by Liz Kay
“Gavin loves it,” his mom says, rubbing his head. She actually smiles at me, and I think, Oh, look at that, I’m doing okay. “His dad played baseball in college, so he got some extra coaching. Right, buddy?”
Gavin nods.
She just waits for a minute, and I know she’s waiting for me to say something about Stevie’s dad and whether he’s really into sports, but most important whether he still lives with us. I know they all think I’m divorced, which in Omaha is not okay, at least not in this neighborhood. You can be divorced, but you have to live in Midtown, and your kids can’t play in this league. I almost wish Stevie would make one of his announcements.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” I say, and I hold my hand out.
“Lynn,” she says, and she shakes my hand.
“I’m Stacey,” I say, and she smiles.
“And these two are both yours?” she says, nodding toward the boys.
“They are. And you have Gavin? Is he your only?”
“Oh no,” she laughs. “We have five.”
I say, “Oh, you’re Catholic,” and then I think, Shit, why did I say that? I make a little face like, I’m just kidding, but I think it’s too late. She kind of laughs, but it’s the kind of laugh people use to tell you you’re an asshole.
I say, “Well, I should probably fix a plate.”
• • •
I sort of position myself at the edge of a group of parents, and I turn my head so it looks like I’m really intently watching the kids. There must be three dozen of them in the backyard. They’re swarming the wooden playset, falling in the grass.
The dads behind me are talking sports now, mostly about the Huskers, and I think, I wish Michael were here. He would know how to do this. Actually, I think Phillip would too. I can see where he would fit between these two guys in their golf shorts. I wouldn’t let him wear golf shorts, but he could stand there. He could bridge the gap between us.
• • •
I walk out to get the boys, tell them it’s time to go, and as I walk up behind Stevie and the boys around him, I hear them all talking. They want to have a pool party. They’re asking a couple of the other moms.
“We’ll see,” one says, and then she turns to her friend. “Let’s just get through this one first.”
Stevie says, “My mom’s boyfriend has a pool. He’s a movie star. He lives in a mansion.”
“Stevie!” I say, and I look at the other women. I kind of shake my head. I say, “I don’t … he’s just … ,” and then I think, Fuck it. I say, “His dad died.”
I drop to squat beside him, take his arms in my hands. I say, “Honey, Tommy is not my boyfriend. He’s just a really good friend.”
Stevie just says, “Oh,” but he looks like I’ve just told him Disneyland burned down. Even to Stevie, Tommy’s a big deal. I can feel these moms looking at me, and I think, God, how can I deal with this here? I pull Stevie into a hug, and I say, “Hey, it doesn’t mean you can’t still see him, right? Because he’s one of my very best friends, and he would love for you to come stay with him and go swimming.” I smile up at the other moms, but they’re both making this sad, sorry face like they feel like they should bring me a casserole. It’s Nebraska. It’s the only thing they know to do.
• • •
When I tuck him into bed, I think about telling Stevie how proud Michael would be, but it feels like something I don’t want to start. It feels like an intrusion, so I just say, “Who’s my favorite bug?” and Stevie says, “Me.”
In the kitchen, I throw out the leftover hummus, which is most of it, and wipe down the counters. There aren’t really any crumbs, but Bear comes running anyway, snuffles along the floor. I lean forward over the island, let the edge of it press against my stomach, rest on my arms. The granite feels damp still and cool, but I don’t really care. Everything else in the house feels too hot. I keep forgetting to turn on the fan. Across the room, Stevie’s trophy sits on the mantel. He’s already polished it twice, standing with it over the sink with an old washcloth.
