Little Earthquakes

by Jennifer Weiner

  “Hello?”

  It was Ayinde. And she was crying. “Becky?”

  “What?” Becky asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Something happened,” she said. “Can you come over?”

  Becky felt her heart stop. “Is it Julian? Is Julian okay?”

  “Julian’s fine,” said Ayinde, “but please, can you just come?” And then she started to cry again.

  “I’ll be right there,” Becky said, thinking fast—the diaper bag was packed with wipes, a fresh outfit, and the half dozen diapers that Ava could go through in a single afternoon.

  “Don’t listen to the radio,” Ayinde said. “When you’re driving. Please. Please, promise me you won’t.” Becky promised. She changed Ava’s diaper and picked up her car seat. She checked her purse for her wallet and her keys and headed out the door. It wasn’t until she was halfway to Gladwyne that she realized she hadn’t even told her mother-in-law good-bye.

  AYINDE

  Her education had emphasized the classics—lots of Shakespeare, lots of Milton and Donne, the Bible as literature. Ayinde had studied the full complement of dead white men, thick volumes heavy on symbols and signs. Looking back, she would have expected a sign of her own: thunder, lightning, a hail of frogs, a plague of locusts. At least a flood in the basement. But there was nothing. The day her world cracked open was a day like any other day—better than most, in fact.

  She and Julian had slept together, side by side, in the vast, Richard-less bed. At six in the morning, the baby woke up. Ayinde had opened the blinds and sat cross-legged, leaning against the slipcovered headboard, listening to the hiss of the blender as the cook whipped up Richard’s protein shake; the soft ruffling of pages as she laid the newspapers out on the dining-room table; the sound of the florist’s truck making its way up the driveway.

  There was a gentle tap on the door. “Good morning,” Ayinde called. Clara slipped in, nodded at Ayinde and the baby, set a tray with tea and toast and honey and the morning papers on the table at the foot of the bed, and slipped out again. Ayinde closed her eyes. She was sure the staff was wondering about her. She knew the other players’ wives were. At the last unofficial team gathering—a barbecue in July at the coach’s summer home at the Jersey Shore—the wives had showered Julian with gifts: a custom-made jersey with his father’s number, miniature Nikes and Timberland boots, tiny ensembles in denim and leather, nylon Sixers warm-ups in size Newborn.

  Then the questions had begun. One question, really: Have you found a nanny? All of the other wives had full-time help—live-in help, in most cases. And none of them worked. They spent their days shopping, lunching, working out, being wives, eternally available to their husbands for travel, for support, and for sex, Ayinde supposed. They couldn’t believe she didn’t want a nanny. Ayinde had kept quiet while she quoted a salient bit of Baby Success! to herself. If your job only serves to give you a sense of purpose, a sense of meaning in the world, I want you to go over to that little darling (unless it’s naptime, of course!) and hold Dumpling. All the meaning, all the purpose, everything you could ever want or hope for is right there in your arms. You have a job already. Your job is Mother. And there’s no job in the world more important than that.

  The old, pre-Priscilla Ayinde would have dismissed the rhetoric as reactionary, antifeminist bullshit, and maybe tossed the book against the wall for good measure. Post-baby Ayinde—Ayinde with Julian in her arms, haunted by memories of the halfhearted parenting she’d received, determined to raise her baby perfectly or at least damn close to it and, if she was being honest, no job prospects on the horizon—had swallowed it whole. What could work give her that her own baby couldn’t? Assuming she could even get hired in the first place? My job is Mother, she whispered to herself. She only said it to herself. She’d once made the mistake of saying it out loud to her friends, and Becky had laughed so hard that she’d almost choked on her latte.

  There was another tap on the door, and Richard came through, smelling of aftershave and soap. Loose nylon shorts clung to his hips and drooped to his knees; a sleeveless T-shirt showed off his muscular arms. He looks so good, Ayinde thought, but it was a remote kind of appreciation, the same as she’d give to a statue in a museum. “Hey, baby,” he said, kissing her head. “Hey, little man,” he said and brushed Julian’s head with his fingertips. They went over his schedule—he’d be at Temple all day, leading a clinic for high school players, then holed up with his business manager and publicist after dinner to go over the specifics of a new credit-card endorsement deal. He cupped Ayinde’s chin and kissed her gently. Then he walked down to the kitchen, where his shake and his newspapers were waiting, then, presumably, out the front door, where his car and driver were waiting, and then on to Temple, where a few dozen awestruck high school players would be waiting, thrilled at the chance to breathe the same air as her husband.

