping. She holds up at the stove, grimaces at the fry pan, screws up her mouth.
“Where’s the French fries?”
“I don’t have any frozen and didn’t have time to make them from scratch today, honey.”
“I don’t want that stuff!”
“I know. I’ll make you a sandwich.”
“Fffft!” She expels her breath in a derisive snort just like her father does when he’s annoyed. “Okay. I’ll have it in here!” She disappears into the den with her tablet and in moments, the sound effects for some video game or other start up.
I paste two slices of Wonder Bread together with Skippy, trim the crusts and cut the sandwich in thirds before putting it on a plate with a dill pickle and carrot sticks I know won’t be eaten. I pour a glass of milk and deliver lunch to my beautiful daughter. She’s so engrossed in the game on her tablet she doesn’t look up. In a few minutes I’ll look in and if she hasn’t touched it yet, I’ll remind her to eat before the bread gets dry.
I go and give the Yorkshire pudding batter another whisk before opening the oven door to pull the rack with the roasting pan forward. The heat is unpleasant but the aroma makes up for it. I drizzle juices over the meat. It’s going to be perfect!
I know it’s too hot to have the oven on, but the weather’s been changeable and I didn’t want to chance a barbeque. Besides, if I made a simple steak, baked potato and salad dinner, Lita would pass most of her meat and half her potato to Derek and fill up on salad, going home as skinny as before. This way, there’ll be roast vegetables, mashed potatoes, Yorkshires and gravy. I purposely didn’t make a salad!
Dampness seeps into my T-shirt and my armpits feel uncomfortably wet. I wish I could wear a tank top or at least something with short sleeves.
Living alone, cooking for one, Lita always looks underfed. I make a point of inviting her for dinner to make sure she doesn’t starve. Although we text each other a lot, these past couple of years Lita comes around less and less. I still invite her often but she’s got so much going on she hasn’t been here since spring.
Lita has had several romantic interests since her divorce but finds something wrong with every guy, so it’s been ages since she brought someone with her. Rather than a date, her reason for declining invitations is as likely to be a seminar or golf tournament or some other event that’s good for her career. In fact she met Derek at one of those networking functions. She’s only available today because I changed the invitation from Saturday to Sunday when she said she had a conflict.
The back door squawks open, signaling Derek has come in. The powder room door closes and I hear water running. In a few minutes, he comes into the kitchen.
“Christ, it’s hot in here!”
“If we’d finished that summer kitchen in the basement…”
“Or if you didn’t make a roast in barbeque weather. Heats up the whole house. I don’t know what you’re thinking sometimes. Smells good though. What is it?”
“Brisket. A big one, lots of leftovers, so I can make you nice sandwiches for days. It cooks slow, you know, low and slow. That’s why I’ve started it already.” I move toward him and stroke his shoulder, breathing deep of the male smell of him, enjoying the touch of his skin, wondering about my breath and whether we might have that kiss now.
But he goes past me to the fridge, opens the door and gets out a beer.
“I invited Lita for dinner tonight,” I say. “Hope you don’t mind. Cooking for one—”
“She’s your friend,” he says. “I’ll have my lunch on the patio. I don’t know how you can stand it, cooped up in this inferno when it’s so nice outside.” He opens his beer, tosses the cap into the sink, and heads out through the patio doors.
I dish up, arrange everything on a tray, and join him on the patio. It’ll be in the sun later, but now it’s shaded. A welcome breeze, fragrant, cool, slides over me. I put the tray down on the table and lift my T-shirt to let the air cool my midriff, what Lita would call a muffin, before taking a chair across from him.
“No French fries?” he asks. He’s not looking at me, though; he just takes his plate and starts in on his food.
“Sorry, I just didn’t have time today. Breakfast was late, then I had to take Jennifer to swimming and then I had to shop and then pick her up again, so I really just got home. I started late.”
“I would have waited the extra fifteen minutes it would take you to make fries,” he says. He takes a long swallow of his beer, then loads his fork with cottage cheese and beans.
“I forgot I was out of frozen French fries.”
“Out of potatoes too?”
“No. I… I didn’t have time to make them from scratch and besides, I thought it was too close to dinner for such a big lunch. Sorry.”
He says nothing more, just leans over his plate, shoveling his food down so fast I wonder if he even tastes it. Is that a scowl? He’s probably annoyed Lita’s coming today, of all days, when he’s so wrapped up with the broken feeder, and now no French fries. But when I invited Lita, I didn’t know he’d be so busy.
“Honey, I know Lita’s a bit, well, abrasive. But she’s been a friend for so long. You know she can’t cook! If I didn’t invite her once in a while, she’d never have a decent meal.”
“I’m pretty sure there’s enough guys taking her out for dinner you don’t have to worry about it,” he says, his brows drawing together in a frown.
“Why do you think that? She hasn’t brought a date or mentioned dating anyone for so long…”
“You don’t really think she hasn’t had a boyfriend since the last asshole she dragged around here, do you?”
