The House of Deep Water

by Jeni McFarland

  It hasn’t been so quick since she was a teenager, since she and Nathan were first dating sophomore year in college. It leaves her feeling confused and vaguely dissatisfied. Like she isn’t entirely sure it really happened. She feels as though she should apologize, but she doesn’t know what she would apologize for, so instead she nestles against him, her head tucked up under his chin. She’s so warm; she radiates heat from head to toe. He smells like hot summer grass. He has his arms wrapped around her waist, and he kisses the top of her head.

  “Why don’t we go upstairs and do that again, but slower,” he says. When she looks at him, his eyes are no longer laughing. He looks at her like he might like to bite her. She takes his hand and lets him lead her to his bedroom.

  In her purse, which she dropped by the back door, her cellphone buzzes. Nathan again. Her husband has spoken to his lawyer. If she doesn’t want to talk, they’ll continue to move forward with the divorce. He says this like a threat. She won’t hear his messages until Monday, so wrapped up is she in Ernest DeWitt.

  Elizabeth DeWitt

  5

  Gilmer grabs me by my arm, drags me down to his bedroom in the basement. He doesn’t turn on the light. There are high windows, dirty, smoky. Clothes thrown on the carpet. The other children are there, too, Mikey and Beth. Both of them look down.

  He gives us a choice. We can do what he says, or else we’ll get a licking. I don’t want to get a licking. Only naughty children get spanked.

  His Jell-O belly comes closer. Too close. I don’t even know the words for the things he shows me, for the things I do.

  I find new places to hide in my babysitter’s house. The closets, the bathrooms, even the garage, even in the cold. No matter where I go, he always finds me.

  EXPOSURE

  It’s Saturday afternoon, early July, and I’m sitting in an overly air-conditioned high school auditorium between my ex-wife, Beth, and my current wife, Mara. We’ve been married three months. This is the first time Beth and Mara have met face-to-face, maybe the only time they will ever meet, since Beth has decided she’ll move my kids out of state, back to her hometown of River Bend.

  Beth is on her best behavior. For now. She’s fidgeting with items from her purse—her nail file, her lip balm. She’s anxious, I can tell, but she’s hiding it pretty well. She keeps smoothing her hair down, which she does when she’s nervous, but also, it’s raining outside. Beth is half black, and I see she still presses her hair every morning with a flat iron, a habit she tried to kick when we were married. She was forever fussing about her hair going frizzy in the slightest humidity.

  “How was your drive over here?” Mara asks, leaning forward in her seat to talk around me.

  “Not bad,” Beth says. “Traffic is moving in spite of the rain.”

  “Greg and I saw an accident on the freeway,” Mara says, a hand on my sleeve. “I’m glad you weren’t caught up in that.”

  I’m surprised. Beth doesn’t usually have a lot of patience for small talk, but then Mara is easy to get along with. She’s smart, well educated. When she’s sweet, it’s genuine. She doesn’t go out of her way to be nice to people she doesn’t like. We’re here to see the kids’ concert for band camp. Last year, Jeanette didn’t go to camp, just Dan did, so I could skip the other part of the show. This year I have to sit through both halves of the program.

  I shouldn’t say that. I paid for this band camp; I should at least enjoy their performance. The high school–aged group, which Dan plays percussion in, is pretty good. And the middle school isn’t bad, for middle school. Jeanette is actually a better singer than she is a clarinet player, but she decided to join band because her big brother is in band, and because Beth played clarinet in high school. I try to focus. I should be savoring every moment with my kids. I already don’t get to see them as often as I’d like, and it’s only going to get worse when they move to Michigan.

  “I heard you’re getting your house ready to sell,” Mara says. “Let us know if we can help.”

  “You’re so sweet,” Beth says, reaching across me to put a hand on Mara’s arm. “I may take you up on that.”

  Mara and Beth continue talking around me, Beth sweet, even flirty in that social way some women can be. She’s putting on a show for Mara. I wait for the concert to begin so that it can be over. Beneath the stage curtain, I see movement, kids scooching chairs and music stands, getting situated. The middle school is up first, and I wonder whether Jeanette is nervous. I’m always impressed by anyone who can get on stage, under such bright lights and in front of so many people. And, I realize, I actually am going to miss this.

