Four: Stories of Marriage

by Nia Forrester

  “You really are one beautiful kid,” he said to her matter-of-factly. “You know that?”

  Layla nodded emphatically. “Uh huh.”

  “And I’m not just sayin’ that ‘cause I helped make you,” he added, walking toward her.

  Layla stood as he approached and lifted her arms, so he could pick her up, the rabbit still dangling from her mouth. Brendan obliged and held her with one arm against his side, the way he saw Tracy sometimes do.

  “But you’re a handful,” he added, shaking his head. “Just like your momma.”

  He found a box of mac-n-cheese and made that for dinner along with some organic chicken meatballs that were, thank god, precooked and only needed to be reheated. They ate together on the living room sofa, Layla with her knees pulled up to her chest and her plate between her legs while they watched ESPN. A rerun of an old football game was on, and Brendan kept glancing down to see if his girl was losing patience with it, but she appeared as engrossed as he was, digging her hands into her pasta and stuffing her mouth, eyes still fixed on television.

  With each mouthful, she chewed, then licked her fingers. What she couldn’t get off that way, she looked at in consternation before reaching over to wipe her hand on Brendan’s shirt. He grinned and let her do it, figuring it was probably better than wiping it on the sofa and having her mother flip her lid. Halfway through the meal, Layla’s eyes grew heavy and she shoved her plate forward, so Brendan had to lurch for it before it hit the floor.

  “Finished?” he asked.

  Layla nodded. She stood unsteadily on the sofa cushion and reached for him, trying to climb his torso and wrapping her arms around his neck. Her hands at his nape were sticky.

  “Dada,” she whined, not asking for anything in particular.

  Brendan searched for a memory of the countless evenings when Tracy took charge of their daughter’s routine until he found what he was looking for.

  “Bath time,” he said wrapping an arm round her.

  Upstairs in the tub, Layla was fussy and whiny, alternately saying ‘hot’ and then ‘cold’ as he tried to adjust the water temperature. And when finally, everything was to her satisfaction and he made her sit, she shrieked bloody murder when the ends of her hair got wet. Brendan couldn’t for the life of him figure out what the problem was until she pointed maniacally toward one corner of the bathroom.

  “Duckie!” she wailed.

  She was showing him a yellow fluffy shower cap that looked like a duck, hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

  Once the cap was on, she was quiet and submissive, and let him get her clean, and then there was another minor drama when he wrapped her in the wrong towel. After he got her teeth brushed, and changed her into a nightgown, Layla handed him her hairbrush, and Brendan realized he was being instructed to brush her hair. So, he did.

  “Sing, Dada!” she ordered, once the brushing was done. “Sing!”

  Everything with her was an order, a declaration, unstoppable and unambiguous. She wanted what she wanted when she wanted it. People thought she was more like him in temperament, but at times like this, he was reminded that she was also very much Tracy’s daughter.

  He had to improvise with a little off-key Luther Vandross, because he had no idea what her mother sang. But Layla seemed satisfied and snuggled against him to get comfortable. Just one verse in, she was deeply asleep. He put her under the covers in her princess sleigh-bed and backed slowly out of the room, holding his breath.

  Downstairs, as he cleaned up in the living room, he saw that the sofa hadn’t made it through dinner unscathed after all. There were orange fingerprints and smudges on the cushion that Layla had been leaning against, and a couple of spots on the arms as well. Brendan took the plates to the kitchen, scraped and then put them in the dishwasher. By the time he was done cleaning, he was so tired himself, he was surprised to see that the clock on the stove only read eight forty-six.

  Once upstairs, he decided not to take a shower. Besides, he’d taken one that afternoon in the condo right after he and Tracy did their thing. When he’d dressed, she was nowhere in sight, and didn’t emerge even when he went out to the living area and called out that he was leaving.

  After that, of course, the rest of his day was shot. He made it to the three-thirty meeting but wasn’t of much use to anyone there since all his mental energy was spent trying to figure out what exactly had set his wife off.

  Collapsing back onto the bed now, he reached for his phone and dialed her number. It rang only twice before she answered.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, without preamble.

  At the end of the day, it didn’t matter why Tracy was angry. If there was one thing he had learned from his parents’ marriage, it was that conflict had to be squashed as soon as possible. If you allowed anger, or even the pettiest of resentments to fossilize, it could ruin the best of relationships.

  On the other end of the line, he heard Tracy’s sigh.

  “Me too.”

  “I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he continued. “And the things I said … It’s just … I’m trying to understand, Trace, and I … I just don’t know if whatever this is, it’s something I can help you with.”

  “You can’t,” Tracy said with conviction. That tone made him curious, but Brendan knew better than to ask.

  “What you said this afternoon about me ‘fucking you calm’—that’s a genius phrase by the way …”

  Tracy laughed softly. “Thank you. But it isn’t mine. I saw that online somewhere.”

  “Some ratchet website?” Brendan said, relieved that even now, he was able to make her laugh.

  “Something like that,” Tracy said.

  “Did you mean it though? Is that what I do?”

  “Yes. Sometimes.”

  “And that pisses you off.”

  She seemed to be thinking about that for a while, then finally, she sighed.

