Other People's Houses(13)
Frances pulled off her sweatshirt and bra, enjoying that first scratch of tit-freedom, then put on a large pair of flannel pajamas with dogs on them. “Yes,” she replied. “I creep from house to house, hunting for people having sex.”
Michael smiled. “We’ve been married nearly twenty years, and you haven’t changed a bit.” He paused. “Are you going to blow the whistle?”
“Good Lord, no. Why would I do that?” She looked at her toenails, which needed cutting.
“I don’t know. Because it’s honest?”
She looked at him, and raised her eyebrows. “You’re joking, right? Why on earth would I do that? This other guy could be just a one-time thing.” She reached into her bedside drawer, hunting for her nail clippers.
“Like in a porn film? He was delivering a pizza?”
She snorted. “Yes. Because Anne Porter has pizza for breakfast every day.” No clippers, what a fucking shock.
“OK, he was delivering a brioche and a venti Americano.”
Jack and Diane, the dogs, came in and jumped on the bed. Frances shut the drawer and scooched back to make room for snuggling, wondering if Anne would have had an affair if she’d had a dog. I don’t have the sexiest marriage in the world, she thought, but I get a lot of affection and approval from my dogs, with far less negative fallout. Maybe I should persuade her to drop the extracurricular sex and get a rescue dog instead. Then she thought about what Michael had said, and her mind wandered. “Why don’t they deliver more interesting things in porn movies?”
He didn’t look up from his screen. “Because most people aren’t focusing on what the setup is, you doofus. Oh, let’s watch The Sears Guy Always Comes Twice, it’s all about the exigencies of appliance repair. The way the director sets up the tensions and potential resolutions in the first ten minutes is masterful, and the anal is all in one take.”
Frances opened her mouth to reply, when Ava walked in. Michael closed his computer. Frances noticed this every time: For her he kept the screen open, just in case something more interesting popped up, but for his firstborn he shut the screen without even thinking about it. She wasn’t jealous; she was reassured every time she saw the pecking order in action. She would put the kids before him, every time, and he knew it and would do the same. If he didn’t take a bullet for the kids, he’d have to take one from Frances.
“Why are you guys talking about anal? And can I get a phone?” Ava asked this question pretty much every day, but so far the answer had been no. However, she had clearly studied compound interest and thought maybe bugging worked the same way: A little every day would mount exponentially. And maybe she was right. Frances could feel herself weakening.
“We weren’t talking about anal, we were discussing film theory, and no,” said Michael.
“But—”
Frances interrupted her. “Every kid in school has one but you, what if you get lost even though you rarely leave the house alone, you’d be able to keep your calendar on it, you’d be able to take notes in class, even though your school doesn’t allow phones in class. Yes, we’ve heard all your arguments, Ava, and sorry, but the answer is still no. You don’t need one, they’re expensive, and I want you to read books rather than spend all day gazing at a screen. You have a computer, that’s enough.”
Ava glared at her mother, as teenagers have glared at parents since Neolithic mom first refused to get Neolithic teen a new axe. “I hate you. You guys never go anywhere without your phones, but that doesn’t count, right? You just want to keep me dependent, because then you have something to do to fill your empty days and pointless existence.” She turned on her heel, pretty smoothly, and stormed out.
Frances looked at Michael. “That’s a new approach.”
He nodded. “It’s got potential.”
“My days are hardly empty.” Frances was a little stung, but not badly. “And how does she know about anal?”
“She uses the Internet, and don’t get mad, she’s full of hormones and squished on all sides by peer pressure. She’ll apologize before she goes to sleep.”
Frances nodded, because he was right, at least recently. Ava would pick a fight, or Frances would say something careless and Ava would get her back up, and suddenly they’d be bickering. Then, after a bit of shouting and stalking away, Ava would sit in her room and sulk for a while, then call to her mother in a wobbly voice and say she was sorry and that she didn’t mean it. Frances would apologize, too. She’d also promise to herself that the next time Ava pushed her buttons she’d bite her tongue, remembering only too well the driving desire to fight with her own mother at that age, the need to lash out and bang up against something. Then Ava would cling to her and cry, reassured that she’d never drive her mother away, that Frances would always be there to fight with, make up with, take for granted, and depend upon. Frances would smooth her daughter’s hair, tucking the damp strands behind her ears, knowing that in another couple of years Ava wouldn’t care enough about her opinion to fight with her. The opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference.
Michael was still on topic. “So, if you’re not going to tell Charlie, why did you tell me? What if I feel obliged to tell Charlie?” He had reopened his laptop, Frances noticed.
“You don’t. You wouldn’t.” Frances scratched Jack behind his ears, causing him to make that rumbly sound in his throat that made her smile.