Aftertaste

by Meredith Mileti

  “Since when is mahjed a verb?”

  “Since now. Okay, now ask me one more time about the pair exception.”

  “Can’t we be done now? I’m mahjed out,” I groan. But Ruth doesn’t even wait for me to ask.

  “You can never call a tile that’s part of a pair, unless it is for mah-jongg.”

  “Jesus, what a ridiculous game!” I say.

  “No, it’s not. It’s actually fun.”

  “It’s unnecessarily complicated. We’ve been studying for two hours, and I don’t even know what a ‘pung’ is and it’s all over this card!”

  Ruth rolls her eyes. “A pung is a three and a kong is a four, silly.”

  “Never ask me to play this game, okay?”

  “Okay, I promise,” Ruth says. “More wine?”

  “No, thanks.”

  We’ve ordered a pizza and are just finishing off the last of the wine while the kids nap. I’m not used to drinking wine in the afternoon, and it’s given me a headache. I would have refused, but by the time Chloe and I arrived at Ruth’s she had worked herself into such a frenzy over tomorrow’s game that she needed it to calm her down. Ruth pours the last sip into her glass and tucks her feet up on the couch.

  “Thanks,” she says. “I feel better.”

  “Good,” I tell her, massaging my temples. Ruth gets up and leans across the kitchen bar to reach into the cabinet. “Here,” she says, handing me a bottle of Advil. “You look like you have a headache.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her, taking two.

  “Hey, I didn’t even ask you, how was Gymboree today?”

  “Fine, it was fine. They had a water table, just a baby pool with some toys, but the kids loved it.”

  Please don’t ask me if Neil was there. I can still remember the pressure of his fingers on mine and a complicated mass of feelings wells up in me, aided and abetted by the headache, the afternoon wine, the pepperoni pizza, and a hefty measure of guilt over the idea that somehow I’d given Neil the wrong impression.

  I look away, afraid to meet Ruth’s eye.

  “Water table, huh? Sounds like fun,” Ruth says, yawning.

  “It was,” I tell her, recalling Neil’s teasing about the Toddler’s Manifesto. I look around the room, anywhere but at Ruth, at the empty pizza box on the coffee table, and then at our children sleeping at our feet, wrapped in their little blankets. Their lives are not very complicated. And the rules are clear. I envy them their simple lives.

  chapter 21

  I dip Chloe’s hand into a tin pie plate filled with turquoise paint. She squirms, as if she isn’t entirely enjoying the sensation of the squishy paint in between her fingers, and gives me a searching look. I put her hand to the paper and press gently. Once Chloe sees the print her hand has made, she stares transfixed, barely noticing as I dip her hand into the pie plate for another application of paint.

  On Sunday, she will be a year old. The party will be very small, so I really don’t need to send out invitations, but I’d gotten the idea from Parents magazine and thought it looked cute. We make them for Ruth, Carlos, Fiona, Dad, Richard, and Ben. I also make a couple extra, thinking they might be nice to have for Chloe’s scrapbook.

  I hold Chloe’s hands under the warm water, gently rubbing the creases of her tiny palms to remove the excess paint. She’s perched on the side of the sink watching me intently as I rinse her hands, her eyes warm and trusting. She’s a calm and stately baby, yet there’s an intensity about her, a quiet intelligence. I often have the sense that, if she could speak, she would offer up slowly, and with great gravity, some profound commentary on the state of the world.

  Chloe can stand unassisted, although she has yet to take her first steps. She has a favorite book, prefers squash to sweet potatoes, and, ever since she was an infant, has slept on her back with her arms raised over her head in a position of complete surrender. But she will remember none of these things when she is older. One day, in the not too distant future, she will ask me what she was like as a baby and, like all kids, will delight in my reminiscences, either real or embellished. Will I remember this, I ask myself, struggling to hold onto the moment, or will it vanish like the turquoise paint, swirling in gentle eddies down the drain of the porcelain sink?

