by Tish Cohen
Seated by the window had been an athletic woman whose Teva sandals and baggy tie-dyed tank made her seem approachable. The woman thought Elise’s predicament rather funny, but had trouble tugging the stiff leather off swollen flesh.
Matt Sorenson had been nearby working on a laptop. Wearing a Brooks Brothers shirt and stainless-steel watch with a racy black face, he was clearly not from the area. Elise would later learn he was waiting for his car at a repair shop down the street. He became interested in her predicament and wandered over to have a go at her boots. He put all his focus on freeing her heel, with little success. “Jesus. Maybe you should go up a size.” Finally, the boot came off, leaving dried mud and flecks of straw on his palms. He glanced outside at the rain as he tugged off the second one. “How are you going to get home in socks?”
She gestured, with some embarrassment, across the road to a squat, pus-yellow building between a U-Haul depot and A-1 Self Storage with a six-foot-high barbed-wire fence. One of the front-facing windows was covered in tin foil. Another in a faded American flag. “It’s not far.”
“I can’t let you run across the road with no shoes on.” He leaned over his knees, motioned toward his back. “Hop on.”
She shook her head no and, boots in hand, thanked him, then went out into the rain. Waited for a break in traffic and ran back to her life on the shabby side of the street. The fellow with the dirty hands was free to return to his. She never expected to see him again.
A week later, she found a brown paper bag in her foyer. Written on the front of the sack was: To the dressauge rider with the punishingly tight boots.
Inside was a wooden boot jack. Elise pulled it out and replaced it with a twenty-dollar bill. Wrote on the bag’s other side:
Sorry, I don’t accept gifts from men with straw on their hands.
P.S. My name is Elise.
P.P.S. You misspelled dressage.
She left it in the foyer, hoping none of her neighbors would abscond with it. A day later, the now rumpled bag was back. Inside was a receipt from a tack shop for $29.50 and a note:
It all makes sense now—you’ve clearly never bought a boot jack in your life. You owe me $9.50. Which I am prepared to accept in the form of insincere flattery—but I expect my money’s worth. Meet me at E. 76th and Fifth on Monday at 7. You may or may not see Woody Allen heading into his jazz gig as we pass the Carlyle en route to our more modestly priced eatery, so maybe go lighter on the manure. A little spit and polish goes a long way with him, from what I hear. Yours, etc., Matt Sorenson
And so it would go.
Elise glanced up at the roof once more: no sign of the bear. Taking her eyes off the animal had been a mistake. She scanned the gables, then the garden. It had to have shimmied down the trellis. Could it be lurking in the yard now? Or worse—on the porch?
She pulled out her phone to wake Matt, only to find she still had no signal. He would be lying in his childhood bedroom, snoring softly, in his usual white T-shirt and boxers. And Gracie. Their daughter would be lying on her back, arms and legs flung to the far corners of her twin bed, duvet kicked to the floor because “It suffocates.” Gracie would forgive her for missing the play. She would; Elise was nearly certain. That was the sweetness of children: they would forgive their parents for almost anything.
Whether that parent forgave herself was another story.
What Matt thought about the accident, how much he thought about it, if he thought about it—Elise didn’t know. What had happened had taken the shape of a big, bloated silence between them.
The urge to hold her daughter, to tuck herself softly beneath her husband’s arm, now overtook all sense and caution. Elise gathered her bags to her chest and raced through the blackness to the door.
She could smell her daughter before she could see her. That intoxicating mix of sugary perspiration and baby shampoo seeped out onto the landing. Elise quietly opened Gracie’s door. Slipped into the bedroom. A small nightlight beside the dresser offered just enough of a glow to reveal the tiny mound of sweetness, that shiny dark blond hair on the pillow, plump, sweaty limbs having pushed off the covers. Crutches lay in wait on the floor.
