She had already, we discovered, put Carol’s name on a few things she wanted her daughter to have. But I was surprised to find a small flat box in a bottom drawer with my name on it as well as Carol’s. We opened it up.
“What are they?” Carol wondered, looking at the strange assortment of plastic Baggies filled with bits and pieces. Each Baggie in turn had a label with either the name MARIE or SALLY on it.
“Baby teeth!” I exclaimed, looking at them more closely. “These must be my mother’s baby teeth. And the others are Sally’s.”
“And infant bracelets . . . the kind they put on newborns,” Carol said.
There were Baggies with locks of hair in them, dime-store photos of both sisters together when they were little, teething rings, hair ribbons . . . all the things my grandmother hadn’t been able to part with as her daughters got older.
Carol cried softly, fingering her mother’s baby teeth, and we hugged. Carol had told me she’d decided not to have children, and I wasn’t sure just what she was feeling at that moment: grief over losing her mother; the fact that she would have no baby teeth of her own children to treasure; or the thought that someday relatives would be looking through her own things, sorting them out, discarding some of her keepsakes.
I carefully wrapped up the relics of my mother and put them in my suitcase.
“Thanks for coming, Alice,” Carol said when it was time for Dad and me to leave. “You were part of the one bright spot in this whole weekend. I’m glad I could share it with you.”
* * *
In the next few years, as our own lives became even busier, I tried hard to pay more attention to my dad. Most of the time he was his usual sweet self, but as he aged, he became grumpier, easily irritated over small things that wouldn’t have bothered him before. He often complained he didn’t see enough of his grandchildren, and sometimes I would just pack overnight bags for the kids and let them stay at the old house for the whole weekend. Dad and Sylvia were glad to have them, and it made a nice holiday for Patrick and me. Tyler was still very much a “grandpa’s boy” and loved to cuddle up to my father, but Patricia was already beginning to pronounce even these events “borrr-ing.”
Does every mother, I wonder, reach a point with her children when she wishes they would grow backward? When Patricia Marie was a baby, we eagerly awaited her first steps. We encouraged her to drink from a straw and brush her own teeth and go down the slide alone.
And then . . . You miss that chortle of delight when the juice comes up the straw the first time. You miss that baby voice singing the alphabet song in the dark.
I didn’t think Tyler would ever be potty trained and wished him to grow up faster. Now I missed the way his small hand used to rest on mine as we read his evening storybook. I missed the feel of his head resting against my shoulder there on the couch.
You blink your eyes, and suddenly your children have teeth too big for their faces. The baby shoes are replaced by smelly sneakers left just inside the front door. Come back! you want to call to the little boy of yesterday, at the same time you’re thinking, Grow up! of the girl who just angrily slammed the door of her room.
“Enjoy every minute,” Patrick and I always reminded each other. And we really tried.
Now, however, in addition to Patrick’s travels and my counseling, Tyler’s playdates and Patricia’s soccer, there were piano lessons, nature club meetings, and karate classes; there were PTA and parent conferences; there were faculty meetings and dental appointments, birthday parties and sleepovers. It seemed sometimes that even when Patrick was home, one of us was always off chauffeuring the kids somewhere.
“Hello. Have we met?” Patrick joked one evening as we passed in the front hall. I had eaten early and was preparing to drive Patricia to a play rehearsal, and he was just getting back from a soccer game with Tyler.
I smiled ruefully. “How about a date Friday night?”
“I’ll probably be too tired,” he said. “Saturday?”
“I’ll put it on the calendar,” I laughed.
I got in the car with Patricia Marie. She zipped up her white Windbreaker and fastened her seat belt. Then she turned in my direction and studied me with her green, green eyes.
“Does that mean you’re going to have sex?” she asked.
“W-What?” I said, swallowing quickly.
“Sex. You know.” She rolled her eyes. “Sexual intercourse, Mom! Is that what you and Dad do on a date?”