  One day, too, she will ask me about Jake. And I’ll have to decide what to tell her. It’s been a blessing, perhaps, that Jake and I divorced when we did. She never had a chance to know him, and that will make the loss easier for her to bear. But one day she may want to know why there is no daddy in her life, and it will fall to me to tell her some palatable version of the truth. And there’s always the possibility that, even knowing whatever masticated version of the truth I’ve given her, she might one day want to know him anyway. I try not to think of the other baby, Jake’s other child, who I imagine is close to being born now, and hope that there will be some way to protect Chloe from the knowledge that her father has chosen to love another child instead of her.

  We hang the prints to dry on the clothesline over the laundry sink, and I hold her hands as we walk together up the basement steps.

  My father is on his back under the kitchen sink, a wrench poised in his hand, a tea towel over his stomach, the top of which is scrunched under his neck.

  “The sponges were damp,” he tells me, when I ask him what he is doing. “Fiona went to get a new sponge from the bucket in the back of the sink this morning, and they were damp. There must be a leak somewhere.”

  Fiona emerges from the utility room carrying a bucket, a plunger, and a rag.

  “Can you see it? Can you see where it’s leaking? Shall I turn on the water?” Fiona says, bending low to offer my father the rag.

  “No and no!” my father cries. “I’ll get wet.”

  Fiona throws her hands into the air and turns to look at me. “Men. Helpless. Can’t live with them. Can’t shoot ’em. Well, don’t worry about it. I’ll ask Ben to stop by and take a look.” She bends down and gives my father a playful squeeze on the knee. “Come on, Grandpa, let’s get moving.”

  My father, who has recently become as domesticated as a neutered tabby cat, replaces the wrench with unconcealed relief as Fiona bustles around the kitchen, filling a bottle with juice and checking the diaper bag for diapers and wipes that I have already packed. To give me some time to get a few things done for the party, he and Fiona have volunteered to take Chloe to the zoo today. He helps her into her coat and slings the diaper bag over his shoulder, as Fiona holds out her arms for Chloe.

  Once the invitations are dry, I write little notes on the back of each one and tuck them into the envelopes. I plan to deliver them this afternoon on my way to the market. I leave Ben’s invitation on the counter next to the sink, because Fiona called him before they left for the zoo. Ruth and Carlos aren’t at home, which doesn’t surprise me because it’s Saturday morning, their therapy morning. Carlos and Ruth are seeing an “attachment therapist,” someone who is supposed to be helping them build their relationship. I leave their invitation in the mail slot, thinking I’ll call Ruth when I get home. We hadn’t had a chance to fully debrief about the mah-jongg game Thursday; it ran long, and Carlos had a dermatologist appointment they were rushing off to, or maybe it was the allergist. Carlos has quite a medical team, and sometimes it’s hard to keep them straight.

  Next, I hop a bus and head over to Richard’s shop. Although it’s after ten, the storefront is dark. I hang around for a while drinking coffee at the Three Goats, but when he isn’t there by ten thirty I walk over to his house a few blocks away. I could have just left the invitation in the mail slot, as I had Ruth’s—both of them already knew about the party anyway, so the invitation was really just a formality—but I’ve been worrying about Richard lately. He doesn’t seem himself. Throughout our relationship, Richard usually has been the one to call me, leaving clever messages on my answering machine, designed to make me think he is dying to speak to me, waiting by the phone for my return call. But lately my phone calls have gone unanswe
red or, on the rare occasions I’ve managed to catch him in, he has seemed distracted and fidgety.

  Richard lives in a restored brownstone on Copeland Street, a tall, narrow house, painted the color of seashells, with a perfectly tended front garden, complete with picket fence. His car is parked on the street, so he must be home, but the house is dark and no one answers the bell. Richard’s cat, Katherine, is sitting in the front window languidly licking her paws. She’s undisturbed by my ringing, but when I try Richard from my cell phone—I can hear the phone ring inside the house—she jumps down from the window and heads for the phone. She likes to listen to the voices on the answering machine, walking rings around it while the message plays, nuzzling it with her fluffy face and purring. I’m surprised when Richard answers, his voice groggy and thick sounding.

  “Richard?”

  “Umm, yeah.”

  “It’s Mira. Hey, do you know what time it is?”