  The move makes no sense to me. Beth hated growing up in that cow town. She says that they treated her like she was less than. I don’t understand why she’s moving back there, back in with her father, rather than letting me cover the mortgage until she finds a new job.

  “You mean let Mara pay?” Beth said when I offered. A low blow. She knows that Mara makes more money than I do, but we don’t keep our finances separate. We don’t squabble about money like Beth and I did.

  “It was Mara’s idea, if that’s what you’re implying.” This has been a sore spot with Beth, that I haven’t seen Dan and Jeanette as much as I used to since meeting Mara. I think Beth blames Mara, assumes she doesn’t like the kids. Even though Mara doesn’t want kids herself, it’s important to us both that Dan and Jeanette are well provided for.

  I hate the idea of them moving in with their grandfather Ernest, who they haven’t even seen since they were both too young to remember him. And Gretchen, their grandmother who lives a few towns over from him, doesn’t ever visit or call. She’s not really a grandmother, not like my mom is. I only hope that Ernest helps temper Beth a little, because Beth has always been weirdly strict with the kids, especially Jeanette. She doesn’t like them going out much, doesn’t encourage them to join clubs or school sports. She didn’t even want them in band, which I think is the real reason Jeanette joined. It’s like Beth thinks it’s the kids’ job to stay home and keep her company.

  Also, River Bend is sick. I mean, for Christ’s sake, just last month they arrested a man preying on children there. When I brought this up with Beth a few days ago, she looked disgusted with me, as if I were the guy who’d been hurting kids.

  “You think this shit doesn’t happen everywhere?” she said. Beth is a master of shutting down a conversation.

  “But why River Bend?” I asked. “Why go back there?”

  “Enough,” Beth said. “It’s time to give it a rest.” The way she said this, the absolute defeat in her voice, and the way her eyes darted from mine, it was like she’d given up. Like she thought she deserved River Bend. Like she was a failure for having to move the kids there. She was hugging herself. She looked like she was on the verge of tears. I know Beth’s tears. Once they start, they don’t stop for a long time. I let it drop.

  Beth and I were married for four years. Truth be told, we got married too quickly, too young. It was doomed from the start. My mother warned me. Beth’s mother, Gretchen, warned her. When that failed, Gretchen warned me. Beth never talked much about growing up in River Bend, but Gretchen told me about it, and about Beth’s ex, Steve. Getting Beth to talk about Steve—about anything, really—is like pulling teeth, but according to Gretchen, Beth and Steve were inseparable, even though he was also dating the woman he ended up marrying. What was her name? Deb. Gretchen made it sound like Beth was half-crazed; there was no reasoning with her about Steve. Like he had Beth brainwashed. I can’t even imagine Beth brainwashed. My ex-wife is nothing if not strong-willed.

  “By the way, sorry I missed your wedding,” Beth says now to Mara. “Jeanette tells me it was lovely.” She keeps reaching across me to paw at my wife, and I want her to knock it off. She’s not fooling anyone.

  “No worries,” Mara says. “Thank you for the gift, though.”

  I can tell Be
th’s not sorry. She hates weddings. I don’t think she even liked our wedding. Not long after it, it was like a curtain came down over her, and when it rose again, she’d changed into another character. This version of Beth was moody, angry, surly, destructive. She blamed me for everything. And I really mean everything. There were the normal issues couples fight about: miscommunications and money and sex. I got blamed for those, but also for Beth having a rough day at work. She’s a chef, or at least she was until very recently, and she always felt like the men she worked with didn’t respect her. They hit on her, which, like, that’s what men do. I never understand why women get so offended. And she said she got passed up for promotions. They treated her like a prep cook. She said it was because she’s a black woman. She was always playing those cards. Really, if she wants people to treat her well, she needs to treat them well first, but I pray for the poor bastard who tries to tell her that.