  It was a beautiful fall morning, the sky crisp and blue, the leaves of the maple trees just starting to turn. Ayinde pushed Julian’s stroller down the long driveway. She wondered if they’d get trick-or-treaters; whether any intrepid neighborhood kids would brave the hike up the driveway or whether Richard would simply station the security guy in the Hummer in front of their mailbox and instruct him to hand out candy.

  At ten o’clock, she set the baby down for his Priscilla Prewitt–prescribed nap and managed to shower, brush her teeth, and get dressed. At two o’clock, she drove into town and met Kelly for lunch. They ate grilled chicken and arugula salads at Fresh Fields, while the babies sat in their strollers, ignoring each other. “How’s work?” she asked.

  “Fine!” said Kelly, smoothing her lank blond hair. “We’re still looking for a nanny. Let me tell you, I have seen some head cases this last week. So right now Steve’s home with the baby while I work, but it’s fine!” Oliver started to fuss. Kelly lifted him up, sniffed his bottom, grimaced, and reached for her diaper bag. “Oh, God, oh, no. Do you have a diaper? And some wipes? God, Steve always does this. He uses everything up and then he doesn’t replace it. I can’t believe I left the house without looking!”

  Ayinde couldn’t help herself from feeling the tiniest bit smug as she gave Kelly her packet of organic recycled-cotton wipes and one of her cloth diapers (“best for the environment and for Dumpling’s soft l’il bottom,” said Priscilla Prewitt) and, after lunch, as she clicked Julian’s car seat into place and deftly folded his stroller into the trunk. My job is Mother, she whispered, as she drove them both home. And she was good at it, too, she thought, even if it was boring and tedious, even if she felt time stretching like taffy, even if she found herself constantly looking at her watch, counting the hours, and even the minutes, until Julian’s next nap or his bedtime, when she’d get a break. Her job was Mother, and she was doing just fine.

  When she got home, there were six cars in the driveway, parked hastily, as if their owners had gotten as close to the front door as they could before running inside. Ayinde pulled up behind the last car, feeling the first tickle of unease at the base of her spine. Four strange cars and two that she recognized: the black Town Car, sleek and anonymous, which drove Richard where he needed to be driven, and the Audi whose license plate read COACH, a car the same distinguished silver as its owner’s hair. No ambulance, though, she thought, thinking of Lia. She slipped her handbag over her shoulder, hefted Julian, still in his car seat, out of the car, and walked inside. The cook was slowly wiping a counter that looked clean already, and the business manager standing inside the door nodded hello without meeting Ayinde’s eyes.

  Richard was sitting in the dining room, slumped by himself at the head of a table that was made to seat eighteen. His mahogany skin had an ashy undertone, and his lips looked blue around the edges. “Richard?” She set Julian down on the table. “What’s wrong?”

  He raised his eyes to look at her, and there was an expression of such anguish on his face that she stumbled steps backward, catching her heel on the fringe of the antique Persian rug and almost fallin
g. “What happened?”

  “I have to tell you something,” Richard said. His eyes were bloodshot. Sick, Ayinde thought wildly. He’s sick, he needs a doctor, he should be in a hospital, not here . . . She looked around. Strangers were filing into the dining room. There was a man in khakis and a wrinkled Oxford shirt carrying an oversized FedEx envelope; a woman in a navy suit and a chignon stood behind him. Not a stethoscope or a white lab coat among them.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Why don’t we all sit down,” the coach said. The tone of his voice, the gentleness there, reminded Ayinde of her own father—not in real life, of course, but the part he’d played on Broadway in The Moon at Midnight and the speech he’d given, telling his onstage daughter that her mother had died. He’d won the Tony for it, she thought dimly.