  There’s no response at first, and then a slow groan escapes. “Shit, is it really after ten?”

  “Yes, it is. I stopped by the shop and got worried when you weren’t there. Is everything all right?”

  “Fine. Fine,” he says, clearing his throat. “Where are you?”

  “I’m standing on your front steps, as a matter of fact.”

  Silence.

  “Give me a minute. I’ll be right down.” He doesn’t sound thrilled.

  “Okay. Take your time. I’ll run across the street and get you some coffee. You sound like you could use a cup.”

  “Bless you, my child. Make it a double.”

  When Richard lets me in a few minutes later, he’s dressed, but there’s at least a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks, and his face has a droopy look, heavy in the jowls. He takes the coffee from me and then, without a word, turns and makes for the kitchen at the back of the house, Katherine at his heels.

  “Aren’t you having any?” he asks, his head buried in the refrigerator from which, after some rummaging, he emerges with a container of milk. He pours the coffee into one of his own porcelain mugs, empties about half a carton of milk into it along with a handful of ice cubes, and downs it in a couple of long, thirsty gulps.

  He doesn’t seem to notice that I haven’t answered him.

  “No, thanks, I’ve already had mine,” I finally tell him, eyeing the two glasses in the sink, oversized wine goblets I recognize from Richard’s collection of crystal barware.

  He reaches up with the back of his hand to wipe the milky froth from his mouth, and I notice that his hands are trembling. The tremor is slight, but because I’ve already figured out that Richard has been drinking, I’m alert for the tiniest change. He holds my gaze evenly, defiantly, as if daring me to say something.

  I’ve known Richard for over twenty years and in the whole of that time I’ve never known him to take a drink. He went through hell to quit, I know, from stories he told me on several occasions when he thought I was being too hard on my mother, who had never been able to stop. Those were the only times I ever saw him get really angry. “You don’t know,” he would say, his voice low and cold with fury. “You don’t know what it is like.” And that voice and that look would be enough to stop me dead.

  He stands in front of me, his arms outstretched on the kitchen counter, holding its rim in each fist, the knuckles white with effort. The rest of his body, though, is a study in practiced nonchalance. I sit hunched over on the kitchen stool, our eyes locked. He looks away first, a stray upward glance, but I hear the creak in the upstairs floorboard, too. Someone is there. Suddenly Richard’s face widens into a loopy grin.

  I stand up, pull the invitation out from my coat pocket, and hand it to him. “Chloe’s party. It’s tomorrow. I hope you can still make it.” My voice is hoarse.

  “Of course.” He takes the invitation and, tucking it into his front shirt pocket, gives it a small, reassuring tap. And then, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me on the forehead. I want to say something to let Richard know that I’m worried. That I love him. He pulls me closer to him and rests his chin on the top of my head.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll be there.”

  I walk home the long way, down Shady to Forbes, stopping at the market for some fruit and the paper store for party hats, streamers, balloons, and some cute, but expensive, birthday candles in the shape of farm animals that I know will delight Chloe, all the while ruminating about Richard. Whomever he’s seeing obviously isn’t good for him, but because Richard has seldom shared those particular details of his life with me, it’s awkward bringing it up. He dated a nice architect named Steve for a couple of years, whom he brought to our wedding, but it hadn’t lasted. Since then, he’s mentioned no one.

  I turn down Fair Oaks, my father’s street. It’s a beautiful, winding road, so typical of Pittsburgh streets, hilly and tree-lined. There are buds on the oak trees, that precious yellow-green of early spring. Even though I’ve lived my whole life in places where seasons change, I’m always vaguely surprised when spring finally puts out its gentle feelers. There’s a silver BMW parked in front of the house, and I think for a minute that it might be Ruth’s, but it isn’t. I’m midway up the front walk when I hear the car door open behind me and a voice calls, “Mira?” I stop my trek up the front lawn and turn around. To my surprise, Neil is standing there with a small stuffed bear I recognize as belonging to Chloe.