On the nightstand, one of her favorite photos of Gracie sat in a fat wooden frame. It was taken right here in the cabin on Christmas morning three and a half years ago. Double-A Christmas, they called it. Gracie had been asking for AA batteries for ages, because some of her favorite toys had stopped working. Matt had had a huge divorce case that bled from fall into winter, and Elise had been preparing to ship to Florida a bit late that year because Indie had had a minor injury. Batteries had become a running joke almost. Gracie asking, Matt and Elise looking at each other, praying the other had remembered. Weeks passed this way until Christmas morning, when Gracie pulled a jumbo pack of Duracell batteries from her stocking. She stood there, so adorable in her sweet red footie pajamas, crazy bedhead. Her smile was so joyous it could have lifted the house from the ground. Even later, back in school, when the kids were asked to describe their winter breaks, all Gracie had written about were the batteries.
Elise wrapped herself around her daughter now and kissed her. “Hey, sleepy one. Wake up. Mommy’s home.”
“Mom.” Her voice was a low scrape.
“How’s my little sweetheart?”
Flushed, Gracie stretched and fumbled behind her head for one of the dozens of stuffed animals she had fanned out around her pillow.
Elise buried her face in her daughter’s hot neck as Gracie pulled down a giraffe with an upturned snout that gave the distinct impression he wasn’t buying whatever you were selling. She squeezed the tiny creature.
“What about my hug?”
“Giraffey needs it more. I haven’t hugged him in, um . . .” She paused to calculate. “Thirteen days.”
“Thirteen, huh? How do you know that?”
Gracie held up her giraffe. “I know because there are twenty-five and I take turns. So no one gets hurt feelings.”
“Do you know how much I missed you?” Elise tried to blow a horsey kiss on Gracie’s belly, but her daughter pulled her top down to block the kiss. “How was the play? I’m so, so sorry and sad I missed it.”
Gracie’s thumb found her mouth and she spoke through it. “If your plane crashed, I told Dad we should have an open casket. Because you’re pretty.”
“What?” Elise stared at her, incredulous, then gently pulled thumb from upper palate and held it. “Why would you think such a thing? Sweetie, were you worried my plane was going to crash?”
“No.” The child’s eyelids fluttered and she rolled onto her side. Again, the thumb went into her mouth. Again, Elise worked it out and dried it off. “But he said then we could get a German shepherd.”
Really? Was Matt that angry? She leaned down to kiss her daughter’s forehead. Thumb reinserted itself. Thumb-sucking had certainly been Gracie’s self-soothing remedy of choice. But that spring, with Elise’s concentrated remedial plan of fabric Band-Aids, pickle juice, cayenne pepper, pretty manicures, online photos of upper palate and bite consequences, and, finally, a sock pulled over the hand at night, she’d really cut down on “Thumb,” as Gracie had always called it. Elise had assumed the habit would be gone altogether by the time she returned. “Honey, you know Mommy loves you very much.”
An ardent nod. “Duh.”
“I’m just wondering about Thumb again. She seems determined to thwart our efforts, doesn’t she? Do you want a sock for your hand? Maybe then she’ll sleep through the night and stop disturbing you.”
“’Kay.” Children are open to self-improvement—tiny sponges ready to grow into their very best selves. Gracie wanted to be a big girl and abolish babyish behaviors. Elise took a long, polka-dotted sock from the dresser drawer and slid it over the girl’s wet fist, then tucked Thumb deep under the covers and kissed her daughter’s forehead. “You get back to dreamland and we’ll have fun in the morning.” She noticed now that Gracie’s pajamas smelled like smoke. “Did you and Dadd
y make a fire?”
Another nod.
Elise got up to close the curtains so the morning sun wouldn’t wake Gracie too early. When she turned back, the child was asleep with Thumb parked in her mouth. Next to her on the mattress, the spotted sock.
Elise tiptoed to the end of the hall to Matt’s bedroom. They’d made minor changes over the years to accommodate their visits, however infrequent: his brass twin-sized bed had been replaced with a queen. A second dresser and a nightstand for Elise’s side of the bed. Two hooks for robes inside the closet. She opened the door and blinked stupidly. Matt wasn’t in the bed.
