Acts of Contrition

by Handford, Jennifer

  “Blessing,” I say, snapping my fingers at the boys. Instinctively my four children make the sign of the cross while Tom says grace. Then the craziness begins, and the kids start barking out what they need, what they’re missing. Tom cuts a piece of pork chop into bite-sized pieces for the boys. I pick at the salad bowl with tongs, like playing Operation with the kids: cherry tomatoes for Sally, red peppers for Emily and Danny, just “leafs” for Dom.

  Sally pops out of her chair looking for pepper, then Danny pops out of his booster seat.

  “Gosh darn, Sally!” I say. “He watches you get up and thinks it’s okay.”

  “I needed pepper,” she says.

  “Missing the point,” I snap.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see the side of Tom’s lip turn up, and I’m not sure what it means: that he’s happy to see the children disobeying me? That he no longer finds Sally’s brand of wit funny, now that he knows of her biology?

  Once meat has been cut and doled out, bread buttered, milk poured, dressing passed, I take a bite. A minute later the twins proclaim that they’re finished, even though Danny’s only picked at his food.

  “Dom, go play. Danny, sit down,” I say. “You need to eat five more pieces of meat.”

  “I don’t like it,” he whines.

  “Eat it or no dessert.”

  “I don’t want dessert anyway,” he says, blowing my negotiation. He runs off to play.

  “That’s so funny,” Sally says. “Danny, who needs to eat, is punished for not eating by not getting dessert, and Dom, who eats a ton, eats his meal and, as a reward, gets dessert. So the one who eats gets twice as much food, and the one who doesn’t, loses an opportunity to eat.” Sally’s sitting up proud, like she’s just won a case.

  “Yes, Sal,” I say. “I get the irony.”

  “So, you should think about it,” she says in her know-it-all voice.

  “I swear to God, Sally,” I seethe at her.

  “You shouldn’t swear to God.”

  “Go to your room!” I holler, pointing upstairs.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m sick and tired of your snotty comments. Enough!”

  Sally harrumphs and doesn’t budge, and before I know what’s happening, I’ve taken a step in her direction and slapped her across the face.

  “Mom!” Sally cries, reaching for her cheek.

  “Mary!” Tom says, rising from the table.

  “I’m done,” Danny says, dropping from his seat.

  “Sit down!” I scream, lifting the little guy and planting him firmly in his booster seat.

  “You hit me!” Sally yells.

  “Mary,” Tom says again.

  “He needs to eat his five bites,” I hiss in Tom’s direction.

  “He’ll eat if he’s hungry,” Tom says. “Stop badgering him. You need to take—”

  “Sally, room! Danny, eat! Dom, go play!” I look at Emily, and she’s staring at her plate. “Finish up, Emily!” I holler.

  The room is spinning and my cheeks are hot and I can’t breathe. I open the door to the deck and walk into the yard, looking for Daisy. Rarely have I had the instinct to strike the kids and I ponder why tonight Sally looked like such an easy target—and I wonder if on a subconscious level I saw her as Landon’s proxy, and smacking her in front of Tom was the same as smacking him. For you, Tom. I pray that that wasn’t my motivation; I pray that I wouldn’t do such a thing. But the days have begun to blur and I no longer know who I am, so why not, what would stop me from being that person?

  “Good God,” I mutter, at last finding Daisy’s ball. I lift it and aim it at the tree but miss by a mile, stupid me with my stupid girl throw.

  After dinner Tom sits in front of the television. A game is on, but I know he’s not really watching. His eyes are fixed on the middle of the screen, and when a commercial comes on he doesn’t flinch, just keeps staring. A few minutes later, Sally exits her room and stands at the top of the stairs.

  “Can I come out?” she asks with a tremor in her voice. “I’m finished with my homework. And I’m sorry.” I nod at her, and when she gets to the bottom of the stairs, I lift her and hug her, hoping that my regret is evident in the wrap of my arms. “I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper, and she nuzzles her acceptance in the crook of my neck. Then she leaves me and heads toward Tom, sliding easily next to him. She rests her head on his shoulder and flops her long legs over his.

