Where You Are

by J. H. Trumble

  “Let me see,” Mom says. I turn the card to her. “That’s so sweet. I bet those kids really do miss you. It’s been, what? Seven weeks? You don’t have much longer to accumulate all your service hours.”

  I miss them too.

  Nic’s paper flower bouquet is still in a vase on the counter. Mom snickers when I toss it in the trash.

  Andrew

  There are good things and there are bad things about living with Maya again. When I went to bed last night, it was all about the bad things. This morning, I can smell pancakes and it’s all good. Kiki grins at me when I stick my head in her door.

  “Daddy!” She holds her arms out to me, and I scoop her up.

  “I think your Mommy’s making pancakes. Yum.”

  “Yum,” she repeats and pokes at the scruff on my chin.

  “Let’s go get some.”

  I shift her around to my back like she’s riding a pony and gallop into the kitchen with her. I’m not surprised to see Doug. He and Maya are going to some art show today, which means I get Kiki to myself. But I can see that he is surprised to see me. I pretend not to notice and greet them with a good morning.

  Doug’s eyes travel down my boxers to my bare feet and back up again. He turns to Maya. His voice is low, but not so low I can’t hear it. “What’s going on?”

  Maya’s face looks so guilty she might as well say we’re sleeping together, which we are not. I can’t believe she hasn’t told him yet. She had to know he’d see me this morning.

  “Andrew moved back in,” she says flippantly, like all ex-husbands live with their ex-wives. “He’s sleeping in the spare bedroom. His old bedroom.”

  Doug glares at her for a few beats, then drops the spatula he’s holding on the counter and stalks out of the kitchen.

  “Doug,” Maya says. “Shit.” She runs after him. She leaves the front door open, and I can hear them arguing in the front yard.

  I look at Kiki over my shoulder. “Uh-oh.”

  She giggles.

  “I guess we’re making the pancakes, baby girl.” I set her on the counter, but far enough away from the stove that she can’t reach it, and flip the pancakes. They’re burned. I toss them into the sink and pour some more batter in the pan.

  “Daddy—”

  “Shhh,” I say to Kiki, putting my finger to my lips.

  She grins and puts her fingers to her lips. “Shhh.” I grin back.

  I’m eavesdropping. But, really, I can’t help myself. I’m sure the neighbors are getting a good show too.

  “Why are you acting like such a jerk?” Maya asks.

  “Don’t I get a say in this?” Doug fires back.

  “No. You don’t. He is the father of my child. There is nothing going on between us.”

  “Then why is he standing in your kitchen in his underwear?”

  “He just got up. I don’t know.”

  “You know what? I think you’re still in love with him.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  I flip the pancakes. “I think I may have underestimated Mr. Doug, baby girl. He’s not as clueless as he looks.”

  I’m kidding around, but deep inside I know he’s right. I know another thing, this can’t end well. But that doesn’t keep me from enjoying their little spat.

  “Do you want to take me to the art festival or not?” Maya asks Doug outside.

  “Are you sure you can break away from your little family unit?”

  “You’re pissing me off.”

  A car door slams.

  I can’t wipe the grin off my face when she returns to the kitchen. I try, but I just can’t.

  “You heard?” Maya says.

  “He’ll get over it. Go. Have a good time.”

  “I don’t even know if I want to go anymore. He’s being such a jerk.” A brief pause. “But then again, you do look kind of sexy in those boxers. Can’t blame him for being jealous.”

  Immediately I’m uncomfortable. I move the pancakes from the pan to a plate, then pour more batter. I make a mental note to put on some pants when I get up in the morning. I add that to my mental list of bad things about living with Maya.

  I feel her behind me a moment before she slides her hands around my hips and gropes me. “I don’t have to go. I can spend the day with you guys,” she says in my ear.

  “Maya, don’t.”

  She doesn’t remove her hand immediately as if a few more strokes will change my mind. It doesn’t.