There was only one other place he could be. She opened the door to Nate’s room and waited for her eyes to adjust. Sure enough, the hulking swell beneath the sheets turned into her husband. Above him, centered with the headboard, hung Nate and Sarah’s wedding photo. Terrific. Her reunion with her husband, a period always steeped in tension the first few days, made much more prickly this time because of a missed play, would now take place beneath the disapproving eye of her dead grandfather-in-law.
Matt snored softly. Elise padded across the bare floor, pulled back the duvet, and worked her body beneath it until she could wrap herself around him, until she could put her head on his chest and hear the beat of his heart. He smelled of smoke and soap and red wine. She tapped his jawline until he stirred, stretched, and groaned. He rolled over and found her warmth. Pressed his rough, stubbly mouth to hers to kiss her sleepily.
His eyes still closed, he mumbled, “I smell four and a half hours of Dr. Laura on satellite radio.”
“I smell a man with a bear on his roof who slept right through having a bear on his roof.”
He sat up and glanced at the clock radio—2:34 a.m. glowing green—and blinked in confusion. “Wait . . . you came straight up?”
“You missed the part about the bear.” She let him pull her close, melted into his warmth and bulk, and kissed him. “Hello.”
“I remember you.” He rolled her over and lay half on top of her, grinning and nuzzling his jaw against her face. “You’re the one who thinks bears parachute in from the sky, and I humor you because you’re cute when you’re wrong.”
What a relief. He was being adorable; everything was going to be fine. Better than fine. Wonderful. She ran her hands up to his shoulders. “It was real. A small black bear.”
“Why didn’t you call from the road?”
“I tried. It was like one of those nightmares where you try to use a phone but your fingers don’t work. Unbelievable how bad the signals are around here.”
“It’s the reason bears catapult up onto roofs in the first place. To mess up the cell signals.”
She glanced toward the blowing curtains. “We should keep the windows closed. What if it got in the house?”
He moved on top of her and rested his weight on his elbows. “Shut up and kiss me, E.”
She loved it when he called her “E.” Their kiss was just what she’d imagined on those nights back in Tryon—so tender and sweet it was drunk-making. She sank into it, then pulled back. “Hey, did you tell Gracie if I died in a plane crash she could get a dog?”
“Not out of the blue.”
“Matt.”
“What? She asked.”
“And you said yes?”
“Sure.”
“Why?”
“Because we would totally get a dog. Also, FYI, it doesn’t have to be a plane crash. Meteor, quicksand, aneurysm. Whatever. Just have to figure out which breeder. And time it so I can get a few days off work.”
She started to laugh. “You’re such an ass.”
“Can we skip all this romantic talk and get busy?” He grabbed her ass and squeezed. “Seems like forever since I’ve felt a woman’s thighs.”
“Yeah, that’s a little generic, buddy.” Something shiny on the floor caught her eye. She wiggled out from beneath him and sat up. It was a pot of water.
He answered her unspoken question. “Roof was leaking.”
She lay back down again and he slid his hands up and down her thighs. Maybe she shouldn’t tell him her news here, in Nate’s room, with a wild animal at the window. With her husband half-asleep and the other half ripping off her underpants. “Why are we sleeping in here, anyway?”
“Mattress is a DUX.” He pulled off her panties and yawned into his hand. “It’s got give. Like sleeping on a slice of angel food cake.” He pounced from the side, tickling her until she squealed and pulled back. “Let’s play naughty baker.”
“How is naughty baker sexy?”
“I don’t know. You be the hot inspector person who gives him an F. Unless . . .”
She raised herself up on one elbow. “I’m so sorry about today. I never should have said yes to Air Horse One in the first place. I should’ve sent them both on the trailer.”
“Shh. Stop it. It’s done. There will be other plays. One messed-up schedule isn’t going to destroy us.” He kissed her. “We’re good.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Has it been tough—being here now that Nate’s gone?”
He rolled onto his back and groaned. “Aaand, there goes his manhood.” He crawled out of bed and, in his wrinkled yellow-and-navy-plaid boxers, walked to the bathroom to pee with the door open. “Like a break and enter, actually. And totally not what he envisioned, right? Us unloading it to strangers.” He leaned over to flush, then turned on the tap.