  I watch from the kitchen, chew a cuticle on my thumb. Please, I beg, please. Tom stays put, wraps his arms around her, and kisses the top of her head, but I can tell that he’s tense. He’s seated awkwardly, like a guy in a doctor’s office waiting to receive blood results. I know that he won’t last long; that he won’t be able to slouch into the sofa with her. A minute later he removes her legs, kisses the top of her head again, and walks out to the backyard. I step into the laundry room and shut the door. I cover my mouth with my hand and fold at the waist. The pain of Tom acting uneasily with Sally is physical, a punch in my gut, an explosion in my stomach shooting shards of glass into my heart. Dear God, what have I done to her? What have I done to him? What have I done to our family?

  Back in the kitchen I’m relieved to see that Sally is unfazed by Tom’s departure. She’s spread out on the sofa and is watching the game. I open the door to the backyard and walk out to Tom, who is squeezing Daisy’s tennis ball in his fist.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “About dinner. About everything…but you already know that.”

  “Yep.”

  “What are we going to do?” I plead.

  “About what?” He throws Daisy’s ball deep into the trees. We watch her scurry for it.

  “About everything.”

  “You know where I stand,” he says, reaching down and pulling up a clump of grass.

  “I know where you stand on us, but what about Sal? You can’t turn your back on her. You can’t do that, Tom.”

  “I’m not turning my back on Sal,” he says. “She’s too old to be climbing all over me anyway. Time we all grow up a bit.”

  The next day is Sunday, and like we do every other Sunday, we go to Mass. Tom ascends the steps, holding Dom by the hand on one side, Danny on the other. Sally and Emily walk together. I bring up the rear and wonder what it will be like before Communion, when the priest asks us to offer one another the sign of peace. Our family is a little silly when it comes to this. We lean into one another, kissing and hugging, shaking hands. Will Tom skip me altogether, or will he fake kindness for the sake of the children? We squeeze into the pew, our four children a hearty buffer between Tom and me.

  When the time comes, Tom opts to skip me when offering the sign of peace. He lingers with the boys, taking longer than usual, before reaching across to the girls. Then he shakes hands with nearly every person in front of us and behind us. Peace offered to one and all! Just not his adulterous wife.

  We stand for Communion and when we return we’re back on our knees. Somehow our order has gotten jumbled, our buffer thinned. Danny has scooted over to an edge and the girls are at the end of the row, next to me. The only person separating Tom and me is Dom. My eyes are closed and I’m praying when I feel Dom fiddle with my hand. Then he yanks it toward him, and I see out of the corner of my eye that he is also fiddling with Tom’s hand. He stretches our arms until my left hand and Tom’s right hand and Dom’s two little hands are a cluster in front of him, a Rodin sculpture of the infinity of space and movement.

  My heart hammers as I wait out this uncomfortable moment. I can see Tom’s jaw clenching, can sense his wanting to pull away. He does just that, but Dom is having nothing of it. He yanks back Tom’s hand and once again places it on mine. He weaves my fingers in between Tom’s, and then he bends over and kisses our hands, back and forth, back and forth, whispering his mantra: “Mommy, Daddy, Mommy, Daddy.”

  I glance at Tom, who meets my eyes with his. He shakes his head, just barely, a slight wave of accusation that says, “You ruined us.” Tom, I beg with my
eyes. It’s me. It’s still me. But then I realize that Tom met me post-Landon and I’ve never been anything to him other than that person, the person who willfully and maliciously entered into marriage under false pretenses. The hate I feel for myself is consuming, so much so that there isn’t an ounce of me left with a clear conscience.

  That night, as we’re getting ready to go to my parents’, Tom claims to have a migraine. “Go on to Nana and Pop’s without me,” he says to the kids.

  The kids look at him skeptically, digging back into their memories, wondering whether this has ever happened before, whether Daddy has ever skipped dinner at Nana and Pop’s.

  “Why don’t you just take a Tylenol?” Sally asks.

  “And drink a cup of tea with sugar and a square of chocolate,” Emily suggests.