  “Doug’s waiting. You need to go.”

  I feel her stiffen behind me. She removes her hand. Then, as if this isn’t the most awkward minute we’ve ever spent together, her voice gets all cheery, and she gives Kiki a big hug. “You two have a good day,” she says. She kisses me on the cheek. I throw a half smile her direction and wish her the same.

  As I pour the last of the batter into the pan, I’m thinking how different this would have turned out if that had been a certain seventeen-year-old’s hand feeling me up through my drawers. The thought makes me hard in a way that Maya’s hand couldn’t, and I’m glad my daughter is only two.

  Chapter 30

  Andrew

  Before the first bell rings Monday morning, I count the number of school days left—seventy-nine. I’m not sure I can even make it through today. When did this quit being fun? And now I have to tutor Stephen Newman. Lucky me.

  He and a couple of his friends breeze into class about two seconds after the bell rings. They’ve been standing outside for three minutes or so. I’m writing the day’s objectives on the board and pretend I don’t notice. When I turn to look at the class, he’s slouched back in his seat with that smug, self-satisfied expression. I refuse to be baited by this little jerk. I manage to get through class by biting the inside of my lower lip until it bleeds.

  “Stephen,” I say as he gets up to leave.

  He comes to my desk, but when I start to speak, he turns his back on me and fist bumps his buddies out the door. Then he calls out to Kristyn Murrow, “Hey, girl,” and waggles his tongue at her. She giggles and disappears out the door. When there’s no one left in the classroom he turns to me.

  I am not amused.

  “I’d like you to come in for tutoring. You’ve got a sixty-eight average in Algebra for this nine weeks. I’ll work with you until you get on more solid ground. I do algebra tutoring after school on Mondays—today. I can get you ready for your test tomorrow, and maybe, if you put in the effort, you can hang on to that eligibility.”

  “I can’t make Mondays. I have . . . other things to do.”

  Sure you do.

  “All right, then. I tutor calculus on Thursdays. I can work with you then on test corrections.”

  “Nope. Thursdays are no good either.”

  “Then why don’t you just suggest a day,” I say, irritated.

  “Wednesdays. After football practice.”

  Wednesdays. Of course. That’s the one day of the week that Maya works late. I’ll either have to leave Kiki at Ms. Smith’s Village late that day, or Maya will have to juggle work and a kid until I can get out of here. God, I am starting to hate this brat.

  “What time are you done with football practice?”

  He shrugs like I’m boring him to death. “It’s off-season. Four thirty.”

  So I have to stay at school an extra three hours to tutor a kid who not only doesn’t seem to care one whit about his grade, but who is trying his damnedest to make my life miserable. I hear these stories all the time from other teachers. Somehow, I thought I was immune. Silly me.

  “Then I’ll see you Wednesday at four thirty.”

  He looks me up and down like I’m a piece of shit, then ambles out of the classroom like he’s got all the time in the world but wants to waste a few more seconds of mine.

  It doesn’t surprise me when he’s fifteen minutes late Wednesday. I had already given up on him. I’m just shutting down my computer when he slouches into the room. His hands are empty. No paper. No pencil. No calculator. No respect.


  So that’s how we’re going to play the game, huh?

  I have some quadratic equations already written on the board. I stand and hold out a dry erase marker. “You made a forty-nine on yesterday’s test. I’ll allow you to do test corrections after we review. You can bring that grade up to a seventy. After that, with some sustained work, we can get your average above the failing mark.”

  He stares hostilely back at me.

  O-kay. “Why don’t you come up here and we’ll work these problems on the board together.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” he says to me and guffaws.

  Don’t take the bait. Don’t take the bait. Don’t take the fucking bait.

  “All right. Then I’ll walk you through them.” I review the different methods of solving quadratic equations, then talk through a few problems. But I might as well be talking to the wall. He stares out the window the entire time, mouthing what looks like a rap song. I stop midproblem and wait until I have his attention. When it becomes clear that I’m not going to get his attention, I return to my desk and finish packing my things.