“I thought he was all right.”
“Pfft! Sure, if you don’t mind someone with an I.Q. of fifty.” He puts his fork down, picks up his beer, gets to his feet and heads back toward the garage. About halfway across the yard he turns and asks, “what time will she be here?”
“I told her drinks at four, dinner at five, since it’s back to work for both of you tomorrow. Is that okay?”
“You didn’t consult me on this so it’ll have to be.”
“Maybe I should just tell her something’s come up and not to come.”
“Jesus, you can be stupid, Carly.”
“Sorry.”
He pushes his hair off his forehead and whistles as he continues to the garage, leaving me sitting there.
I hear the snick-snick-snick of pruning shears and realize Linda is just on the other side of the fence. I wonder how long she’s been there. She’s so close
and Derek was so loud, I’m sure she heard what Derek said. I feel like going up next to the fence to talk to her. Explain why Derek is grouchy today. But I see Derek standing in the doorway of the garage looking at me, so instead I put my empty plate on the tray, then gather everything and return to the kitchen. I eat the rest of the beans including what Derek left on his plate while I stand at the sink. Waste not, want not, Mom always said.
I still haven’t decided what to make for dessert. There are bathrooms to clean, end tables to polish, and time is passing.
Four
Lita
NULLAH WAS STILL miffed about the whole Carly/Derek thing when he dropped me off. I told him not to spoil such a lovely day by pouting. He said he doesn’t pout. So then he was pouting and pissed off. But Nullah doesn’t stay mad long. I reminded him I planned to tell Carly and Derek about him and to make peace, I agreed he would definitely go with me the next time.
I guess I’ll do it, too, although I’m a hundred per cent sure it wouldn’t go well. First thing Derek would do would be to ask him about his unusual name. Nullah would tell him it’s a common boy’s name in Australia and although he’s Maori, he was born and raised in New South Wales. He’d chuckle as he explained it means war club or digging stick. Not that Derek would give a shit whether Nullah was Maori or Aboriginal or Brazilian, he’s brown, and Derek has never had anything good to say about people of colour. I wouldn’t put it past him to say something like Carly, go dig up some nice fat earthworms to go along with War Club’s rice. Of course Derek wouldn’t really be as big an asshole as that. At least he probably wouldn’t.
As I drive the highway heading for Cedar By The Sea, I indulge in a fantasy scenario of showing up this afternoon with Nullah. Imagine Derek’s face! And if Nullah looked at Carly sideways? Oh my god, it would set off Thunder Brow for sure.
Carly is Rubenesque-beautiful. She doesn’t realize it, though, and Derek’s frequent comments about her weight don’t help. In fact it’s as if she hides her body because she’s embarrassed.
Now that I think about it, maybe I should introduce them to Nullah. He says he loves zaftig women so it’s kind of strange he ever asked me out, although really, what choice did he have after I climbed into his lap at Theresa’s stag? (Nullah wasn’t part of our party. He was just sitting with a few of his friends at a nearby table. In my defense, he smiled at me first. I also blame the shooters.)
Of course he could’ve just dumped me. He didn’t have to ask me out, there didn’t have to be a second date and now we’re a couple, so my not being zaftig isn’t a dealbreaker for him. Judging by how often he does it, he likes that he can easily pick me up, so maybe that was the initial attraction.
I’m the furthest thing from zaftig, like a stick next to Carly. I couldn’t gain an ounce if I tried and my boobs hardly make a bump in a T-shirt. Nullah says any more than a mouthful is wasted. Still, I know he wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes off Carly’s double D’s. Next time Derek comes out with a snotty comment about never taking Carly out on the boat because she makes the boat list to whatever side she happens to be on, I’ll suggest he get a better boat. Maybe one like Nullah’s. It would piss that asshole off royally and be good for Carly’s self esteem besides, so it has everything to recommend it.
Five
Carly
ONLY A LITTLE after four, the door bell rings.
“I’ll get it!” Derek yells from the second floor. He comes thundering down the stairs in a cloud of Acqua di Gio, crossing the foyer to arrive at the door ahead of me. He has showered, spiked up his hair and shaved for the second time today. Thankfully he’s ditched the jean cut offs. He looks trim and boyish in baggy plaid board shorts and a T-shirt that actually came with ripped-off sleeves so his biceps are exposed and even his armpit hair shows. It reads “NUKE THE GAY WHALES FOR JESUS”.
Lita points at his shirt and says, “you gotta decide on a cause, Derek.” She chuckles, but it sounds forced.
If Derek notices, he doesn’t show it, just grins and says, “as with everything in life, I like to keep my options open.”
Lita. Cool and unruffled as always, fresh faced and pretty even without make-up. She says hello and hands Derek a bottle of wine as she brushes past him and comes to give me a hug and an air kiss.
“Derek, why don’t you take Lita outside and get her fixed up with a drink?” I suggest. “I’ll join you when I can.”