  I stifle a smile because that’s my formula for headache relief, down to a tee.

  “It’s a bad one,” Tom says. “I know I’ll feel better if I just lie on the sofa and rest.”

  The kids whine and whimper for a few more minutes and try to get Tom off the couch, but finally they relent. They kiss him on the cheek and tuck the blanket around his body.

  “There’s chicken noodle soup in the fridge…,” I say.

  “I’m fine,” Tom snaps before I’ve gotten it out.

  When we get to Terrace Circle, Mom and Dad are sitting at the table with cigarettes and Diet Pepsi. Once they extinguish their butts in the tray, I begin to smell the roast resting on the rack, sauce on the stove, bread baking in the oven. My thoughts turn to Tom, how much he’d love this meal, how unfair it is that we’re here and he’s at home on the sofa when I’m the one who should be ousted, not him. He should be surrounded, coddled, nourished. He should be here with Mom and Dad doting over him, stuffing his belly with good food, offering their support.

  The kids crowd around Mom and Dad, covering them with hellos, hugs, and kisses, helping themselves to a handful of the peanut M&M’s that are always in a glass dish on Mom’s table.

  Once the kids are downstairs playing, I settle in with Mom and Pop.

  “So,” Mom says. “How are things? How’s Tommy?”

  “The old Tommy’s gone,” I say, and start to cry. “I killed him, and the guy who has taken his place is mean and cold and distant.”

  “He’s Irish,” Mom says, as if that explains everything. “He’s got a lot of anger to work through.”

  “Give him time,” my father says.

  “It’s not going to matter,” I say. “I’ve ruined everything.”

  “It feels like that right now,” Mom says. “Because none of us can see the forest for the trees. But just wait, you’ll see. Tom’ll come around.”

  “Why would he?” I ask. “Why would he want to get over this? What I did—it was such a betrayal.”

  “He’s mad,” Dad adds. “Soon enough he’ll remember that being a dad has nothing to do with DNA.”

  “I believe that,” I say. “I think he couldn’t stop loving Sally even if he wanted to. I think, eventually, they’ll be fine. But I don’t think that we will.”

  “Families are built on much less than what you and Tom have,” Dad says. “You kids have a great marriage and a great family. You’re going to get through this.”

  “How?”

  “It’s going to take a lot of time,” Dad says. “You’re going to have to be very patient with Tom. Let him do what he needs to do. Let him work through it in his own way.”

  “But why would he forgive me?”

  “The same reason why other people forgive,” Ma says. “The weight of carrying the pain gets to be too much. At some point we have to do what God asks of us and let go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sin No More

  TOM’S LEAVING TOMORROW MORNING FOR Chicago, but this time it isn’t his usual two-night trip; this time he has volunteered to travel on to Phoenix. He’ll be gone a week, maybe ten days. The kids are throwing fits, none of them used to a dad who travels for a week at a time. My kids have never had to try on an arm’s-length dad, the kind who works late, golfs on the weekends, and demands obedience at the dinner table. The kind of dad who goes off to war for a year at a time, watches sports in his recliner rather than playing catch in the backyard, drinks a fourth beer instead of reading his boys a bedtime story. My kids have been spoiled by their twenty-first-century dad, the sweetest guy in the world who hasn’t once caused them pain, gives his time and love in abundance, and would lay down his life for any of them. Any of them.

  “Let him be,” I say to the kids, who are hanging from Tom like fishing weights. The display of love is so uninhibited it’s almost hard to watch, to see how our kids adore their father so, how on the hook they are for his return of affection. My instinct is to warn the children to keep their distance; that there is a risk attached to getting too close. “They’re fine,” he says in a cheerful voice, though his eyes are looking at the kids, not me. His inflection is for them. “How about we go get some ice cream?” Tom says.

  The kids hoot and holler, already planning their order.

  “I’m going to get a milk shake!” Sally says. “Can I?”

  “You may,” Tom says.

  “And I want a banana split!” Emily exclaims.

  “I want the dip thing,” Dom says.

  “Me, too,” Danny calls.

  “The dip thing?” Tom says in a silly voice.

