She was in a baggy sleeping T-shirt now, and a pair of shorts. “But then I didn’t,” she said. “I left.”
“You left?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I was about to walk out the door. The whole thing was about to be over. And then there she was. Scarlett, standing there in her underwear.”
“She was in her underwear?” asked Mitch.
“Yeah.”
“She didn’t mention that at office hours,” he said. “That’ll make it worse. The story. When she tells everyone she knows on the planet.”
“Maybe she won’t talk,” said Jessica.
Mitch made a face, because she was being naïve.
“Okay, maybe she will. But think of what it’ll do for our street cred.”
The dishwasher hummed and swooshed between them, one of the many sounds of marriage.
“Why’d you leave?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I decided I didn’t want to do it.”
He kept looking at her, though. Finally, she nodded and ran her palm over their smooth countertop. “Luke texted me about the kids. Jude was freaking out. And then Emily was freaking out. They needed me, and I was nearly naked in a row house downtown.”
He groaned at this—the bluntness of such a simple sentence. He filled a glass with water from the sink but didn’t drink it.
“The E.T. nightmares are getting worse,” she said. “He’s a giant spider now, but with an E.T. head. Sounds awful.”
“God, it’s so easy to scar them,” he said.
“It all suddenly felt so wrong,” she said. “It always felt wrong, I guess, on some level. But when I saw Luke’s texts, and when I thought about them, Emily and Jude, I couldn’t rationalize it anymore.”
Mitch rubbed his forehead. “Me neither.”
He wished he hadn’t pitched that joint down the garbage disposal a few weeks earlier. Pot, even more than Golden Oreos, would’ve made this whole scene easier. He told her about SVÄRTA night at Terry’s apartment, about Kristen, and about how affected he’d been when he saw Terry’s sons’ depressing little bedroom.
“This Kristen girl,” said Jessica.
“Yeah?”
“She licked you?”
“She did.”
“Where?”
He touched his neck. “Body shots. It’s what the youth do, I guess.”
“Was she cute?”
There are so many words that describe female beauty—thesauruses full of them. Cute wasn’t quite right, Mitch knew, but it was close enough, so he nodded.
“It was the kids, then,” she said. “They’re what stopped us from…what we were going to do.”
“Yeah.”
It’d been drizzling earlier, and now rain drummed on the roof and deck.
“Do you want to see him again?” he asked.
“Do you want to see her again?” she asked.
Neither of them answered the other’s question. He suspected that, if they had, their answers would’ve been complicated.
Jessica touched a stack of catalogs on the counter. “He liked my lisp,” she said.
“Your lisp?”
“Remember how much you used to love it?” she said. “It’d slip out, and you’d go crazy.”
“I still do,” he said, and he did, although he couldn’t remember the last time he’d noticed it—the last time it had even crossed his mind.
“We’re not gonna be one of those couples who stays together for the kids, are we?” she asked.
“I hope not,” he said. It was a weak answer—passive and defeatist—but before he could correct himself and tell her that, no, they absolutely were not, sounds came from the stairs. A cough, and then a whisper, and then the kids hustling back up to their rooms. Emily and Jude had been spying on them.
“Shit,” said Jessica.
They looked at each other. “What do you think they heard?” asked Mitch.
They didn’t know. But they were parents, so they assumed the worst.
50
There’s that first few seconds, right when you wake up in the morning, when your head is absolutely clear. It’s like a computer booting up—its screen perfectly clean and white—before the train wreck of your desktop clogs everything up with its disorganized jumble of crap.
When Mitch woke the next day, he reveled in those few seconds.
There were no problems. No anxieties or regrets. Just the warmth of his floor bed and the dull hum of the house. The sun lit up the room while birds carried on outside, screaming like the world was ending, the way they always did in the morning.
Then the realities arrived, one after the other. All of their friends were divorced. Jessica had slept with someone. Scarlett knew about it. God only knew who she’d tell; who she’d already told. Jessica was under the impression that he, too, had slept with someone. His brain, that freshly booted hard drive, was about to obsess over all of those things in a downward-spiraling rainbow wheel of death when he rolled over and found his daughter lying beside him, wide awake.
“Boo,” she said.
“Morning, babe.”
“Did I scare you?”
“Yes. You’re terrifying.”
“The Oreos are all gone,” she said. The golden ones.”
“They are. But how do you know that?”
“I used a kitchen chair to climb up onto the counter,” she said. “Jude showed me how the other day.”
“Okay, maybe let’s not do that anymore.”
She nodded, which seemed like a lie.
“Is that why you’re here?” he asked. “Keeping track of the Oreos?”
“No. I’m just laying down.”
“Were you scared?”
“Not really. We just wanted to be with you guys.”
“We?”
“Jude and me.”
“Jude?” The boy was there, too, Mitch discovered. Jude and Emily had squished themselves between him and Jessica. Mitch thought of how cats and dogs sometimes climb into their owners’ luggage, demanding to be taken along. “Well, look at that,” he said.
