The Middlesteins: A Novel(12)

“I’ll check my schedule,” he said, and she felt deeply—she knew!—that he meant it, too.



*

Benny was already at home when she returned with the kids, setting the table, an Edwardo’s box on the kitchen counter. He was still wearing his suit, an old one, the crease nearly faded in the pants. (She would donate it to the Goodwill tomorrow, she decided.) He must have just beaten them home. It was his one night to cook, and he had cheated and gotten a pizza.

“Tell me you at least got a salad,” she said. “Something with nutritional value.”

Benny pulled a large plastic container of salad out of a bag and waved it at Rachelle.

“What am I, crazy?” he said. “I don’t want to spend the night in the doghouse.”

“We don’t have a doghouse,” said Josh. “Or a dog.”

“It’s an expression,” said Benny. “A joke. You’re no fun. When did this kid turn into no fun?”

“He’s plenty of fun,” said Rachelle. “You should have seen him dancing tonight.”

They all sat and ate, Benny barraging Emily and Josh with questions about their day, which sometimes they minded, and sometimes they didn’t. He made a real effort with those kids, which Rachelle appreciated. Her own father, miserable, overworked, uninspired by his job, his wife, his child, his life, the world, had ignored her through most of her childhood; he would sit, stony-faced, at the dinner table, and command quiet through angry glares at Rachelle and her mother. “Your father had a bad day,” her mother would whisper.

There would be no silence at the dinner table in her own home.

After dinner they all watched So You Think You Can Dance, and there was Pierre’s student, Victor Long, spiked hair, bright eyes, jumping in the air, both legs flying up and out to meet his hands, tumbling, bouncing, knees popping up and down, all to a dance track that was punctuated occasionally by an intriguing air-horn sound. Victor was athletic and graceful, which Rachelle admired, even if she would never choose to dance that way herself. Her children were in awe of him.

“I’m never going to be that good,” said Emily mournfully. She crossed her arms and locked her thumbs under her armpits. “I’m going to look like an idiot in front of all my friends.”

“You’re going to do the best that you can,” said Rachelle.

“But what if my best totally sucks?” said Emily. She wiped away a tear, and another, and then got up and left the room, dragging Rachelle’s heart slowly with her.

Later, out back, after the kids were tucked away in bed, Rachelle huddled in her winter coat with her husband in the backyard, both of them quietly puffing on a joint; this time she shared it with him. Benny needed it more than she. For him, it was something he earned at the end of a long day of work. For her, smoking pot was just for fun, usually, but following Edie that afternoon had saddened her, and she felt like she needed it, too, or even deserved it. Because what did she do all day anyway? She managed a household, and all their possessions. Drove her kids around, Pilates four times a week, an occasional Sisterhood meeting at the temple with all those old ladies who thought they knew everything about everything but only knew something about not much at all if you really wanted to get into it, got her hair done (regular bang trims, coloring once a month), her nails done, her toes, waxing, cooking, shopping. She read books. (She was in three book clubs but she only showed up if she liked the book they were reading.) If you asked her at the right time, she’d say, “Spend my husband’s money.” It was a joke. It was supposed to be funny. But it was true, too.

“So they’re not getting any better?” he said.

“Josh isn’t terrible,” she said. “Emily’s got no particular sense of rhythm as far as I can see.”

“It’s only been a few weeks,” he said. He put his hand on her head. He messed up her hair.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Did you just get it done?” He rubbed it back and forth and in her face. “Did you just get your pretty hair done?” He was completely high. He laughed. He ran his fingertips down her face and then stopped at her chin and squeezed it. “This is a good chin, here, this one.” And then he kissed her.

She took the joint from his hand. “No more for you,” she said. She put another hand in his pocket and felt for his dick. Managing his possessions.

He was in such a good mood that she didn’t want to bring up his mother, but then he did it anyway.