I suddenly saw myself at that age, badgering Dad about his love life. “Sometimes,” I answered. “And sometimes we just watch a video and make popcorn, or listen to music and talk.” I couldn’t help smiling. “Is there anything else you want to know?”
Patricia wrinkled her nose. “It sounds pretty gross,” she said. “When I’m married, can I just watch the video and eat popcorn without having sexual intercourse?”
This time I couldn’t help laughing. “Of course,” I said. “But don’t be surprised if you change your mind.”
* * *
Phil Kirby was the reading teacher for our school, and his office was next to mine. We shared the same copier and supply cupboard and, in general, kept tabs on each other’s lives.
When I was having a bad day and work piled up, Phil would say, “Here. Let me copy those off for you,” if he saw me heading for the copying machine. And when I knew he had back-to-back sessions that ran into his lunch hour, I’d sometimes bring him a sandwich from the cafeteria.
He was a tall man, like Patrick, but more muscular—he’d played football in college—and he also had a gentle take-charge manner that made you feel like whatever problem you might have, he could solve it. He used the most marvelous aftershave, and he was a spelunker—he liked to explore West Virginia caves with a local club, rappelling into dark holes, not knowing what was down there, and this sounded enormously scary and exciting to me.
More than that, however, I could tell that he was attracted to me. I knew by the way his hand would linger casually on my shoulder or by the quick neck rub he would give me when he knew I was tense—that if I gave him the slightest encouragement, we could have an affair.
And I have to admit his flirtations were flattering. I didn’t encourage him, but I didn’t discourage him, either. He made me feel interesting and alive. Not that my husband didn’t, but Patrick was away so often, and more and more of our spare time was spent hauling the kids from one activity to the next. I wasn’t thinking of giving in to temptation, but . . . it was another fine line to walk—another balancing act—between enjoying Phil’s attentions as a coworker and leading him on. It was a heady time, actually. I felt loved at home, desired at work, appreciated by the other counselors, and liked by the students. Patrick and I were thirty-five, Patricia was nine, Tyler six and a half, and life was good.
Patricia, in fact, reminded me of myself when I was her age—Patricia and all her questions.
“Mom,” she asked me once, sitting at the table eating a biscuit and jelly and swinging her legs, “what’s a vibrator?”
I was at the counter making a barbecue sauce for spareribs, and I paused, blinking. Stay calm, I told myself. She may have something entirely different in mind.
“Well,” I said, “there are different kinds. Rocking chairs sometimes have them. Mattresses . . .”
“Mrs. Ryder’s comes in a little box,” Patricia said.
“Oh,” I said. “That kind. Were you and Mindy going through her mother’s things?”
“No. Her mom circled it in a catalog and it came in the mail. What’s it for?”
I rummaged through my spice drawer, stalling for time. “Some women use it because it feels good and relaxes them,” I said.
“Oh,” said Patricia, and continued chewing. Then, “Are spareribs the ones we can eat with our fingers?”
Yes, my darling daughter, I wanted to reply. You may eat them with your fingers, with your feet, in your chair, or on the floor.
“Those are the ones,” I said. Thank you
, thank you for not asking any more questions.
Oh, God, I remembered some of the questions I used to ask Dad and Lester at the dinner table, because I felt safe asking. And how patient they were—Dad, anyway—though I embarrassed Les to death. Payback time? I hoped I’d handle things as well as they did.
* * *
We were often invited to receptions and dinners at IBM functions, and when I possibly could, I went with Patrick. I enjoyed dressing up and accompanying him—Patrick splendid-looking in his three-piece suits and occasional black tie. Sometimes I wondered why every woman in the corporate office wasn’t mad about him. And then I discovered that one of them was.
