Butch smiled. “It’s called nesting.”
“Is that the politically correct way of saying she’s cuckoo?”
“Listen, Jenny did the same thing before Ava was born. She kept asking me to bring home the industrial-grade cleaning supplies we use on-site.”
Tippy looked relieved. “Did she also make you take written and oral exams every night?”
“No.”
“Oh. So that’s weird.”
“Seems so. What are the quizzes about?”
“Baby stuff. I know a newborn has a lot of needs, but I think she’s going overboard. I mean, we have to know the number of ounces the kid is eating. What? Like the kid won’t stop when it’s full? It’s just going to gorge and explode?”
“Speaking of exploding, I should check the cake.”
“It hasn’t been five minutes.”
“I know, but I don’t want to overdo it accidentally. This is our last chance.” Butch opened the oven door. “How do I know when it’s done?”
“I think you’re supposed to stab it with something. Here.” Tippy handed him a screwdriver. “It’s clean. I just bought it this afternoon after work.”
“Thanks. Oops.”
“What?”
“I dropped it in there. I don’t think it’s done because I can’t even see the screwdriver now.” Butch was folded over, trying to peer in, the heat practically baking both their faces.
“Here.” Tippy handed him pliers. “See if you can fish it out.”
“Got it!” Butch closed the door. “It definitely needs to cook longer.”
Tippy rinsed the screwdriver off under the faucet. “So you’re saying once the baby is born, life will return to normal?”
Butch leaned against the counter and smiled. “No, life will never be normal, not once you find yourself totally responsible for another human being. I was excited for Ava to be born, but when I thought of having to share Jenny . . . well, let’s just say I liked having her all to myself. I never had any aspirations of being a father. Jenny, though, had seen herself as a mother since she was old enough to own a baby doll. It was the thing she lived for.” Butch’s gaze dropped to the floor and Tippy shifted, hoping he hadn’t triggered a bad memory for him. “The thing was, until Ava was born, I hadn’t even begun to see Jenny shine. When she became a mother, she propelled into sainthood. She seemed to know everything Ava needed. All Ava’s cries sounded exactly the same to me, but Jenny knew if she was hungry or tired or even simply irritated. All before I got the hang of changing diapers.” Butch turned away, wiping the counter behind him. “Somehow, this little baby who took so much time and effort made me love Jenny even more.”
“Well, I hope something like that kicks in with Daphne,” Tippy said. “Because right now I can barely get myself to go home.”
“The first time I held Ava by myself, with no one around, was when she was two months old. There was a storm—loud and wicked—and Jenny had been sick. I heard Ava crying, so I got up by myself and went and got her out of her crib, and we sat there, her in my arms, just looking at each other. Every time there was lightning, we’d see each other’s eyes. And I realized that I’d jump in front of a bus for this kid in a heartbeat. It wouldn’t even be a choice.” Butch sighed, tossing the rag in his hand into the sink. “Now I can’t even make her a school snack. Or a proper dinner. Or shop for her. Or talk to her. Or . . . anything.” Butch opened the oven door. “It looks like a cake!”
Tippy joined him, crouching down for a better view. “Yep.”
“Okay, I think it’s done.” Butch grabbed an oven mitt and pulled the cake out carefully, setting it on the counter.
Tippy stepped away in case it was going to do something crazy, like bubble over or, worse, explode. But it just sat there, like a perfectly normal cake.
“So now how do we make it into cupcakes?” Butch asked.
Tippy reached for his band saw. “I got this.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Butch said. “We can’t use power tools. Look, we’ll just take a cup and I’ll press it over the cake and plop them out. That’s how my mom used to make biscuits.”
“Makes sense,” Tippy said, but thinking there was no way it would work. A band saw was reasonable. It was as precise as they were going to get. But when Butch had his mind made up, he had it made up. “Carry on.”
CHAPTER 14
CHARLES
BESIDE HIM, Helen lay in bed, flipping aggressively through a home decorating magazine. It was later than he was accustomed to staying up, but he was finally done crunching the numbers.
“Randall was right. He was absolutely right.”
Helen turned on her side to face him. “About?”
“Once this raise kicks in, if I could increase our income by 17 percent in the next twenty-four months, we’d hit our financial goals two and a half years early, which means we could invest more.” Charles felt his temples dampen. They always did when he talked about money. “I told Randall we had to assume that not just Madison but all of our kids will attend Ivy League schools, and I was beginning to realize we were far from being able to do that, especially if Cory skips a grade as we expect him to.”
Helen sighed. “His preschool teacher called him a genius, but the truth is, Charles, that when I observe him doing everyday things, I don’t believe I completely agree with that assessment.”
Charles now felt startled, the way he did when the Monday reports came in at the office. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, he picks his nose and he still plays with Hot Wheels cars. I tried to get him interested in the Rubik’s Cube that Madison enjoyed at that age, and do you know what he did when I asked him to solve it? He peeled all the stickers off, put them on the correct sides, and called that ‘solved.’”
Charles laughed. “Well, that is a way.”