  So it’s surprising to see Beth being so nice to Mara, who is tall and slender and white, with the kind of hair you see in shampoo commercials. A lot of women get insecure around Mara. Shit, a lot of men do, too. Add to that the fact that Mara is a professor at UNC, and I assumed Beth would be feeling threatened. But if she is, it sure doesn’t show.

  I tried with Beth. I tried to placate her. When we divorced, I gave her everything she asked for. I didn’t argue. I just wanted out. But she stayed just as miserable. Even now, while she talks with Mara, there’s an edge to her voice. She’s still miserable. And I worry, deep down. I worry that the problem isn’t her. It’s me. Somehow, I did this to her. If she were talking to me instead of Mara, she would be Angry Beth. Something in me poisoned her—and what if I poison Mara? Part of me wants Beth to turn on Mara, to show just a bit of the woman I divorced, to prove that the problem is her, but she doesn’t. The two of them are still chatting like old friends as the house lights dim and the curtain goes up to show all those young faces, Jeanette among them, all squinting out into the darkened audience. Jesus, how will this move affect Jeanette? At least if she stayed here, she’d be around Mara, might learn how to behave in the world. And my son, too, I worry for him. He and Jeanette will probably end up angry and mean, just like their mother, blaming the world for their faults. Dan is already antisocial like Beth. And he’s turning into kind of a know-it-all like her, too.

  Who am I kidding? Even if they stayed, my kids are doomed to turn into little Beths. It’s awful, every time I see them and see how much like her they’ve become. I could work myself stupid trying to prevent it. Maybe it’s time to move on.

  Wrapping an arm around Mara’s waist, I brace myself for the hour to come. Really, maybe this move will be good. For me, at least.

  Elizabeth DeWitt

  6

  Mrs. Thurber renames me. I used to go by Beth, but she says I’m to be called Liz or Eliza.

  “My granddaughter is ‘Beth,’ and I won’t have my own kith and kin sharing a name with a nigger child.”

  These are all the new names I’ve learned today: Liz, Eliza, Nigger.

  “Choose. Now. And hurry up, before I get angry.”

  EXPERIENCE

  Ernest wishes Linda could stay. Every time she’s over, when the evening quickly wears away, he asks her if she’d like to stay the night, and every time she declines. He’s been through this before, but women usually give in eventually. With Linda, he supposes she’s not ready to tell people, and this throws him. Is he getting so old that women are embarrassed by him?

  To get her to stay, he tries tempting her with food, with wine (which he’s never really liked, but from watching movies and TV, he’s gathered that’s what women prefer), and with foot massages. He’s never worked this hard for a woman in his life. He kind of enjoys it.

  And every night before she leaves, she’ll kiss him long and soft, her arms going around his neck. He’s sure she doesn’t want to leave him. This isn’t a casual thing for her. The town, with the way they talk about him, might be surprised to find that it isn’t casual for him, either, but then it seldom is. In his life, he has loved and been loved by many women. The problem is, he falls in love with women before he really knows them, and once he’s in love, he’s completely in, body and mind, until he’s completely out again. But that’s still a long ways off. Right now it’s the middle of August, and the sky is a hot, deep blue. He has been seeing Linda about a month, and he’s absolutely smitten. And if he’s not mistaken, she’s smitten with him, too.

  * * *

  • • •

  Paige knocks on Linda’s bedroom door one day after church. Linda has already been back for two months and hasn’t bothered to come see Paige in Kalamazoo, hasn’t visited Paige’s wife or son or seen Paige’s house. It’s really kind of ridiculous.

  It’s been a while since Paige has visited home, so it feels like a holiday. Paige lives a forty-five-minute drive away. Not that far, really. But she’s busy, too. She has a young son, and she stays at home with him while her wife, Diane, goes out and works. It’s nice to be out of the house today, to be interacting with adults.

  Paige remembers hanging out in Linda’s room when they were girls, having impromptu slumber parties, and watching her sister primp before school dances. As early as middle school, Paige knew she liked other girls, that there was no point in getting dolled up for the attention of boys. Still, she always loved to watch Linda get ready. She used to wish she could have even a sliver of Linda’s confidence.