  “He means chocolate ice cream on a cone dipped in chocolate,” I explain.

  “Obviously,” Tom says, glaring at me briefly. “I’ve taken them to get ice cream a million times.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Just trying to help.”

  “We’ll be back,” Tom says.

  “Aren’t you coming, Mommy?” Dom asks.

  “I guess not, buddy,” I say, throwing it back to Tom for once, tired of just closing my eyes and clenching my stomach while Tom punches me in the gut.

  “Come on, Mom,” Emily says. “Don’t you want your root beer float?”

  “I would,” I say. “But it looks like Daddy wants to have some special time with you before he leaves for his trip.”

  “That’s right,” Tom says. “Let’s go, kids.”

  Before I can object, he ushers them out the door and loads them into the minivan.

  The next morning, I watch from the kitchen window as Tom loads his suitcase into the trunk. A new emotion—anger—rises, pushing sadness and regret out of the way. A surge of heat warms my neck and behind my ears. I run outside and into the driveway in my bare feet.

  “Tom!” I holler, just as he’s backing up. “Can I ask you something?”

  “What?” Tom says, shifting into park.

  “Why is it that you can forgive your father a thousand indiscretions and your brother, too, but not me? Patrick so much as stubs his toe and you go running! He falls off the wagon and you make every excuse for him in the world. Nothing is his fault! He doesn’t need to take any accountability. You forgive, forgive, forgive him a thousand times. How about throwing some of that Catholic charity my way?”

  “It’s different! In a million ways it’s entirely different,” Tom seethes. “I never chose Patrick over you. No one got hurt by my helping my brother.”

  “I didn’t choose Landon!” I say. “This is madness. You’ve got to know how it was back then. I loved you, of course, I loved you so much. But we had only known each other for six months. I had known Landon for ten years!”

  “So you were sure enough about me to marry me—put your name on my retirement account and health insurance—but not sure enough to give me your loyalty, your fidelity. That only comes with time with you?”

  “Never mind,” I say, wiping my eyes.

  Tom squeezes the steering wheel, then looks at me hard. “You know, Mary, I’d love to know what you’re most sorry about: the fact that you slept with Landon when you were engaged to me. Or is it the fact that you got caught?”

  I gulp for air, pull back tightly with the slingshot of a lit
igator’s response, but my projectile falls flat. “Wait!” is all I can come up with.

  “For what?”

  Tom shifts into reverse and backs out, and then drives, leaving me alone. “No mistakes,” I mutter to no one at all.

  The nights that follow are quieter than normal. Tonight I slip into Sally’s room. She’s sprawled across her bed with her myth book on one side and a book of Bible stories on the other. Emily’s lying across the foot of her sister’s bed, flipping through a catalog. When I ask Sally what she’s up to, she tells me that she’s trying to find similarities between Greek myths and Bible stories. Never having considered such a parallel, I ask if she’s found any.

  “A lot,” she says. “They both talk of floods, of wars, of power.”

  “I guess that’s true,” I say. “Anything else?”

  “Well,” she says. “Men fell—like, you know, in both—because of trickery, deceit, and temptation.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say, as my eyes well up with tears. “Be right back. I need to blow my nose.” Out of her room and into my bathroom, I make it just in time to cover my face to hush my bawling cries. I sit on the toilet and sob into my hands. The guilt of Tom’s being gone at my doing—at my trickery and deceit, because of temptation—makes me want to kill myself. I think of the pride and propriety of fatherhood, how men define themselves by what they create; how for Tom, losing his claim to Sally has robbed him of something he considered his. The elusiveness of fatherhood, how it requires a faith that’s not required of women, who witness their bellies swell and blossom into nine months of evidence.

  My deceit robbed Tom of something that was his.

  My trickery betrayed him.

  He trusted that Sally was his. He trusted that I was true. Now our masks are off and we’re revealed as something different altogether. How does a man maintain his faith, his beliefs, his convictions, when the premises themselves are false?

  After I wash my face, I return to Sally’s room, call the girls onto my lap, and though there are knees and elbows and too-long legs, we find a way to perfectly cluster together.