Little Deaths(4)

“Okay, Mommy doesn’t have to go to work today. What do you want to do?”

Cindy stopped chewing, her spoon dangling from her hand. Frankie looked up, sulk forgotten.

“Really?”

“Really. Do you want to go to the park?”

Cindy started to whoop, dropped her spoon again, did a wiggling dance in her chair.

“The park! The park!”

Frankie looked at Ruth from under his long eyelashes. “Can Daddy come too?”

There was a stillness, like breath drawn in. She took a last drag on her cigarette, turned away, and crushed it in a saucer. Still with her back to them, she said, “You saw Daddy yesterday, Frankie.”

She turned back. “Do you want to go to the park or not?”

Frankie nodded and Cindy beamed again. “Can I wear my dress with daisies, Mommy?”

She smiled at her daughter. Her easy, angelic daughter. “Sure. Finish your cereal and we’ll go get you washed and dressed. Frankie, you want to wear your Giants shirt?”

He shrugged, staring down at his bowl.

“Frankie, I asked you a question.”

“Yes, Mommy.” Still not looking up.

“Okay. Mommy’s going to finish getting ready. Frankie, put the dishes in the sink when you’re done, then you can watch cartoons with your sister.”

He nodded. She decided to let it go this time, took her coffee into the bathroom. Checked her face. Reapplied her lipstick.

She did not know that this was the last morning she would be able to do this freely. That it was the last morning her face would be hers alone.





2


It is easier to think of the rest of that day through the filter of her retelling.

She remembers a windowless room. Wooden chairs.

Then a click. The hiss of static. A man clearing his throat, giving the time and date.

And then the questions. Her hesitant, faltering replies.

“We went for a picnic in Kissena Park.”

“I guess . . . about two-thirty.”

“Uh . . . meatball subs and soda. Pepsi.”

“We drove there. The kids were in the front seat with me.”


Frankie, rushing down the slide toward her, bolt upright, legs out, chin up. Jumping off the end, running straight back up the steps. Cindy on one of the baby swings with the safety bars, despite her protests, because she always forgot to hold on.

“Higher, Mommy, higher!”

Pushing harder. “Higher, Mommy!”

Her laughter like bubbling water. Dimpled hands clapping. Blond hair flying.

“Again! Again!”

She pushed until she was tired. Then they went to sit in the shade, a little way apart from the other mothers. Ruth spread out the blue blanket she had taken from Frankie’s bed and they watched Frankie on the slide. One of Norma’s kids kicked a ball wild and it bounced close to Cindy’s face, making her squeal. Frankie ran over, squared up to him: the boy was two years older and four inches taller.

“Hey! Don’t you hurt my Cindy! Don’t you hurt her!”

The kid looked like he might laugh, so Ruth called Frankie back, showed him that Cindy was fine. They shared the last of the soda between them.

Within five minutes it was forgotten and Frankie trotted over to the jungle gym. Ruth leaned against the rough bark of a tree, holding Cindy against her, soothing her, half-listening to the voices around them.

“I said to him, I said, for Chrissakes, Phil, she’s your mother, you need to tell her, and he said yeah yeah, but I know he won’t say anything, he’s such a . . .”

“. . . so his boss came over for dinner on Saturday. I made that turkey roll thing, Joanie’s recipe. You know. And my lemon pie. He had three helpings. Three! I never saw . . .”

She felt Cindy’s head droop, felt her limbs grow heavy. She let her own eyes close.

“He says he’s working late, but I know what that means. I call the office and there’s no reply. And when he gets home, I tell him straight, I say, I know what you’re up to, Bob, but he just . . .”

Ruth came to with a start. Her arms were empty. She sat up, heart thudding. Angela saw her face and laughed. “They’re over there, with Norma. Don’t worry!” Ruth breathed out, nodded her thanks. Checked her watch and got to her feet.

“You leaving already?”

She brushed down the back of her slacks, folded the blanket. “Got to go. Got to make a call and get dinner for the kids. See you, Angie. See you, Norma.”

She walked toward the playground, called Cindy and Frankie to her, put an arm around each of them. They left the park together, the three of them. For the last time.


“We left at four.”

“Because I made sure to leave by then. I had to make a call before five.”

“Arnold Green. My lawyer.”

“He told me to call back. Normally he finished work at five, but he told me he’d be working late.”

“Well, we came home. Oh, I picked some food up first. From Walsh’s Deli. On Main Street. There was nothing in the apartment for dinner.”

“Uh . . . meat. Veal. And a can of string beans. Milk.”

“No, we drove straight home. The kids went outside to play, and I called Mr. Green again. We talked for . . . I don’t know, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes.”