  Stephen gets up and sneers at me. “Guess I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

  Robert

  “He’s back, guys!” Ms. Momin closes the door behind me and ushers me into the living room where my group waits.

  They are already seated in a semicircle. Patrick is the only one who gets out of his seat. He extends his bent arm out to me. It wavers and I have to grab his fist and steady it for a fist bump. “Hey, Patrick. How you doing, man?”

  “Bah!”

  “Yeah. I’m back. Have you been practicing?” I pull my recorder from the velour slipcase.

  “Yah. Yah.” The words explode from his mouth in a staccato burst.

  He drops into his seat again as I squat in front of Sophie. Her eyes are fixed on something or nothing behind me. “Hey, beautiful. I missed you.” She doesn’t respond, but I know she hears me.

  Ms. Momin coaxes her to look at me and say, “Hi, Robert.” It takes a lot of coaxing, but eventually her head swings sharply my way and bounces a little like a bobblehead. She fixes her eyes on me briefly and says something that approximates “Hi, Robert.”

  I pat her knee and crab walk to the chair next to her. Jo-Jo. He’s whimpering.

  “Hey, Jo-Jo, you ready to play some music?” He draws in a deep, deep breath and lets it out with a shudder. He’s going to burst into tears; I back off.

  I pull my chair up close and I look up at Ms. Momin, who’s wrapping Sophie’s fingers around her recorder. “What have y’all been working on?”

  She smiles over Sophie’s head. “ ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’ ”

  “That’s a great song!” I say to my group.

  As Ms. Momin explained to me in December, these kids don’t do well with change. I learned that lesson the hard way when I tried to introduce “Jingle Bells.” They like the familiar. They like the repetition. And every time we play it, it’s like the most beautiful thing they’ve ever done, like it’s the first time.

  “Okay, everybody put your mouthpiece in your mouth.” After a few tries, Patrick manages on his own, but Ms. Momin and I have to help the other two. And when they’re ready, we play.

  You’d think I’d get sick of this after months of the same old routine, but the look of triumph on their faces each time we finish the song leaves me humbled and grateful for the experience. I’ve missed these kids.

  Parents are just arriving as we wrap up. I help the kids get the recorders back in the slipcases tagged with their names and then stack them on the table for Ms. Momin to put away later.

  This is the first time I’ve seen the parents since Dad died, and I have to endure a few minutes of sympathy and promises to let them know if there’s anything they can do for me.

  “You are so good with them,” Ms. Momin says as I help her return the chairs to the dining room table. “How are you doing?”

  Ms. Momin is beautiful. She’s young, with these huge brown eyes and long dark hair. I think if I were into girls, I’d find it very hard to be in the room alone with her right now.

  “I’m okay,” I say.

  “We only have two more sessions before your service hours are complete. Honestly, I don’t know what we’re going to do without you.”

  Chapter 31

  Andrew

  This is what pisses me off.

  The next week I stay after school again, three extras hours, without pay, on a non-tutoring day to tutor a sarcastic little brat who used his hour last week to fuck with my head. Maya has to move her group back an hour so she can pick up Kiki from Ms. Smith’s Village and take her to a doctor’s appointment, which I had planned to do, and said little brat doesn’t show up. He doesn’t say anything in class. He doesn’t stop by after school. He doesn’t leave a note in my mailbox.

  He just doesn’t show.

  At four forty, I leave. And then, just to cover my ass, I leave a note on the door, just in case he does show.

  The house is quiet when I get home. It occurs to me that I haven’t been in the house alone once since moving in. I don’t turn on the TV to check the news as I usually do. I just want to soak up the quiet and unwind, or I swear to God, I’m going to hunt down a live chicken and bite its head off.

  So I’m not particularly thrilled when someone knocks on the door, and I’m really hoping I don’t have to play nice with parents or babysit any kids until Maya gets home.