She was an ash blonde, a little bustier than I am, had great legs, and though you wouldn’t call her a beauty, she was certainly attractive. She spoke with a slight accent—Austrian, maybe. There was something about her eyes when she talked with Patrick, something about his voice when he spoke to her, that made me take notice. I knew they had gone on trips where three or four executives traveled together. But then I had long ago realized that Patrick would always be surrounded by admiring women, and when I worried, I’d remember his words: It’s forever, Alice.
After his next trip, however, when Helene was along, he seemed different when he got home. More quiet. Why is it that when you desperately want to talk with your husband in private, the kids seem ever present, as though they can tell? Several times that evening, I thought perhaps now was the time to ask what had happened, and always Patricia or Tyler interfered. I thought Tyler was asleep when he came downstairs upset because he’d forgotten to do his arithmetic homework, and the book had to be found and he had to be helped.
Then Patricia, who had gone upstairs to bed, decided she was hungry and came down to make cinnamon toast. And instead of taking it up to her room as she usually did, she brought it into the living room where Patrick and I were sitting together on the couch and plunked herself down across from us.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her mouth full.
“Nothing. Why?” I answered.
“Why are you watching me? All I’m doing is eating toast,” she said.
“I guess I was wondering why you didn’t take it up to your room,” I said.
“Oh, I get it. You want to have sex,” she said.
“What?” said Patrick.
But she laughingly picked up her saucer and went upstairs.
“Kids!” Patrick said, smiling a little. But after a few general comments before we could really discuss anything, Patricia was back down again to put her plate in the sink and ask if someone could drive her to school early the next day. It was all I could do not to yell at her to leave us alone.
Finally, when we were sure they were settled for the night, Patrick didn’t wait for me to ask. He reached over and took my hand, and I felt dread welling up inside me.
“I’m feeling pretty unsettled about something,” he said.
“I know,” I told him as lovingly and calmly as I could. “I can tell.”
He smiled again. “I can’t keep anything from you, can I?”
“Why would you want to?”
“I guess I don’t.” He tipped his head back and gave a long sigh till it seemed all his breath was gone. “In Seattle,” he said finally, “the others went out for the evening, and I found myself having dinner alone with Helene.”
“You found yourself?” I questioned, and instantly regretted the sarcasm in my voice.
“Okay. Correction. I invited her to have dinner with me. The others were going to a steak house, and I’d had steak two nights in a row and wanted seafood. Helene said seafood sounded great to her too, so I invited her to go along.”
I waited, my chest feeling heavy and tight.
“Nothing happened, Alice. Nothing overt, anyway. But it was a long dinner . . . I liked the smell of her perfume and . . . at one point I did reach over and touch her hand. I told her I found her very attractive, and she said she’s attracted to me too.”
Anger stirred inside me, and I had to struggle to keep it down. Looking at Patrick’s hand—imagining his fingers on hers, possibly caressing her thumb—almost made me sick.
“But I reminded her that I’m married,” Patrick continued. “And she said, ‘Yes, I know. A pity.’ ”
I closed my eyes for a moment, hating the woman, but knowing that the worst thing I could do right now was lose my temper. How many other husbands would even tell their wives about this? Didn’t Patrick get points for being honest? When he didn’t say any more, I said, “And . . . ?”
“And that’s about it. She’s married too, but they’re separated. Her husband’s evidently been talking divorce for a long time, but neither of them has acted on it. She did say that . . . that sometimes affairs can actually help a marriage, put some spice back into it.”
That really got to me. “That’s about the worst excuse I can think of, Patrick. So every time she makes love to her husband, she thinks of you and gets off on that? And when you make love to me, you’re mentally caressing her instead, and that will strengthen our marriage?”
“I didn’t say I agreed with her,” he said, and his voice had a note of defensiveness in it, so I kept quiet and let him talk. “I just said, ‘Well, I’ll sleep on that,’ and she said, ‘With or without me?’ ‘Without, I guess,’ I told her. So . . . we said good night. I kissed her forehead, and we went to our separate rooms and stayed there. But I just . . . I don’t like to keep things from you. You and I agreed that we wouldn’t.”