  Julian had fallen asleep in his car seat. She lifted him into her arms anyhow, pillowing his sleeping face against her shoulder. Richard pushed himself slowly out of his chair and walked over to her, moving as if he’d aged a fast ten years or torn a tendon, a basketball player’s worst fear. “Something happened in Phoenix,” he said. His voice was so low that Ayinde could barely hear it.

  Phoenix. Phoenix. Richard visited there frequently; it was where the soft-drink company he represented was headquartered. His last trip had been three weeks ago. “What happened?” She stared at Richard, trying to figure it out. Had he hurt himself there, playing pickup ball, working out in a substandard hotel gym?

  “There was a girl,” he mumbled. Ayinde felt her whole body go cold. Perfume, her mind whispered. She clutched Julian so tightly that he gasped in his sleep. Perfume, her mind said again. And then came three words, delivered in a voice that was unmistakably Lolo’s: Told you so.

  She raised her chin, determined not to break down in front of this crowd of strangers. “What happened?”

  “She . . .” Richard’s voice trailed off. He cleared his throat. “She’s pregnant.”

  No, Ayinde thought. Not her Richard. Not that. “And you’re the father?”

  “That’s for the courts to determine,” said the woman in the blue suit.

  “Who are you?” Ayinde asked coldly.

  “This is Christina Crossley,” said the coach. “She’s a crisis communication manager.” He ducked his head. “We’ve hired her for . . . for the duration. Until we get this straightened out.”

  Christina Crossley Crisis! Ayinde’s mind sang.

  “The woman has made allegations,” Christina Crossley said. “Richard will have to fly back to Phoenix tomorrow and give a DNA sample. After that . . .” She lifted her shoulders. “We’ll see.” Christina Crossley pressed her lips together. “The problem is, she’s already gone to the press. The tabloids. The National Examiner is planning on leading with the story on Wednesday, which means the legitimate media will treat it as fair game.”

  Fair game. Ayinde tried to puzzle out the phrase, to consider each word separately, but it still made no sense. It wasn’t a game, and it certainly wasn’t fair. Not to her. Not to Julian.

  “We’ve scheduled a press conference,” Christina Crossley continued. “For tomorrow night at five, so we’ll be sure to make the nightly news cycle.” She offered Ayinde a professionally compassionate smile. “We can take this afternoon to work on your statement.”

  Ayinde stared at the woman before she decided that there was only one statement she could conceivably make.

  “Out,” she said.

  Christina Crossley looked at the coach, then at Ayinde. Her professional smile had cooled a few degrees. “Mrs. Towne, I’m not sure you appreciate the gravity of what we’re facing here. In a very real sense, Richard’s livelihood—his future—depends on how we’re able to manage the story . . .”

  “OUT!”

  They moved fast—the coach, Christina Crossley, the whey-faced white guy whose name she hadn’t been given, all of them hurrying over the waxed hardwood floors and the hand-knotted Persian rug. The crystals in the chandelier rattled with their footsteps. Richard, Ayinde, and the baby were alone at the table. Richard cleared his throat. Ayinde stared at him. He shuffled his feet. She said nothing. She felt iced over, frozen in place.

  “I’m sorry,” he finally blurted.

  “How could you,” she said. It wasn’t a question but a statement. How could you.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “But Ayinde, it was nothing. It was a one-night stand. I don’t even know her last name!”

  “You think I believe that?” she demanded. “You came to me the night our son was born smelling like some other woman’s perfume . . .”

  “What?” He stared up at her, bewildered. “Baby, what are you talking about?”

  “How many?” she yelled at him. “How many women, Richard? How long have you been cheating on me?”

  “I don’t know what kind of perfume you’re talking about. It was just this once, Ayinde. I swear.”

  “I guess that’s supposed to make me feel better—oh, you only cheated on me once,” she ranted. “How could you have been so stupid! How could you not have . . .” Her voice caught in her throat. “How come you didn’t use protection?”

  “She said it was safe.”

  “Oh, Richard,” Ayinde groaned. In all the years she’d known him, she thought her husband was many things—smart, kindhearted, a little vain. She’d never once thought he was stupid. Until right now.

  “It was a mistake,” he was saying, looking at her with his tormented eyes. “I swear to you.”