  “No. It doesn’t … piss me off. I mean, I love when we … make love. Whenever it happens. But sometimes it’s like a band-aid, Brendan. It doesn’t make me feel like I’m being … heard.”

  “What am I not listening to?” He asked the question as gently as he could, not wanting to make her defensive.

  Tracy sighed again. “I’m trying to figure out how to explain it.”

  He wanted to press the issue but knew that she would only withdraw if he did.

  “Will you promise to tell me when you know?” he said instead.

  “You’ll be the first person to know when I know.”

  “Cool. And we don’t have to figure it out tonight,” he said. “Right?”

  “Right.”

  “We’ll take it as slow as you want.”

  “Okay.”

  “How ‘bout I tell you about my night with Lay-lay instead?”

  “I’d like that,” Tracy said. “And y’know what I’d like even more?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’d like it if you’d not call her Lay-lay. Riley started that awful nickname, and I don’t have the heart to tell her how much it drives me crazy.”

  Brendan laughed and relaxed against the pillows, toeing off his shoes and getting comfortable. “What don’t you like about it?” he asked, already knowing the gist of what she would say.

  “Just that it makes her sound like a character from ‘Boys ‘N the Hood’.”

  “Whereas Layla makes her sound like what? An overprivileged kid from Prospect Park?”

  “She’s not overprivileged.” Tracy sounded horrified. “Is she?”

  “Baby. We spend over twelve-hundred dollars a month on activities for someone who can’t even say their ABCs yet. You don’t think that’s overprivileged?”

  Tracy seemed to be thinking about the question.

  “Do you think we do too much?” she asked, finally.

  “What’s ‘too much’? I mean, we could voluntarily impoverish ourselves to teach her some grit, bu
t that doesn’t sound like a solution.”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Because you think too much. We give Layla a lot. More than most kids are lucky enough to get. And someday, we’re going to have to figure out what the limits are. But we’re not there yet. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Tracy said, her voice quieter.

  “Did I just give you something else to worry about?” Brendan asked.

  “No. Not worry, just … think. Something else to think about.”

  “Don’t worry about it, and don’t think about it either. Just let it ride. Later, when she’s a bratty Black American princess, we can argue about how we screwed her up. But tonight, let’s just congratulate ourselves on how damn smart and beautiful she is.”

  “She is smart. And beautiful,” Tracy said.

  Brendan heard the smile in her voice.

  “So, you ready to hear what we got up to tonight? Me and Lay-lay?”

  “Yes. Tell me everything.”

  She was humoring him now, by not even commenting on his use of the despised nickname. It meant that she had accepted his olive branch, and they were good again. Or at least, not bad. And ‘not bad’ would have to be good enough.

  “Well, you’re gonna have to pay close attention,” he said. “It’s real complicated, and involves mac-n-cheese, sofa cushions and some Luther.”

  “I think I can handle it.”

  the phone was next to her on the covers when she woke up. It was dead, so before going in to get a shower, Tracy plugged it in to charge. She washed her hair and instead of drying it straight again, pulled it back into a ponytail and let it rest, wet on her shoulder. She made herself coffee, and a lightly toasted croissant from the package she’d bought at a bakery near the condo the afternoon before. Sitting at the kitchen island eating her breakfast, she was enjoying the quiet and solitude when it came to her—she hadn’t given a single thought to Layla.

  She had woken up, taken care of all her own hygiene and grooming needs, settling in for some coffee and French pastry without a care in the world, and her daughter hadn’t crossed her mind once. Just one night, and she had already become self-centered.

  Guilt twisted her stomach into a tight ball, and Tracy sat up straight, looking around for her phone. Remembering that she’d left it plugged in next to the bed, she ran to get it. By now, Layla would be with … who? Trish? She hadn’t even thought to call Brendan and ask what he was doing with their daughter today when he went to work.

  Her phone had charged enough to turn on again, and there was only one notification, a text message from Brendan.

  Good morning, it read.

  That was all. Good morning.

  Tracy smiled, noting that it had been sent just after five a.m., when he habitually got up on a weekday. He had to have sent it to her as soon as he woke up, before he did anything else. A long time ago, about one year into their relationship when they were still gradually inching their way toward “forever” this was how all her mornings began—a text message from Brendan, letting her know she had crossed his mind as soon as he was awake.

  Back then, even though they each had keys to the other’s place, there were still occasional nights that they spent apart. Tracy remembered how on edge those nights apart left her, and how Brendan once, when she spent an entire weekend at her place, joked about it.

  So … that sucked, he’d said when they were getting ready for bed that Monday evening.

  What did? she asked.

  Not sleeping in the same place for two whole nights, he said.

  But she couldn’t tell if he was being glib. He sounded like he was, so she didn’t answer. Because the only honest answer was that for her, it had sucked. A lot. And she still wasn’t entirely convinced that the same was true for him.

  That had always been her worry though, hadn’t it? That her love for Brendan filled her entire being; while his love for her filled up maybe, if she was lucky, seventy-five percent of him.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the message, reading it once more, like a schoolgirl getting a message from her crush, and trying to decipher it for hidden meaning. Her impulse was to call him right away, right now, but she resisted the urge to hear his voice, to talk and to listen to him flirt with her.