“We’re the only ones awake, though,” she whispered. “You and me.”
He looked past the kids. Jessica was huddled on her side, clinging to the small sliver of real estate she’d been left with.
“Are you and mommy fighting?” Emily asked.
Mitch did his best to replay in his head what she and Jude might have heard the night before. The specifics would be tough for them to grasp, but they’d apparently understood enough to know that whatever they were talking about was serious. “Not at all,” he said.
“Are you gonna get divorced like Aunt Amber and Uncle Alan? And Aunt Megan and Uncle Terry? And Aunt—?”
He pulled her into a sideways hug, squeezing her bony rib cage. “Honey, no,” he said. “We’re not. I promise.” He thought, for the thousandth time, of Emily and Jude staring, horrified, at a dying E.T. on the giant screen, and he understood just how much they needed him and Jessica.
“Can I tell you something?” she asked.
“You can just talk,” he said. “You don’t need permission.”
“Okay. Well, I want pancakes,” she said. “It’s been about a hundred years since we had them, and I want some.”
“I think we’re out of pancake mix,” he said. He was softening the blow here. The fact was, he knew they were.
“Well, that’s okay. You can just go to Graul’s and get some.”
“Oh yeah? Just like that, huh?”
“Mm-hmm. Oreos, too. You should get like ten bags of them so we don’t run out so fast.”
He looked over at the alarm clock. 7:50 A.M. It was a good idea, actually. Breakfast. Families on the brink of ruin don’t make pancakes on Saturday mornings and eat th
em together at the kitchen table, right?
“You hang here, okay?” he said. “I’ll be back.”
* * *
—
He flipped the wipers on to get rid of the morning dew, and rolled down the windows. He opted against NPR in the hopes that he could go the whole morning without interviewing himself. When he hit the Bluetooth feature on his dashboard, the car synced with his iPhone. It was set to random, which usually called up some deep track he didn’t care about and hadn’t heard in years. But on that morning, “Free Fallin’ ” by Tom Petty came on, so he turned it up, because everything’s simpler when Tom Petty’s on the radio. We’re all just good girls who love our mamas, horses, and America, too, goddammit.
Mitch pulled out of the driveway and turned right. As he passed Ellen and James’s house, he drove slowly so he could look at Luke’s Jeep. It was out there, parked in the driveway with the top off, which was a total rookie mistake in the world of convertible ownership. By now the poor kid’s interior would be soaking wet with dew, and it’d take hours to dry out. He made a note to himself to pass along the tip next time he saw him.
* * *
—
Graul’s was a small grocery store on the edge of their neighborhood, one of those places that doesn’t have much but still somehow manages to have everything you need.
It was just opening when Mitch walked through the automatic doors. One of the employees smiled at him from the registers as she counted change and hummed a song to herself.
The mission was simple: Get pancake mix, eggs, milk, and Golden Oreos, then hustle home and start making breakfast. As he made his way through the aisles, though, he realized that they needed more than that. In fact, they needed pretty much everything.
He started with the staples, then went from there—adding things like granola, dishwasher detergent, and a few little cans of espresso with Starbucks logos on them. His phone buzzed in his back pocket when he was in the cereal aisle. He expected to see a request from home—strawberries or Swedish Fish or something—but it was from Alan. No emojis, just words.
She broke up with me. DUMPED!
Mitch pulled his basket over to the side. He pictured Alan alone in his sparse new apartment, SportsCenter blaring on the flat-screen.
“Dude, you and your actual phone conversations,” Alan said when he answered.
“Seemed worthy of an actual call,” Mitch said. “What happened?”
“She did it over text. Can you believe that shit? Fucking millennials.”
Mitch could hear the pain in Alan’s voice. “What’d she say?”
“She said I’m old.”
“Jesus, really?”
“Well, no. She said it nicer than that. But that’s what she meant. Different life stages. Going different places. Blah, blah.”
The fact that the girl was right was beside the point. Mitch’s job here was to stand next to his packed cart of groceries and say nice things to his friend. “There’ll be others, though, right?” he said. “Other fish in the apps? You met Jenny pretty quick. You’ll meet someone else.”
Alan groaned. He sounded hungover. “Fuck the apps, dude. I was just talking shit before. The apps are a nightmare. It’s scary out there. Everyone’s desperate, myself included.”
“Oh,” said Mitch. He found himself suddenly out of things to say.
“Me, Terry, Doug…fuck, we’re all miserable. Terry’s OCD-ing over his records. Doug’s flipping tractor tires or whatever the hell he does in the gym all day. I’m wearing fucking cologne. Dude. Mitch. You’re lucky, man. Seriously. I’d give anything to have what you’ve got.”
The cartoon captain from the Cap’n Crunch box was staring at him. He thought of Jessica back home in bed, the kids curled around her. They were the same age, Jessica and Mitch. They were in the same life stage. The middle part. Evolutionarily speaking, they should both be nearly dead by now. They were in it together. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s a good situation.”
