Other People's Houses(44)

There was a pause. Crap. Frances hadn’t meant to bring that up, it just came out.

Ava looked at her, and shot from the hip. “And did you tell Dad you were talking to Anne’s boyfriend in the street only yesterday?”

Michael looked at Frances, and saw this strange accusation was true. Being who he was, he covered for her and came to her rescue. “Of course she did. However, she has consistently lied to me about the location of her chocolate stash since we were first living together. Humans keep things from each other, and most of the time they’re little things that really don’t matter.”

“And other times,” Ava said scornfully, “they’re things that really do matter and everything gets ruined.” She dropped her second high-top on the floor and Frances knew she’d be hunting for them the next morning.

Michael coughed. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience . . . Did someone tell you something that ruined things? What’s going on, Ava?” His voice was gentle, his eyes as he looked at his daughter so full of affection and so devoid of judgment, that Frances marveled again at the love they shared. She’d carried Ava, used the calcium from her own bones to build the child’s, ached and screamed to give birth to her, but it was her father who knew her best.

Ava gazed back at him and both her parents saw her eyes fill with tears, and saw her struggle to keep them there. She shook her head and stood up. “No, Dad, it’s not all about me, you know. Or so you keep telling me, anyway.”

She pushed her chair roughly back under the table and strode to put her plate in the sink, leaving the room swiftly enough to cause the dogs to stand up and follow her, concerned. Or maybe thinking she was leaving the house and might be up for taking them, too, who knows? Michael turned to Frances and frowned.

“What was she talking about?”

Frances sighed, and got up to go hide her face in the dirty dishes. “Yesterday Anne’s boyfriend showed up just as I arrived with the kids. Two seconds later Charlie showed up, too. It was a clusterfuck.”

Michael frowned. “But why did they wait to fight until this morning? I’m confused.”

Frances turned on the faucet to rinse the dishes she was putting in. It bought her a little time, but once she’d turned it off she replied, “Charlie didn’t find out about it then. I sort of covered for her.” She turned and looked at her husband. “Like you just covered for me, with Ava.”

“How did you manage that, exactly?”

“I pretended I knew him, and that he was heading toward Anne’s house by accident.” She watched Michael’s face, but it was difficult to read. She frowned. “I think it was stupid, but I couldn’t help it at the time. She’s my friend, and the kids were there, and I didn’t want it to all . . .”

“Blow up?”

She nodded. “Not that it helped.”

“Nope. And now you’ve involved yourself in someone else’s marriage. Or rather, the end of it.”

Frances finished with the dishwasher and shut the door. She waited until the reassuring swishing sound began. “Maybe it won’t ever come up.”

“It’s a bad habit, Frank.”

“How do you mean?” She was about to head back to the table, grab herself another glass of wine, but there was a coolness in his expression that made her stop halfway and lean against the kitchen island instead.

“I mean your obsession with getting involved. You always want to be part of what’s going on. You offer to help other people not just to help them, but because it satisfies some weird childhood desire to add to the list of people who need you.”

She looked at him and thought about what he was saying. Suddenly she was annoyed. “I think you’re full of it. I’m not forcing anyone to do anything. I have my own kids to take care of, plus the neighbors’ kids, plus the occasional kid from school. It’s not an international network of children requiring constant care and feeding.”

Michael was filling up his wineglass again, for the fourth time. This was usually the point at which things went downhill. He was generally a genial drunk, but after three glasses he could be critical, like now, and four or more usually brought out his inner dickhead. Frances got ready to concede and withdraw; she had too much shit to do to argue with Michael, who would be hungover and contrite in the morning.

Sadly, Michael wasn’t at that point. “Occasional? How many people have you as their emergency contact, Frances?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re right, I’m too nosy.” She turned to leave the room, but he repeated his question.

“No, really, Frank. How many?”

She shrugged. “Several. Why does it matter? It’s not like anyone’s ever called me in an emergency.” She started angrily tidying, which was one of the more effective methods of countertop clearing.

“Last year you were the backup emergency contact for seven other families, not counting the ones in your carpool. And here’s the thing: You love it. You love feeling needed, you love being involved. You sign up for this thing and that thing, you know everyone.” There was a hint of disdain in his voice, a mockery Frances felt very sharply.

The dogs had wandered back in, having discovered Ava was only heading to her room to sulk. They could sense tension in the kitchen, and they both started slowly wagging their tails in a “Let’s all calm down” kind of way. Frances reached down to pet them, but her anger was growing rather than fading. “Why is that bad? I don’t have a job-type job. This is what I do. I’m a mom, a parent. I take care of my own kids, and I help other parents take care of theirs. I have time. They don’t. When I don’t have time, one of them will. It’s a fucking village, right?” She thought, but not for long enough: “It’s not like you’re helping all that much, is it?”