“Can’t I help with something?” Lita asks. “At least I could have my drink here so we can visit while you work. It’s been such a long time…”
“No, it’s all right, everything’s done except for the dessert and it’s a one-person job. I’ll be done in a few minutes and then I’m going to run up and change out of these sweaty clothes I’ve been in all day. You go on outside. We’ll catch up at dinner.”
“She’s running behind. Disorganized as usual,” Derek says, and hands me the wine.
“Carly disorganized? Never,” she says, but she shrugs and follows Derek out into the back yard.
Watching from the kitchen window, I see that instead of getting her a drink, he’s giving her his guided tour of the birdhouses, starting where the new feeder will go and working around the yard to the garage. I know from experience he’s pointing out details, how nifty this one is, with the door that opens on the back for cleaning out at the end of the season, how that one has the perches under it for the fledglings, and on and on. They go through this every time she comes over, and still Lita pretends interest. She listens and even asks questions as he yammers on about birds.
Now they disappear around the corner to the front of the house as if they’re heading down the trail to the water. I guess Derek wants to show her the new boat. I feel a rush of—what? Jealousy? Hurt feelings? Why am I left out? If they’re going to go down to the dock, couldn’t they wait until after dinner so I could go with them? We could take drinks down there and enjoy watching the sunset over the water. Then I realize if we did that, it would be dark coming back up and the trail and the sections of rickety old steps Derek hasn’t gotten around to fixing yet is treacherous enough at the best of times. So I’m sure he is just thinking of safety.
I fold the whipped cream into the pudding mixture in the bowl, add the miniature marshmallows, then spatula everything into the lovely cut glass bowl my grandmother gave me. Three fresh mint leaves and a tiny viola flower from my garden for garnish, and it’s into the fridge to set. It’s supposed to be refrigerated for a couple of hours but I was late making it. We won’t be ready for dessert for at least an hour so it should be enough.
I admit when I saw Lita, so cute and cool in her lacey sleeveless blouse, I felt a twinge of envy. I’m downright jealous of her flat stomach. No muffin there! Of course she never had a baby and she’s a runner. She’s got time for that, with no kids and not much housework to look after. She’s got good legs, too. There’s no denying she looks good in that mid-thigh skirt. A nice outfit for a hot day.
I remind myself looking as good as Lita does hasn’t gotten her a husband, or even a steady boyfriend. Beautiful, intelligent Lita, living alone in a two-bedroom townhouse while I live in this big house overlooking Dodd Narrows, with a beautiful daughter and a husband who still turns teenage girls’ heads.
As I wash dirty utensils at the sink I see Lita return to the patio, a little red-faced and short of breath as if she must have run up the trail. She sinks to a lounger and swings her feet up. Knowing Lita, she would challenge Derek to a race and is so competitive she would practically kill herself to beat him. Derek appears moments later and fusses with pulling out the curtain surround before re-appearing at the bar. As he passes her a tall glass, he crouches on his haunches beside her.
Snatches of their conversation drift in through the open window. It sounds like she’s telling him about an argument she had with someone, her voice rising and falling as she relates the story peppered with F-bombs. I cringe. Why does she always have to talk like that? It’s so unladylike I’m surprised
Derek never calls her on it. One of these days he just might. For now, I just breathe a sigh of relief that Jennifer is having dinner at her friend’s house.
I’m wiping the counter when Derek’s loud laugh attracts my attention. He’s still crouching beside Lita, smiling that heart-stopping big smile that crinkles his eyes, and says something too quietly for me to hear. He slides his hand between her thighs just as he moves so his back is to me, blocking my view.
My insides churn. I turn away, focusing on my task while my brain replays the caress. Was that really what it was? I only saw it for a split second, but it was too familiar. Maybe he did it without thinking, just being friendly because we’ve known each other for so long… But that’s the wrong kind of friendly.
Maybe I’m mistaken. Now I’m not sure it happened at all. If there was something going on between Derek and Lita I would know, wouldn’t I?
“Of course you would, Carly,” I mutter, and remind myself he broke up with her a decade ago because of all the things he didn’t like about her and if anything she’s gotten worse instead of better. I could hear all that swearing from here!
Damp hair sticks to my forehead. I haven’t had a chance to change, much less shower. It’s too late for a shower now, but the Yorkshires aren’t brown yet so if I hurry, I have time to wash my pits and put on a fresh shirt before they have to come out of the oven. I dash upstairs, through the master suite, and into the ensuite bathroom, where I pull off my shirt and check the bruises. They’ve faded, but not enough. No tank top today.
I wet a washcloth, and give my face, armpits and breasts under my bra a wipe. The cool damp cloth on my skin is so pleasant I do it a second time, then dry my pits and give them a swipe of deodorant. A clean shirt, a spritz of Red Door, and I’m good to go. When Lita and I were roommates, we called this a French bath. Arriving home after an all-night party with just a few minutes to get ready for work, we had French baths frequently. It seems like a lifetime ago.
The Feeder Page 2