  “You swore to me once already,” Ayinde said. She felt as if she’d left her body and was watching the scene unfold from a vast, airy distance. “You swore to love and honor me. Forsaking all others, right? Or am I not remembering it correctly?”

  He glared at her. “Well, you promised the same things, and then you kicked me out of my own bed.”

  She was so stunned that she found it hard to breathe. “So this is my fault?”

  He looked down at the table and said nothing.

  “Richard, I had a baby . . .”

  “You had a baby,” he said, “but you had a husband, too. I needed you, and you pushed me away.”

  “So this is my fault,” she repeated, thinking that this was another truth of Richard’s life—there was always someone to blame. He could pin a loss on his teammates—a guard who couldn’t shut down an opposing center, a forward who couldn’t sink his foul shots. He could hang his personal failings on his upbringing—a teenage mother, a doting grandmother, neither one with an education, both of them with their hands open, ready to indulge Prince Richard with whatever their income would allow. And then the NBA, too much, too fast, cars and houses and money, all of it wrapped up with the built-in guarantee of someone there to take the fall and a Christina Crossley to swoop down and smooth over any manner of unpleasantness when you finally did stumble badly enough to warrant the world’s attention.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “If I could take it back . . .” His voice broke.

  “You need to get tested for STDs. And AIDS,” she said. He stared at her sullenly for a minute then shook his head. Ayinde thought once more of her mother. Lolo had hated Richard from the first time she’d heard his name. “Sportin’ Life,” she’d called him, after the drug pusher in Porgy and Bess. How is Sportin’ Life? she’d ask when she called. You don’t marry a man like that, Lolo instructed her daughter, as if Ayinde had asked for her advice. No, not at all! You have your fun with him, baby girl. Get your picture in the papers. Then find yourself a man to marry.

  I love him, Ayinde told her mother. Lolo shrugged and went back to the painstaking application of her false eyelashes, the ones she wore every day, even when she was only going down to the lobby, where there was no audience except for the bored doorman to watch her pick up her mail.

  Then it’s your funeral, she’d said.

  Ayinde narrowed her eyes and stared at Richard. The whole world will be laughing at us, she thought, and that thought slammed her back into her body, int
o this room, into the here and the now of what her husband had done. Laughing at me. Laughing at Julian. She lifted her chin even higher. “Get out,” she said.

  “They’ll want to talk to you,” Richard said. “About what we’re going to do next.”

  “Get out,” she said again, in a voice she barely recognized as her own. He got up with his shoulders hunched, slumping out of the room, and she was left by herself with Julian in her arms. She tucked her nose against his neck, breathing in his scent—milk, warmth, his sweet breath. Priscilla Prewitt had a chapter on divorce. Marriage on the rocks? Keep your eyes on the prize. Remember what really matters. Remember who comes first. Study after study—as well as good ol’ common sense—tell us what we know in our hearts. Babies do better with mommy and daddy both under the same roof.

  Ayinde squeezed her eyes shut, knowing that even though she’d told them to leave, there were still people in her house. If she listened closely enough, she would be able to hear all of them—the cook, the maids, the publicist, the business manager, the trainer, the masseuse, the gardener, the landscaper, the delivery men, assistants, interns, and secretaries—wandering in and out of her house just like Richard had wandered in and out of their marriage. She wondered whether everyone knew what had happened. She wondered whether Richard had ever brought women home when she was visiting her parents in New York or when she was out for the afternoon. She wondered whether the maid had smoothed the sheets and the cook had whipped up breakfast for two.

  She slumped onto a love seat and groped for her cell phone. And then she called her friends and told them to meet her in the guest house and please not to listen to the radio as they drove.

  ∗ ∗ ∗

  Richard hadn’t really left, Ayinde realized. He’d just locked himself in the guest room. Ayinde walked past the door half a dozen times, gathering sloppy armloads of her clothes and Julian’s, carrying them down the stairs, past the kitchen where the cook and Clara kept their heads down, ostentatiously not looking at her, past the dining room where the coach and the lawyers and Christina Crossley sat, out the door, and into the guest-house bedroom. Then she stood in the driveway with her baby in her arms and waited.