  I paste a smile on my face and open the door.

  “Sorry, I’m—” Robert looks up at me from the step down, and my knees actually go a little weak. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

  For a moment I think he’s followed me here, but he looks just as surprised as I am, and I dismiss the thought.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing,” I say, my heart hammering in my chest.

  “I work with some kids here, every Wednesday, with Ms. Momin.”

  No. No way. No fucking way. Maya’s talked about her group, but she’s never mentioned any names, or if she has, they just didn’t stick with me. I can’t believe it. Robert, my Robert, has been coming here for months? And now he’s here and I’m here and there are so many things I want to say to him. But all I can think to say is, “Come on in.”

  I hold the door open for him and he slips past me like I’m going to punch him or something. “Your group’s been postponed until six. Maya said she called everyone.”

  “Maya? My phone’s dead. Wait, you know Ms. Momin? And, why are you here?”

  I wipe my hand down my face. Wow. It occurs to me later that this moment is the very definition of serendipity. “Maya—Ms. Momin—is my ex-wife.” I’m embarrassed to admit the next part. “I live here now. I mean, I used to live here, and I moved back a couple of weeks ago.”

  “You were married to Ms. Momin? She’s your ex-wife? She was the woman in that picture?”

  I shrug.

  His face screws up as he tries to grasp what I’ve said. “Wait. What do you mean you moved back in? You don’t live in your apartment anymore?”

  I shake my head.

  “Why?”

  “Do I really need to answer that?”

  “Yes,” he says, his voice cracking. “You do.”

  I’m still holding the door open. I close it, and that in itself makes me nervous. Because he’s so close, and we are so alone. “Robert, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

  I don’t know what he sees in my face, but he throws himself at me. I stagger backward into a small table and a lamp tumbles to the floor. I think he means to hurt me for hurting him, but he grabs my face in his hands and jams his mouth against mine.

  It takes about five seconds to undo all the distance I’ve managed to put between us in the last two and a half weeks.

  My hands are under his shirt and he’s pulling it over his head and whispering things like, “How much time do we have?” and I’m answering, “Not much,” and he’s saying, “Then we’ll hurry,” and I’m sayi
ng, “God, I want you,” and he’s saying, “You’ve got me,” and I’m hoping like hell Maya doesn’t pull into the driveway for another twenty minutes at least.

  There’s no time to get completely naked, and no need. We’re naked enough. And there’s plenty of need already. By the time the garage door goes up half an hour later, we’re dressed, I’ve righted the lamp and lit the candle that Maya likes to burn when the kids are here to help them relax, and Robert’s moving the dining room chairs into a semicircle.

  “Hey,” she says to Robert as I scoop up Kiki. “You’re early. Didn’t you get my message?”

  “Um, yeah. I just got here. Is it okay if I’m a little early? I can always—”

  “No, of course not. I guess you’ve met my ex-husband.”

  “Yeah,” I say before he can respond. We haven’t worked out our story yet, so I’m doing it on the fly. “We’ve had a few minutes to get acquainted.”

  Robert smiles a little too broadly, then turns away quickly to retrieve his recorder from the table.

  “Well,” I say to Maya, trying very hard not to look at Robert and imagine him with his jeans around his thighs again. “How about I take this one for some chicken tenders somewhere?”

  “Just no McDonald’s,” Maya says, giving Kiki a kiss on the cheek.

  Maya’s no McDonald’s sets off a chant. “McDonald’s, McDonald’s, McDonald’s.” Kiki’s jumping in my arms, and in my peripheral vision, I see Robert watching and grinning. Boy, I’d like to take him for a Happy Meal.

  “All right, all right, all right,” Maya says. “Just no chicken nuggets, okay. Who knows what’s in that stuff.”

  As I watch my daughter pick her way through two chicken nuggets—she’s quite persistent—I realize that I am too far gone to turn back now. I’m crazy about that kid. And four months—three now, I think—is too damn long.