We were still holding hands but they felt wooden. I desperately hoped I would say the right thing: “So that’s the end of it?”
“Yes. But I . . . I was really tempted, Alice. I don’t quite know what to make of it, and I know there will be future trips where she’s included.”
There was silence between us, but my brain was reeling. Was he asking my permission? What I did know was that if Patrick was going to be faithful to me, it had to be because he wanted it that way, despite his temptations, not because I made him promise.
“I can’t make up your mind for you, Patrick. The decision has to be yours,” I told him finally.
“I know.”
“Have you asked yourself how you would feel, or how it would affect our marriage, if I had an affair with a coworker?”
Patrick glanced over at me. “I’d probably feel horrible. I know I’d be jealous. And I don’t intend to have an affair, with her or anyone else. But I’m not one hundred percent sure that if the opportunity came again and circumstances were right . . .”
“The opportunity will always be there. You know that. And what are the ‘right’ circumstances for breaking our vows?”
“I know, I know.” Patrick tipped back his head again let out his breath, then straightened up. “I’m talking like an idiot. Looking for justification, I guess. I’d hate myself if I did it. I want to be the kind of husband you can trust.”
I closed my eyes momentarily, almost too frightened to speak. “But you really want to sleep with Helene?”
“Listen. Probably every man wants every attractive woman who comes along, and maybe vice versa, I don’t know. That doesn’t mean I’m going to do it. But this particular night was different somehow, and it surprised me. To tell the truth, it scared me.”
I rubbed my thumb over the top of his hand. “I guess I’ll have to say it scares me, too. Because if you go down one road, Patrick, you can’t go down another. You can’t undo it.”
He didn’t answer.
“And while I can understand that you’d be tempted—Helene is attractive and she obviously likes you—and while I might even be able to forgive you in time, I’m not at all sure I could forget. I’m just afraid that . . . that things would never be the same between us again, no matter how hard we tried. My resentment would keep cropping up, and I’d take it out on you in other ways. That’s what really scares me.”
He didn’t answer. Just drew me to him and we kissed. There were tears in my eyes. ?
??Patrick, I love you so much,” I said.
“I know,” he said again. “And I don’t ever want to do anything that would hurt you.”
* * *
In a way, I guess, things are never quite the same again after a confession like that. For a while, even though Patrick and I were loving and gentle with each other, the fact that he was that attracted to Helene was a weight on my heart. My mind kept drifting to him all day at work. Was he talking to her right now? Having lunch with her? Would she actually proposition him sometime and would he accept?
At work, Phil noticed immediately that I was upset about something. One day after school we were both working late, and I was in a panic because Patrick and Helene and six others from IBM were flying to Tulsa for a conference and would be there all week. I couldn’t keep my mind on my job and realized I was copying the wrong things on the copier. Suddenly I felt tears running down my cheeks. I’d thought no one had seen, but Phil had.
The next thing I knew, he was walking toward me. “Alice,” he said, “what’s wrong?” and he put one arm around my shoulder. “Tell me.”
I thought how satisfying it would be if Patrick knew I was desirable to other men, if he realized that he had better worry about me. Then I asked myself, Which do I want more? To get even and really hurt him? Or do I want my marriage to work? And I knew without a doubt: make it work.
“I’m okay, Phil,” I said, backing gently away from him. “Don’t you ever have one of those days where it takes only one small thing to set you off? I’ll feel better tomorrow.”
“Sure?” he asked.
“Trust me,” I said, and went back to the copier.
21
TIME-OUT
A wonderful thing happened just before school started the following September. I was offered the job of supervising the counseling staff of all the county’s middle schools. It meant I’d be going from school to school consulting on various problems, writing up reports, working out schedules, and attending meetings.
The problem with being promoted is that you’re often taken away from what you love to do most and put in charge of other people who get to do the best stuff.