“I feel bad, babe.”
“Don’t.” He walked back into the room and kissed her. “It’s the right thing to do. The only thing. Gracie’s school fees alone.”
As he sat on the bed beside her, she studied the dark smudges of sleeplessness beneath his eyes, his stubble coming in gray. What if it were the other way around? What if she had to be the single parent for so much of the year, and every extra dollar she made went toward Matt’s dream? What if she had to sell the lake house she’d practically grown up in? She’d like to think she wouldn’t resent her partner, but would she? Was she as great a person as Matt? “So, you’re not going to believe it—I have huge news. As in, colossal.”
“Good. So do I. Let’s see whose news wins.”
“What’s your news?”
“No way. You go first so my news can warm up. Pop a few steroids. Get into fighting form.”
Her progression hit her: all the years of training, all the shows she did and didn’t make, watching four sets of Olympic games pass her by. Not just pass her by, even; she’d come close to being shortlisted but just missed. She’d been thinking earlier this year that she might wind up as one of those almost-stars local papers print articles about. She could see the headline a few years down the road: “Elise Sorenson—What Went Wrong?” And then, today. The freestyle, the music, the delayed decision. And, finally, the score. “I’ve just become a contender for Rio.”
His expression didn’t change as he took a moment to process this.
“It means a more intense winter, as in, insane, and they announce the short list in May. If—it’s kind of scary to say this out loud, because I don’t want to jinx myself, or Indie—but if somehow, by some crazy miracle, we make it onto the short list—that will be eight horse-and-rider combinations—we go to two trials out of three in Compiègne, Roosendaal, Rotterdam. Then the Olympic team gets announced in July. And then, maybe, maybe, maybe, right?” She paused to breathe. “How crazy is this?”
“Seriously. Wow. Like, just wow . . .”
“I know. I’m afraid to even imagine it.”
“Your score today must’ve been off the charts.”
“Gift from the gods, for sure.”
“Holy shit.”
She looked at him, so open and joyful. She might have been mistaken, but it seemed like his eyes were moist. She reached a hand up to cup his stubbled cheek. “And you—what’s your news?”
“Mine?” He shook his head, leaned down to kiss her. “It wasn’t about me—just that I got her entire play on video.
So we can all watch it together in the morning. Breakfast and movie in bed.”
“Most.” She pressed tiny kisses to his jawline. “Perfect.” Let her lips travel up to his ear. “Husband.” Flicked his earlobe with her tongue. “In the history of husbands.”
“Can we make a deal?” he said. “We book time after Rio.”
“Book time for . . . ?”
“Another baby.”
She didn’t have the same urge Matt had to expand the family. The three of them seemed so right. And with Gracie getting older, life was sure to get easier. “Definitely something we should discuss.”
He smiled and moved on top of her again. The blissful familiarity of his warmth, his weight. His mouth searching hers. His hardness pressing against her hip. His stubble scraping against her cheek. All the months of getting up at dawn, of running and lifting weights, of riding the same complicated moves over and over until sweat blurred her vision and her legs turned to rubber, of holding an effortless-looking position in the saddle no matter what muscle she’d strained, of missing her loved ones—all of it began to fade and Elise gave in to the sweetness of being home.
Chapter 7
Matt woke overheated and sweating before dawn. With Elise’s back pressed to his, he’d become a furnace. He shifted to the cool promise of the mattress edge, waited a few moments to make sure she hadn’t woken, then, careful not to squeak the iron bed frame, pushed back the covers and made his way to the bathroom.
After splashing cold water on his face, he examined his grainy reflection in the mirror, mouth slack, chin dripping. He pressed a towel to his stubbled jaw. Elise’s news couldn’t have had worse timing. They’d be able to fund it—and more—with the sale of the cabin, but Matt was going to have to call Lyndon Barrans and refuse the partnership. The hours of Funducational weren’t going to allow it: final pickup was six thirty p.m., but Matt tried to get there around six so Gracie would never be the last one to go. They could certainly hire a nanny so that Gracie could be in her own home if Matt’s hours increased dramatically, but what kind of life would that be for a child?