  Today, Linda is lying on her bed, her eyes closed even though she’s awake. The weather is hot and dry and still. It annoys Paige to see her sister looking so deflated, but then, that’s Linda for you: never one to appreciate how good she has it.

  “Can we come in?” Paige doesn’t wait for an answer, but enters the room and sprawls on Linda’s carpet. Skyla’s not far behind her. Skyla used to play in here all the time when she was younger, whether Linda was at home or not. It feels simultaneously familiar and foreign, a forbidden space she usually slips into only when nobody is around. With Linda and Paige in there, it feels somehow altered, cramped and stuffy.

  The room is a little worse for wear. The carpet hasn’t been vacuumed in months. The rose-patterned bedspread, faded from too many washings, is thrown on the floor, taking up most of the space in the tiny room. Pushed partway under the bed are Linda’s Barbie dolls, their hair matted like steel wool, their clothes half-off. When Linda went to college, she had tucked them into boxes, stacked them in the closet, but Skyla rummaged through all of Linda’s abandoned belongings. The bookshelf holds copies of all the Baby-sitters Club books, old Seventeen magazines, a large spiral-bound book that was meant to store recipes. Linda filled only one page.

  “We know,” Skyla says from the floor, never one to waste time on niceties.

  “Know what?” Linda doesn’t open her eyes.

  “You’re preggers,” Paige says, trying to keep the annoyance from her voice. Paige has been trying to get knocked up at the clinic for months, has been struggling to catch up to her wife, who birthed their son. And here Linda is, accidentally pregnant.

  Linda sits up, panicked. “How’d you find out?”

  “We didn’t know know,” Skyla says. “You just confirmed it.”

  Linda took the pregnancy test a few days ago, and in that time, she hasn’t figured out what to do. She slides down from her bed and joins her sisters on the carpet. Paige has to scoot over to make room. Skyla kicks the bedspread into a wad in the corner.

  “Does Grandma know?” Linda asks. She hasn’t even told Ernest yet, although she thinks he must know, the way he keeps feeding her. But what if he doesn’t? What if he breaks it off with her when he finds out? What if Dinah doesn’t approve and kicks her out?

  Both Linda and Paige look to Skyla, who shrugs. Lately Grandma Dinah has had a knack for training her eyes on Linda’s face when they speak, refusing to look past her neck, or else patting Linda on the head as if she were
still a little girl, making comments to the effect of, “A woman should have a little meat on her,” misinterpreting Linda’s weight gain.

  “Oh God. Does Dad know?”

  “Doubtful,” Skyla says.

  “His head hasn’t exploded, so I’m guessing he doesn’t know,” Paige says.

  “He’s never home,” Skyla says. “I bet you could have the kid and he still wouldn’t know.”

  Paige pulls a Barbie doll from under the bed and tries to detangle its hair with her pinkie nail. Linda starts to cry. Paige eyes her from across the room. She isn’t sure how to react. She never knows what to do when women are crying, and so she freezes and looks down at her own boyish flatness. She’s always envied Linda her curves. Paige thinks of when her own wife, Diane, was pregnant, and the way her body filled with hormones and fluids and all the bits that make up a new person. Not that Linda knows any of this. Linda hasn’t even thought to ask what’s going on in Paige’s life. When they were teenagers, they were so close. All they had was each other. Paige can’t pinpoint when they grew so distant.

  Skyla stops flipping through a copy of Seventeen dated 1997 and crawls over to Linda to hug her. “It’ll be okay,” she says, but even to her own ears, she sounds unsure.

  “Grandma said you were the one who’d get knocked up,” Linda says, blowing her nose.

  “I love other people’s babies,” Skyla says, wise beyond her sixteen years.

  “Babysitting is the best way to keep a girl from getting pregnant,” Paige says.

  “You going back to Nathan?” Skyla asks.

  “Nathan sucks,” Paige says, setting the Barbie aside.

  “Ernest DeWitt is the father,” Linda says.

  “Ew!” Skyla says.

  Paige hits her in the arm. “Keep your voice down.”