  Instead she called the house and felt herself relax when one of their regular nannies, an older Trinidadian woman named Clovis, answered the phone and she heard Layla’s happy babbling in the background. Clovis only ever watched Layla for two or three hours at a time, and occasionally shuttled her to her activities. Layla liked her because sometimes after ballet, she stopped at one of the neighborhood West Indian bakeries, and snuck Layla sweet treats that Tracy later forced herself not to complain about.

  Today would be the first time that Clovis would watch Layla for an entire day. The thought gave Tracy a tiny ping of anxiety, because she knew the woman had a vast array of other nanny-friends around Brooklyn, whom she liked to visit and gossip with. She might take Layla along for all Tracy knew. There might be entire swaths of time when she wouldn’t know precisely where her child was.

  “No, I don’t need to talk to her,” Tracy said quickly, when Clovis offered to put Layla on the phone.

  The last thing she wanted was to send her daughter into another fit of tears, and ruin both their days. What she did want was to ask more questions: what had Layla eaten? Was she dressed and ready to go to ballet class? Did Mr. Cole mention that there was to be only one box of juice, and that water should be the main hydration she had?

  But instead, Tracy willed herself to let it all go. When Layla was with her, those were the guidelines, but when she was with other people, what difference did it make if she had two boxes of juice, or even three?

  “Thank you, Clovis,” she said, keeping her tone as gracious as she could. “For taking such good care of her.”

  “You’re welcome, Mrs. Cole.” Clovis sounded taken aback by her gratitude, and Tracy wondered whether the resentment Riley accused her of having toward the women who helped her raise her child had been transparent to the nannies all along.

  When she hung up, she realized that she had the entire day was stretched out in front of her. Robyn and Riley were at work, both tethered to their nine-to-fives. By now they were sitting in an office, or on their way to one. There was only one other friend she could think of whose time was flexible and entirely their own. Picking up the phone again, she dialed his number.

  Russell sounded hoarse, like he had woken up only moments before.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Come play with me,” Tracy drawled. “I’m bored, and I have nothing else to do today.”

  “No little league soccer, no ballet, no impressionistic art class for toddlers?” he asked dryly.

  “Don’t be a jerk. Come over and let’s do something fun together. I’m at the condo.”

  “Oh.” There were sounds of movement, then Russell gave a hacking cough. “Well, if we’re not talking about me having to cross the bridge … in that case.”

  “Shopping? A pricey lunch?”

  “Oh, you know me so well. But I do have actual appointments today, so …”

  Russell was a buyer for Nordstrom, and his days were split between glamorous activities like previewing designer collections, and more gritty missions, like visiting a barely-up-to-code factory in the Garment District. Tracy didn’t mind accompanying him on the former. The latter she was content to hear gruesome stories about, like the time someone’s hand got caught in a press, and Russell witnessed the entire thing, including the removal of what looked like fleshy pulp afterward.

  “I’ve left home,” Tracy rushed, fearing that Russell might be about to blow her off and hang up. “I’m sleeping at the condo. And I’m not even sure I know why, or what I’m doing.” Her voice cracked.

  “I’ll be there in an hour,” Russell said without a moment’s hesitation. “And you’d better dress nice if you’re hanging out with me. None of that frumpy h
ousewife shit.”

  15

  Opening the door to the condo, Tracy sensed right away that someone was already there. And then she saw him. Brendan was on the sofa, sitting with his arms and legs spread wide, his head back. He was sleeping. The click of her shutting the door caused him to snort, and sit upright, blinking. His eyes, clouded over with sleep, took a moment to focus, and then he smiled.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi.” She felt rooted in place.

  Brendan extended a hand to her. “C’mere.”

  She went to him, and he pulled her closer, so she was standing between his legs. He leaned in, arms around her hips, hugging her and pressing his cheek against her abdomen.

  “Who’s watching L…”

  “Clovis is staying a little later. I’ll head home in a bit. Just …I don’t like not coming home to you.”

  Tracy put a hand atop his head, resting it there, feeling the smoothness of his low-cut hair. “I know. I …”

  “That wasn’t meant to be pressure or anything. It was just … I want you to know that it doesn’t suck any less the longer you’re gone. Anyway, c’mon. I got you something.”

  He stood and led her up the spiral stairs where a brown paper sack sat on the kitchen counter. The aroma from it was unmistakable. Tracy smiled.

  “You got me hot dogs?”

  “From our spot. You remember?”

  “Of course.”

  Their first date had been at Gray’s Papaya for Recession Specials—two hot dogs and a soda. Except, it hadn’t really been a date. But it had been the first time Tracy was able to let just enough of her guard down to admit she wanted … something, though she knew not what, from him. She still remembered the way he’d received that news, with calm and equanimity.

  Most men would have immediately seen her confession as an invitation into her panties. But Brendan had been slow, steady and patient. It had been weeks after that before they finally slept together, and when they had, it was more than sex. Something inside Tracy had cracked open, but just for him. And since then, there had been no one else for her. She still believed there never would be.