Looking at it makes me feel raw, and I think how, in the opposite corner, on the shelf with painted wineglasses and crystal decanters that are really only filled with colored water, just for display, is Tommy’s bottle of scotch that I never planned to open, but I think tonight might be a good night. It might be just what I need. I pour a little into a glass, not even two fingers, and I swirl it. I hold it up to my nose. I don’t know if you’re supposed to do this with scotch, and it smells terrible. I know it’s going to taste bad too. It’s like trying to swallow gasoline, but I do like the way it leaves my tongue feeling numb. I like how it feels against my teeth. I pour a little more in the glass, raise the level back up. I’m just topping it off, so I don’t feel like I have to start counting. I feel like this just makes it one. With each sip, the fist knotted around my spine is loosening its grip. I set the glass in front of the bottle and snap a picture of it with my phone, and I label it fucking godsend and text it to Tommy.
When the phone rings, it’s been twenty minutes and I’m staring at the trace in my glass, wishing it wasn’t almost empty. It’s too late now to call this topping it off. I’m curled in the chair by the fireplace, and my phone is across the room, back in the kitchen on the counter. When I walk, I don’t feel wobbly, but my joints feel loose.
“I hope you’re not alone,” Tommy says when I answer. “You need a babysitter with that shit.”
“I’m just having a little,” I say, “just a little, little bit,” but I do pour another small splash in the glass. I decide to call it one and a half.
It’s loud wherever he is. I can tell he’s not at home. “What’s wrong?” he says.
“Nothing. You should go back to your party. I’ve just had a long day.” The voices behind him get louder and some of them are calling his name. “Seriously, though, you should go. You can call me tomorrow.” I don’t actually mean this, and I’m afraid the scotch lets it show in my voice. This is what I don’t love about the scotch. It’s not that it makes me let my guard down. I’m still trying to hold it up, but with each sip it just eats a little more of it away.
“I hate most of these people anyway.” The noise behind him fades a little like he’s moving out of range.
“It was just this stupid baseball party for Stevie and all these parents and their mayonnaisey salads and their ‘Why don’t you have a husband?’ looks. I just … I can’t blend in.”
“Why would you want to? They sound like assholes. Only assholes eat mayonnaise.” I have actually seen Tommy eat mayonnaise, but him I forgive.
“I don’t know, for the boys, I guess. Don’t they need a regular mom who makes friends with all the other moms, who isn’t like some kind of pariah?”
“Pariah?” Tommy says, and I think he laughs at me. “Come on, honey, the boys are fine.”
“Yeah, they’re totally fine. This is why Stevie announced to a whole group of them that ‘my mommy’s boyfriend is a movie star,’” and then I think, Fucking scotch, because I wasn’t going to tell him that part.
“Me?” He laughs. “That’s pretty cute.”
“No, Tommy, it’s sad. It’s a sad little story made up by a little kid who doesn’t have a dad, and that’s what all these awful moms were thinking, and they’re just standing there looking at me and wondering what the hell I’m doing that he’s making up these crazy stories and how I must have a lot of men coming around anyway, or where else would he get the idea.”
“Jesus, take a breath,” he says. “He’s not pulling this shit out of thin air, you know. So are you pissed off that he caught you or that his interpretation of reality doesn’t line up with yours?”
“Reality? We don’t have reality, Tommy. We have, I don’t know, vacation sex.”
“Wow.” The laugh he makes now does not sound happy. “You just keep taking the asshole up a notch, don’t you? You’re the one who’s always on vacation, honey. This is just my fucking life.”
I should have stopped at the first glass. I maybe shouldn’t have started. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t even know what I’m saying right now.”
He doesn’t say anything, and I can hear the noise behind him picking up again. I’m sure there’s some very pretty girl waiting for him in that crowd. There always is.
• • •
I try to take the boys to the pool a few times a week. We go in the late afternoon, so when we’re getting there, it’s the busiest time, but it thins out pretty quickly as everyone’s heading home for dinner. I can usually find a shady spot to camp out. It was more fun when they were littler and needed me to stand at the bottom of the waterslide, needed me to catch them. Now they’re such good swimmers. They jump and jump off the diving board. I watch for a while. Then I usually just sit and read. I’m right in the middle of a chapter when my phone rings, so I almost let it roll, but when I glance down, I see that it’s Erin, my editor.