“I don’t find it funny at all. Isn’t that how deviant behavior starts? First you cheat on a puzzle and the next thing you know, you cheat on an entrance exam.”
Charles set his laptop aside. “Sweetheart, you’re overreacting. Cory does things his own way. He always has.” He kissed her forehead, but she didn’t look at peace.
“I’m assuming you haven’t talked to Hannah about the piercing?”
“Honestly, it’s so small that I can’t even see it.”
“That’s not the point, Charles. She did it out of rebellion.”
“If that’s the worst thing she ever does, we’ll be okay. When you called, by the sound of your voice, I thought she’d been arrested for dealing drugs.” Charles kicked his slippers off and slid under the sheets. He was about to turn out the light when Helen rose to her elbow, her blonde hair falling over her shoulder.
“What’s the matter?” Charles asked.
“Do you think . . . ?”
“Yes?” It was odd. Helen didn’t ask for his opinion much. She mostly just offered hers and offered it often.
“Never mind.” She lay back down, her head sinking into one of the overly stuffed pillows she insisted they both sleep on.
“Helen, what is it?”
She turned her head toward him. Her eyes seemed deeply troubled. “Do you think our children . . . like me?”
Charles peered at her. Had he heard her right? “Like you? When have you ever cared if anyone liked you?” He laughed, but she didn’t hint at it being a joke.
“Not anyone. Our children, Charles.”
“How could they not like you? You give them everything they could want. A good education. Opportunity. Status. They’re dressed well. Fed even better.” He patted his stomach. “Sometimes a little too well.”
“Charles, I’m not joking. I could see it in Hannah’s eyes, even this evening.”
“See what?”
Helen looked emotional. When was the last time he’d seen her emotional? He put his hand on her shoulder, but she maintained a steady expression.
“Hate,” she whispered.
“Helen, come on. Hannah doesn’t really h
ate you. She’s fourteen. Doesn’t every fourteen-year-old hate her mother?”
She sniffled, shrugged. A good, solid pout emerged. “I don’t know. I don’t understand it. I vowed that I would never raise my daughters the way that I was raised.” Her hand moved to her heart, as it always did when she talked about her childhood, which wasn’t often. But it was as if she were covering her heart’s ears so it wouldn’t have to hear about it all over again. “I remember sometimes my sister and I would go to bed hungry and if she fell asleep first, I wouldn’t be able to because I could hear her tummy rumbling. It was like sleeping with a snorer. I told you we shared a bed, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“I wore the worst clothes. I never got my hair cut. I never had anything the other kids had, like radios and those electronic games—not that I would have been interested, but you understand what I mean.”
“Helen, I do. And someday the kids will too. They’ve yet to go out into the world and see how other people live. One day they’ll appreciate all that we were able to provide for them.”
Helen rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling, her eyes vacantly tracing memories or thoughts. “I worked so hard to pull my life together, to be better than what I came from.”
“I know that.”
“But I’m afraid it’s not good enough.” A tear dripped down her cheek.
Charles hated to see her like this. She was not an emotional woman. In fact, she was often accused of being the exact opposite. But Charles knew her, knew that behind the somewhat-starched exterior was a brave, driven woman who had a lot of talent she really hadn’t been able to use much in her life.
“I’m tired. I should get to sleep.” She reached for her light.
Charles turned his off too. “Hannah doesn’t hate you. She’s just at that awful age, you know?”
“Madison was never awful, at any age.”
“I was awful at that age,” Charles said.
“Then she must get it from you,” she said, and he heard amusement in her tone.
The quiet darkness of the late night was now undone by noise. Not loud noise, but noise that was unusual at this hour.
Charles sat up in bed. “What is that?”
Helen groaned. “What it always is.”
“The window is open.” Charles rose, sliding his feet into his slippers and walking across the bedroom. He pushed the drapes aside. In the dark neighborhood, only one window was aglow.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” Helen said, enveloped by complete darkness behind him.
How many days and nights had Helen stood at the very window where Charles now stood, undone by the neighbors they’d had for over a decade? From their vantage point, they could see right through the large window of the Anderson home, straight into their living room.
“What is happening over there?” Helen’s voice was breathy and exasperated.
“It looks like they’re playing . . . charades?”
“Playing. Figures. That’s all that family does.”
“Wait, no. Pictionary. I can see a big pad of paper on an easel.”
“What’s all the noise about? Pictionary doesn’t have to be some loud game like that awful . . . What was that called? With the naked man and the little tweezers?”
“Operation.”
“Yes. I wanted to murder that man and his bulbous nose.”
Charles squinted his eyes, trying to see more precisely. “There is also a food fight. Or maybe it’s part of the game—I can’t tell. I just see a lot of popcorn flying around.”
“Shut the window. Come to bed.”
Charles closed the window, locked it, and pulled the drapes. They could only hear the faintest sounds now of music and laughter. Charles crawled under the covers.
“When is Beth going to get a grip, get a handle on her family? I try at our scrapbooking meetings to give some helpful advice, you know? She nods and seems to understand, but then the very next day I’ll see one of the kids leave in pajamas. Leave the house to go somewhere public. Half the time, I don’t think Beth gets out of her pajamas before noon. If she would get up and get dressed, maybe she would find some motivation to tackle that awful weed problem she has in her front lawn.”