“Hold on to it, man, okay? Tight. On your side of the fence, the grass is green as fuck. On this side, there is no grass. There’s just booze and sadness and fucking designer jeans.”
They promised to get together soon—a drink or an Orioles game or something.
He pulled his cart up to the first register, where his favorite cashier was working.
“Hey there, Mr. Butler.”
“Morning, Lester,” Mitch said.
Lester had worked at Graul’s for as long as Mitch had been going there. He wore a maroon cardigan over his work shirt. “You’re up bright and early,” he said.
“Feeling ambitious today,” said Mitch.
Lester rang up his items slowly and precisely, like always. “Oh, don’t you just love these Golden Oreos?” he said. “They’re such a guilty pleasure.”
“They are indeed.”
Lester fixed his glasses. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How are things? How’s the family?”
Mitch smiled. “Hanging in.”
* * *
—
Back outside, the parking lot was filling up. People were pulling in—like Mitch, loading up for the weekend. A dad hustled two kids in soccer uniforms into the store. Cars stopped for a lady pushing a walker.
He opened the rear hatch of his car and set his grocery bags between the pieces of bed frame. He made a commitment to himself to finally get rid of their broken bed. In fact, he’d do it that day. No more procrastinating. He’d google where to take discarded furniture. He and Jude could go together, a legitimate father-son outing. He returned his shopping cart to the cart train up front. Then, on the way back to his car, he stopped mid-jog.
A pickup was parked in a corner spot nearby, a row over from Mitch’s car, and inside, there was a young, unidentifiable mutt; a shepherd mix, maybe. Two women walked by and smiled when they saw it, because it was such a cute, funny-looking dog. And, just like that old Lab from so, so long ago, outside the quirky pizza place near Hopkins, it sat in the driver’s seat with its paws up on the wheel—all ready, it seemed, to speed away.
“No way,” Mitch whispered.
He snapped a few pictures with his phone and looked them over. Then he dropped the best one of the bunch into a text to Jessica. The dog was smiling in that dopey way that dogs smile. He typed a short message and hit Send.
51
I think you were right about Mr. Butler.
who dis?
Luke
how’d you get my number luke?
School directory
well played, stalker mcstalkington
Sorry
just taking advantage of the resources at your disposal. I applaud you
Thanks
not showing you my tits again though
OK
do tell. what did butler do?
Luke was lying in his bed. He’d been awake for an hour doing two things: building up the courage to text Scarlett, and piecing things together. There was the look on his mom’s face when she’d stumbled into the house the week before. The look on Scarlett’s face when Luke drove her home. The “sex stuff” comment. Mr. Butler had done something to his mom and to Scarlett. It was obvious. He was apparently some kind of creep. He didn’t want to tell Scarlett anything specific about his mom, though; not over text. Luke just wanted Scarlett to know that he believed her.
You were right. Maybe we just leave it at that?
leaving a girl in suspense. nice move
He sent her a smiley-face emoji, hated himself for it, and then watched her text-bubble.
how fucked up is 1984 btw?
I know, right?
mr butler can fuck off but that book is dope
what’re you doing today?
He waited, endured some more self-loathing. Why had he asked her that? He was just setting himsel
f up for some savage reply, like Nothing with you that’s for damn sure. But thankfully, she wasn’t mean.
I got some big plans actually.
Really?
yup. i’m gonna win my therapist back. If you’re lucky maybe you’ll see me. later nerd
What?
No text-bubble this time. Nothing followed. She was gone, and his mom was calling for him.
* * *
—
When he found her in the kitchen, she was heating up some Eggo waffles in the toaster.
The flicker of optimism that had scared Luke so much—the one that made him actually afraid she might off herself—was gone. It had been gone all week, replaced with all-day pajamas and vacant eyes. Her spiky new haircut wasn’t spiky anymore. She’d pushed it down flat against her head.
“Luke, honey,” she said.
“Yeah, Mom?”
He waited for something important. A sign. A statement. Something to be worried about. Something to be hopeful for.
“We’re out of coffee. Can you run to Starbucks for me?”
52
“Hey, Em.” It was Jude, whispering. “Em.”
“What?”
“I think Dad’s back.”
“How do you know?”
“I hear his car. Can’t you?”
“That’s not his car. It’s way rumblier. It sounds like Luke’s Jeep.”
Jessica was awake. She had been for a few minutes now; she just hadn’t told them yet. It was funny listening to them talk sometimes when they didn’t know she could hear them. The things they said. “I think Emily’s right,” she said. “That doesn’t sound like the CR-V.”
“Oh, hi, Mommy,” said Emily. “You’re awake.”
“I am. Where’d Daddy go?”
“Graul’s. He left while you were sleeping. He’s getting stuff for pancakes. And more Oreos, too.”
“That’s nice.”
“Whatever,” said Jude. “I’m checking anyway.”
Last Couple Standing Page 23