Little Deaths(3)

And she slammed the door and walked into the kitchen where she took down the bottle that was never opened before six at night, and took a long swallow. Then she went into the kids’ bedroom where they were waiting for her and she laid into them both with her tiny hands. Because they’d made her take a drink. Because of the way the old woman had looked at her. Because she was so tired of all this.

On that last day, she heard a faint giggling as she approached their room. She lifted the catch and there was a thud as they jumped down from Cindy’s bed and pattered toward the door. When she opened it, Frankie scooted past her, turned right to go to the bathroom. He wouldn’t use Cindy’s potty any more. He was a big boy, he said, almost six. Cindy was only four—still her baby. Ruth bent and picked her up, buried her face in the soft golden hair, headed left down the hallway. Cindy’s legs circled her waist; one plump arm curled around her neck. She felt her daughter’s eyes on her, stroking her powdered cheeks, her sooty lashes, the sticky cupid’s bow of her lips. Felt those tiny fingers like kisses, patting her skin, tugging and twisting her hair. Sometimes Cindy told her, “You look like a princess-lady,” and she drew pink mouths and round pink cheeks on her dolls, colored their hair red with her finger paints.

Princess Mommy.

Ruth reached the kitchen, let Cindy slide to the floor. Frankie came in, his hands wet, took his seat, frowned at his cereal.

“Can we have eggs?”

Inwardly, she sighed. Nine in the morning and she was already exhausted.

“No. Eat your cereal.”

He pouted. “I want eggs.”

“For Chrissakes, Frankie, we don’t have any fucking eggs! Eat your cereal!”

As she walked out of the room, she saw Cindy’s face crumple, heard the start of a wail. She opened the screen door, let it slam behind her, breathed deeply.

She was aware of the crying behind her, of Minnie barking, of the eyes on her from the surrounding windows. Carla Bonelli up on the third floor. Sally Burke’s nosy bitch of a mother in the next building. Nina Lombardo looking out from next door. Fuck them. They weren’t bringing up two kids single-handed, trying to hold down a job, trying to make a living, dealing with a crazy ex-husband. They didn’t understand what her life was like.

It wasn’t meant to be this way. Everything about Frank that had once made her heart race—his way of saying her name, the way he looked at her—after nine years and two kids together, all of that had become like the throb of a familiar headache.

Her eyes were suddenly full of tears and she blinked her way down a couple of steps and sat heavily, took her cigarettes and lighter out of her pocket.

For a moment, she was back outside another apartment building in another summer. She was sitting on the stoop, her hand cradling the swell of her stomach. The door opened and her husband was there beside her, crouching low. She turned to him, and he kissed her cheek, put his hand over hers, felt the baby kick.

“How you doing, honey?”

“I’m okay. Tired.” She stretched, yawned. She was always tired. It had been the same when she was carrying Frankie: the last two months, all she’d wanted to do was sleep.

He reached into his jacket pocket. “Got you a present.”

She took the small package, tugged at the paper. There was something soft inside: not jewelry, then. Maybe stockings? A nightdress?

It was a toy rabbit: soft plush fur, glassy eyes staring up at her.

“It’s for the baby.”

She nodded, struggled to her feet, saying something about dinner. Left the rabbit on the step, only noticing later that he’d brought it inside and put it in the nursery, up on the shelf where Frankie couldn’t grab it.

She wonders sometimes if that’s when she started to resent him.

On that last day it took her a moment to come back to herself. She blinked again, realized her cigarette had burned down to the filter. Stood and turned to go back inside, nodding toward Maria Burke’s window. The curtain twitched and Ruth smiled to herself.


Now, as she pushes the library cart from cell to cell, this is what she remembers. She remembers that she went back inside, into the kitchen, poured more coffee, looked at the kids over the rim of the cup.

Cindy was chewing on her cereal, her blue eyes on her brother. Frankie was staring down into his half-empty bowl, his face sullen, his lip sticking out. Just like his father.

She took another mouthful, asked, “Did you have fun with Daddy yesterday?”

They looked up at her. She could see they didn’t know what was the right thing to say.

“What did you do?”

Cindy dropped her spoon with a clatter. “He took us to his new house. It was nice.”

“Yeah? I didn’t know Daddy had moved out of Grandma’s place.”

She was surprised his mother had let him go again. Surprised he’d had the balls to do it.

She asked, “Does Daddy live by himself now?”

Cindy shook her head, her mouth full again. Ruth waited and it was Frankie who answered.

“He’s got a room in a big ol’ house. He shares a bathroom with three other men. An’ a kitchen. They got one cupboard each for their stuff. The cupboards have padlocks.”

She nodded, took another sip of her coffee to hide her broadening grin. How the hell did Frank expect to get custody when he didn’t even have a house for his kids? She put her cup down.