“I’m putting together all the book promo stuff to send to this conference in Chicago, and I need an updated bio. The one I have doesn’t even mention the movie. They want it fast though, so I need it by tomorrow.”
“What are you talking about?” I sit up and let the book fall closed in my lap.
“I thought you knew.” She sounds nervous now, like she knows I might back out. “Okay, it’s nothing crazy. It’s just a weekend in Chicago.”
“What is just a weekend in Chicago?”
“It’s a publishing conference. More of a pitch event really, and the panel you’re on is acquisitions, what makes a project stand out. It’s with one of your movie producers, so I doubt you’ll really have to say much. Very low-stress, but it’s a good chance to move some books.”
“Right. One of the producers,” I say. “When’s this supposed to be?”
“Late September.”
The lifeguards blow their whistles for break, and I look up and see that Stevie still has his head underwater. I’m sure he’ll be the last to come in.
“Look, Erin, I have to go. I’m at the pool with the boys.”
“Don’t blow this off, Stacey. And send me that bio,” she says. “Today.”
I tuck my book back in my bag so they don’t drip on it, and pull out towels to wrap around them. It’s a hot day, but I know they’ll feel chilly in the shade.
The boys sit on the lounge chair next to mine. “Did you bring any snacks?” Stevie says.
“Apple slices,” I say, and I dig them out of my bag.
“Did you see my flip?” Ben says.
“I did. You went really high.” He landed on his back though. It looked like it stung. “Dry off a little. I want you to get more sunscreen on.”
The break is ten minutes, and the whole time I’m watching the second hand tick on the giant clock that hangs over the door leading to the showers. I’m counting down to the whistle, to the boys running back to the water, to calling Tommy.
When he answers, I say, “What the fuck did you do?”
“I’m not sure who you’re talking about, baby, but whoever it is, she means nothing.”
“Really, Tommy? That’s hilarious. What is this Chicago shit?”
“Jesus, you’re worked up about that? It’s a weekend.”
“You could have asked me first.”
“I don’t need to ask you, honey. You always make it work. And anyway, we’re doing this for Daniel, so don’t make a thing about it. He’s already freaked out.”
“Daniel?”
“Yeah. You don’t think this little Chicago deal is really my league? He wants to start doing more, maybe finding his own projects. He needs to start meeting people, agents, making some contacts.”
“Daniel’s leaving you?”
“Leaving me.” He laughs. “Whose money you think he’s gonna spend? He’s not leaving me, he just wants to change his job a little.”
“Who’s going to run your life?”
“Fuck if I know. Not me. I’m not really qualified.”
AUGUST
MATT STOPS CALLING Sadie in early August, and Tommy says she’s in a tailspin. He says she’s lost ten pounds. I have had a few weepy texts from her, but of course she didn’t mention the weight loss. She’s stupid, but not completely.
“Jesus, from where?” I say.
“Exactly.” He sounds like he’s going to cry.
I’m in my kitchen, sorting the boys’ back-to-school supplies. Two boxes of crayons in the yellow backpack, three packs of pencils in the blue.
“Tommy”—I take a deep breath—“how’s she been dressing?”
“Trying to hide it. Wearing all this baggy shit, but it’s not like it isn’t obvious. I mean I can see it on her face.”
“No.” I can’t remember which color of scissors belongs to whom. I think Stevie picked red. “I mean how much skin is she trying to cover. Is she wearing shorts ever? Long sleeves?”
He doesn’t say anything for a minute. “How do you know about that?”
I say, “You told me,” even though he didn’t really need to. You’d have to be trying pretty hard not to see.
“I don’t even remember that,” he says.
“You wouldn’t,” I say, sliding a ruler into each bag. “It was a pretty bad night, Tommy.”
“Yeah,” he says, “it was.” But he says it really quietly, like he doesn’t want to think about it, and I can’t blame him. I don’t either.
“So?” I say. “It’s summer, Tommy. What’s she been wearing?”
