I Liked My Life(11)

“Deal,” she replied, rubbing her hands together. “You go first.”

I smiled. “I’ve heard you and Dad before, like, at night.”

Mom gasped, but then smirked. “Fine,” she said. “Two can play at this game. My secret is that Christie Anderson called last month to say she saw you and John under their deck, and you had your hand down his pants.” She took a bite of her caprese salad, satisfied.

I stared at her in complete shock. “Shut up! What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

She raised her eyebrows. “I should ask the same question.”

“Mom, seriously, why?”

She smiled to let me know it was all in good fun. “For a lot of reasons. Christie is a ruthless gossip. I didn’t want her to be the basis for one of our talks.”

“And?”

“And … and … so what? We’ve talked about all that stuff. I trust that if you need anything, advice or anything at all, you’ll come to me.”

It was confusing. She never dodged hot topics. I have friends whose mothers get all cray-cray over hand-holding. Not my mom. She figured that stuff was natural. Last year I confronted her, disgusted, with a tube of K-Y I found in her nightstand. “I don’t get why you’re upset,” she said, not bothering to ask what business I had in her room. “You’re mad I have vaginal dryness?” When she worded it like that I felt silly.

“So why tell me now?” I asked.

“You embarrassed me, so I wanted to embarrass you.”

That was how she was: ask a question, get an answer. We laughed nervously for a couple minutes before moving on to safer topics. It was a great day.

I obviously didn’t expect my father to re-create that Newbury Street scene on a Tuesday night with one hour to shop, but I had hopes for something. It’s laughable since I don’t plan to wear it either way, but I pictured coming out of the fitting room after trying on a few dresses and him saying, “That’s the one, Eve. You look wonderful.”

Instead, he offered his credit card. Typical.

Brady

“Thank you, it looks delicious,” I say without looking. The door is almost shut when she thrusts her arm out as if to hold an elevator.

What’s with the divorcées in this neighborhood? They scare the shit out of me.

“Wait! Please wait,” Mary begs, doing a maneuver that somehow replaces the wedged arm with her full body.

“I actually just walked in, so I really need to check on Eve.” Mary doesn’t change her expression or stance; she’s on a mission. They all are. Random women “drop in” with offerings from soup to wine to homemade cheesecake. Maybe I’m paranoid and they’re only being charitable, but it’s a statistical aberration that none of these philanthropists are still married. I know Maddy would be calling me a cynic, but the most plausible explanation for Mary’s benevolence is discontent with her spousal maintenance package.

Mary bites her lip. I think it’s supposed to be sexy, but it looks like it hurts. “That’s so sweet,” she says. “I hear you’re a great dad. Eve’s a great kid. I see her drive by sometimes. Really, really great. Just great.” Her limited vocabulary makes the conversation more irritating. Whenever Eve talked like that, Maddy took out a thesaurus and had her look up replacement words. I consider leveraging the tactic now.

“Did you know I don’t have children of my own?”

Jesus Christ. Did she seriously just bat her eyelashes? And how would I possibly know that? Until two minutes ago, I didn’t know her name was Mary. “Nope.”

“Yeah, no, I never took the plunge. So I have time to help out if you ever need a hand.”

Great. A crazy lady with a strategy. Launching a defense against divorcées with kids wipes out everyone except her. “Okay, well, thanks again.” I step forward so Mary has no choice but to step back or be trampled. As soon as she’s over the frame I swing the door shut.

How am I considered a good catch? You’d think these women would be at least marginally concerned by Maddy’s proactive exit. How do you overlook that my first wife opted to eat pavement over one more day with me? I head to the kitchen for a cocktail. Eve is at the table with a giant grin on her face. Fucking perfect. She overheard that entire discourse. I decide to preempt her jab. “We should put a sign on the door that says, ‘Food won’t make us feel better. Go away.’”

“I don’t know, Dad,” she teases, “those were some impressive legs. I think Mary is a hiker.”

What the hell do I say to that? It’s not like I reach out to these vultures. I get a tumbler from the cabinet. Eve huffs. I’m growing accustomed to her sounds: a huff preludes criticism. I put ice in the glass, waiting.

“Good to see you can find time for a stiff drink given your busy schedule.”

And there it is.

I assume she’s referring to the fact that I didn’t go gallivanting around the mall last night. My shoulders and neck tense, but I manage to walk away, drink in hand. Fuck that. I got up at five this morning, ran five miles, and worked a fourteen-hour day; I can have a goddamn bourbon. Or four. As long as I get up at five again tomorrow, what the hell does it matter?

If only Maddy and I had discussed her day-to-day communication with Eve. How did she know when to remain silent? Laugh instead of yell? Pick a serious talk over a punishment? And what compelled Eve to heed what Maddy said after she’d decided what the hell to say? It’s such a goddamn cluster. I observed Eve growing up without much thought as to how she was raised. That was all Maddy.