“Well, their yard makes ours look twice as good.” Charles laughed.
“Yes, well, glad to see you think this is funny. If we ever get a chance to move into our dream house, we’ll have an uphill battle trying to sell this house with neighbors like that.”
“They’re not that bad. I know they don’t keep their lawn up and their house needed paint about eight years ago, but they’re good people.” Charles had always liked Larry. He was a guy’s guy, willing to stop what he was doing to talk sports over the fence between their properties.
“I’m going to sleep. I will see you in the morning.”
Helen rolled away from him. The light snore she denied having came quickly as she drifted immediately into sleep.
But Charles, even at this late hour, was wide-awake.
On the heels of his promotion, something big had happened today at work. And as he stared through the darkness, he knew it had the potential to change their lives.
But he could not bring himself to tell Helen. Not yet.
CHAPTER 15
BUTCH
“LISTEN, I’M REALLY SORRY about the cupcakes.”
“Well, you gave it a good try. And they did taste good, even if they looked too awful to bring to class. Thanks for letting me have one for breakfast.”
“I can’t believe my cup idea didn’t work. I should’ve just left it as a cake. I’m an idiot. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. The beef jerky wasn’t a hit?”
“It was . . . interesting. The peanut butter with the M&M’S across the top almost made up for it, but some of the kids just licked the peanut butter and candy off, and Mrs. Murdock stopped that for bad manners, so . . .”
“Again, I’m really sorry.” Butch opened the door of the mall and they walked in. “But here we are now. To get you a dress for your graduation, right?” Just a few feet in, Butch stopped in his tracks. “Oh . . . wow . . .”
Ava, holding his hand, looked up. “What?”
“It’s just that . . .” How long had it been since he’d been at the mall? He didn’t remember it being this loud. And bright. Why were there so many blinking lights? In front of him, a large screen flipped through advertisements like a deck of cards being shuffled. People moved around them as if they were a jammed log in a fast-moving stream. Somebody bumped into Ava, almost knocking her down, and just kept walking, never looking back. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, Daddy. But I don’t think you’re supposed to stand still at the mall. It feels dangerous.”
“Come on,” Butch said, walking almost too briskly for Ava to keep up. Her feet were flying, but he didn’t like crowds and didn’t even know where he was going. His gaze darted to the larger-than-life lingerie store they passed, with all kinds of indecent pictures hanging in the windows. “Cover your eyes,” he said to Ava, noticing she was gawking as they passed. The perfume alone coming out of that place was enough to knock him unconscious.
The very next store had pictures of near-naked teenagers hanging all over one another. Wasn’t that illegal in some way?
“Cover your eyes.”
“Dad . . .”
“Now.”
“People are going to start talking about us.”
“I don’t care.”
Her expression lacked any sort of amusement. “I’m eight, not four, you know.”
“Okay, open.” Butch looked around. “Where are we supposed to be going?”
“The dress store.”
“Is that what it’s called? The Dress Store?”
“I don’t know.”
Butch noticed a young woman standing behind a counter, trying to sell cookies the size of bicycle wheels.
“Excuse me,” he said.
“Three for one.”
“What?
”
She pushed a greasy strand of hair out of her eyes. “Three cookies for the price of one cookie. These small ones.” She pointed to the batch closest to her, each of which looked slightly bigger than a quarter. “Five dollars.”
Butch laughed, but then he realized she wasn’t joking.
“Daddy! Please? Look, they have M&M’S on them!”
“Ava, I don’t think—”
“You owe me for the cupcakes.” She crossed her arms. The girl at the counter didn’t even wait. She just took three cookies and started putting them in a sack.
Grudgingly, Butch pulled out a wad of cash he’d stuck in his pocket at lunch and paid the girl. Ava looked very pleased with herself as they began to walk away. Butch stopped and turned back to Cookie Girl. “I need a dress store for girls her age,” he said. “Nice dresses for a graduation.”
The girl looked to be processing. Then she said, “Bella’s Ball. It’s down that way, up the escalator, past the Devil’s Den and Grunge Masters.”
“Thanks.”
Ava ate her cookies as they walked. “Thanks, Dad. Mom wouldn’t buy me cookies at the mall.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Because then you wouldn’t buy them for me.”
“True. But why wouldn’t she?”
“She said that I had to learn self-discipline. She said it’s easy to get caught up in buying everything you see, but that you should go in and just get what you need and get out.”
Butch smiled. That sounded like Jenny.
In the store, once again, the music was loud, this time songs sung by kids who would end up on the covers of grocery store tabloids. Ava raced ahead, through the rows of clothes. He could barely hear himself calling her name. Finally he found her near the back, gawking at a wall of very fancy dresses. “Ava, don’t ever—”
“Daddy! Ruffles!”
She looked like a pogo stick.
“Why are you shouting?” he shouted over the music.
“Please, Daddy. Let me at least try it on.”