And then he says, “Shit,” but he says it in this voice that’s kind of cracking. He says, “I don’t know what to do.”
“Have you thought about a treatment program?” I say. “Maybe something inpatient.”
“I don’t know, don’t you think it would just make her mad?”
“Better mad than dead.” Then I think I shouldn’t have said that. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it like that.”
He sighs and says, “No, you’re right, she’s a mess. And her mom isn’t helping. Her mom’s like, ‘Why doesn’t that guy like you anymore? What did you do?’”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I don’t know. She’s in the middle of a divorce, and she’s got all her own shit mixed up in this.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to find a place you can put Sadie,” I say. “She needs full-time help. Like a nutritionist and a fleet of shrinks help.” I open the package of glue sticks and separate them into two piles. “I’m sorry. I really am,” I say. “I wish I could fix this for you.”
• • •
Jenny wants to have a barbecue on Labor Day, and she wants me to bring Phillip. She says, “I’m cutting you off on babysitting until I meet this guy.” We’re standing in her kitchen, and the kids are all outside.
“I don’t know. The kids haven’t met him yet.” I sit down at her table where I can still look out the windows. They’re covered in these horizontal wooden blinds, and my view of the boys is sliced into layers. It’s like looking at a grid. Here is a section of leg. Here is an eye.
She sits next to me. She has a wide elastic band twisted around her wrist, and she pulls it off, uses it to tie back her hair. She’s older than me, just by a year, but her skin is so light and pretty. She doesn’t show her age at all. Every time I look at her, it makes me feel tired.
“It’s been almost six months,” she says. “Don’t you think it’s time?”
“He doesn’t have anything to do with them. I just …” I shake my head. “I don’t see the point.”
“You are an asshole, Stacey. A total asshole.” She points her finger at me like she’s being all emphatic. “This guy is serious about you. You encourage it, but then you turn around and keep him at arm’s length.” She shakes her head. “That’s kind of shitty, Stacey.”
“Oh, fuck you,” I say, but I say it in a soft tone, not really like Fuck you, just like You’re wrong.
“Seriously, Stacey.” She gives me this really tough mom expression. “Bring
him over and act like a decent person.”
SEPTEMBER
I MAKE PHILLIP drive over separately, and we get there before him. He brings a six-pack of craft beer that Todd likes, and it’s perfect because it’s what I told him to do. I take him out to the backyard, and Todd is at the grill. It smells like smoke. It smells like burning meat.
“You must be Phillip,” Todd says, shifting his tongs into his left hand and holding out his right, “and you brought beer? Nice! Welcome to the family.” He winks at me. “I got a brat right here with your name on it, Stacey. You like ’em a little charred?” I just roll my eyes, but I love Todd.
The glass door slides open, and Jenny steps out. She’d gone downstairs to get a bottle of chilled white from the bar. “Hi!” she says brightly, and I can tell she’s giving Phillip this whole body scan, but she’s pretty subtle with it. Jenny’s always been slick.
The kids are all up in the playhouse, and they won’t come down until they run out of potato chips, so Jenny decides she can speak freely. “So you’re the guy keeping my little sister so busy?”
I think Phillip almost blushes. He’s still standing there, holding that stupid six-pack of beer. It’s kind of awkward, really. If I were him, I’d want to leave.
“Here,” I say, taking the beer from him. I pull one out and grab the opener that Todd keeps hanging from his grill. I pop the top off and hand the bottle to Phillip. “You’re going to need this.”
“Hot dogs!” Todd yells in the direction of the playhouse, and the kids all echo him in squeals.
Jenny’s fixing their plates because of course she already knows who wants ketchup, who wants mustard, who wants the hot dog but doesn’t want the bun.
“Wash your hands,” I say when the boys are close enough, and Stevie holds his up like, They’re not even dirty. They don’t argue though, they just open the door and head in.
When they come back out, I hold my hand out toward Phillip and say, “And this is Dr. Keller.”
He squats down in front of them. “You can call me Phillip,” he says.