  Neil tucks the bear under his arm and takes a bag from me. “Looks like you could use a hand,” he says.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to return this,” Neil says, holding the bear out to me. “Eli must have put it in our bag while we were talking in the coatroom the other day. I thought Chloe might be missing it. You know how kids can be.”

  “I don’t think she even realized it was missing,” I tell him, taking the bear. “What about the Toddler’s Manifesto—if you lose it and I find it, it’s mine? Shouldn’t Eli get to keep it? After all, a manifesto is a manifesto.”

  Neil pauses, as if seriously considering my question. “Well, as you pointed out, Chloe isn’t officially a toddler yet, so technically she isn’t bound by the Manifesto.” We are now standing on the front steps of my father’s house. I glance across the street at the Silvermans’ house, which mercifully looks vacant at the moment.

  “Hey, how did you know where I live?”

  “Do you think the Jewish mothers’ network of spies is immune to infiltration? Although I must admit that your case posed a bit of a challenge. You’re not Jewish,” Neil says.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “That made it extremely classified information. I had to go pretty deep.”

  I smile at him. “Where’s Eli?” I ask.

  “With my mom. I’m on my way to pick him up now. I just figured, since I was in the neighborhood . . .” Neil’s voice trails off as he deposits the shopping bag on my father’s front step and turns to leave.

  Neil’s mention of his mother triggers an idea. “Wait a minute,” I tell him, running in the front door and grabbing one of the extra invitations I made from the kitchen table.

  “Here,” I tell him. “I thought of inviting you, after the kids had such a good time the other day, but I didn’t know how to get it to you. Not being Jewish, I’m not hooked into the network.”

  “Thanks,” he says, taking the invitation and opening it.

  “It’s going to be a small party. Mostly just family and my friend Ruth and her son Carlos. You met them at Gymboree. She’s now your mother’s mah-jongg partner, you know. Maybe your mother mentioned it?” I ask hopefully.

  But Neil doesn’t seem to be listening. Instead, he is studying Chloe’s tiny handprint on the front of the card, running his fingers over the rough paint.

  “We’d love to come,” Neil says, smiling at me. “I guess we’ll see you tomorrow.” He turns to leave, but turns back halfway across the lawn. “And by the way, there are no partners in mah-jongg. It’s every woman for herself.”


  chapter 22

  “I thought you’d be pleased!” I tell Ruth, who is in the process of wailing into the phone.

  “But it’s tomorrow! My hair’s a mess, and I have nothing to wear. I can’t possibly be ready in time,” she groans.

  “Of course, you can—you’re ready now. And it’s a kid’s birthday party, not an actual date!”

  Ruth sighs. “So, where did you say you ran into Neil?”

  “On the street. Near Rona Silverman’s house,” I tell her, not exactly a lie.

  “I wonder what he was doing there,” Ruth asks. I say nothing. It wouldn’t be as much of an issue if I’d just told Ruth in the first place that Neil had been at Gymboree that week. It was a silly omission, and I now wonder why I held out. There really was no reason not to have told her, but to reveal it now would be awkward. Then, I remember Neil’s comment about mah-jongg yesterday, and I feel my face get hot.

  “Why don’t you see if you can get your hair done on Sunday before the party? I’ll watch Carlos.” I can’t believe I’ve just volunteered to babysit Carlos.

  “Really? Don’t you have stuff to do?”

  Of course I do. “Not too much really, and besides Fiona and my dad are going to help with the decorations, so I’m in good shape. Just drop him off early,” I tell her.

  “Well, maybe, if you’re sure,” she says. Ruth calls back a while later and arranges to drop Carlos off a few hours early so she can get her hair and nails done before the party.

  On Sunday, Richard is the first to arrive, bringing with him a huge kitchen set, complete with an impressive assortment of kitchen implements and life-size plastic food, that will likely take my father and me most of the afternoon to put together. He chats effortlessly with Fiona and even remembers to ask my father about his latest grant proposal. In fact, he’s so much his usual, jovial self that I find myself studying him closely, wondering if perhaps I’d imagined the shaky hands, bloodshot eyes, and the droopy, hangdog look yesterday. Not to mention the two wineglasses in the sink.