Other People's Houses(51)

Araceli was holding up a black . . . item . . . that seemed to be constructed of three lacy doilies held together with boot laces. She thought about looking at herself in the mirror, the doilies gamely holding on for dear life, the boot laces disappearing into her little folds and curves, and shook her head. “My husband prefers me naked,” she said, without thinking, and then started giggling uncontrollably. It made her sound like some acolyte, and Michael stood tall in her mind, ordering her washed and brought to his tent. She lost it completely. Araceli waited patiently, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, thinking about what to make for dinner.

Once Frances calmed down she paid for the vibrator, some warm massage lotion, and a pair of fur-lined handcuffs, which she’d thrown in completely on impulse. If Araceli had been surprised by the choice she certainly hadn’t shown it.



* * *



? ? ?

That afternoon Frances called her mother, amazed at herself for thinking of it, and further amazed that she thought of it at a time when she had access to a phone and time to place a call. The kitchen was empty, the dogs were outside, the washer and dryer were both humming, there were flowers on the counter, sex toys in the bedside table . . . She was on top of her game and nothing bad was going to happen to her. Her mother answered the phone, thousands of miles away in New York.

Frances said, “Hey, it’s me.” She pulled her cup of tea closer, listening for the children. Normally the best way to get them all to appear was to try and place an important phone call. They would then instantly materialize, often in tears, and always with demands of some sort. It was a kind of magic. Shitbird magic, but effective.

“Hi there, sweetheart. How are you doing? What’s new in your neck of the woods?” Her mother sounded just the same as always, the cadences of her voice familiar on a cellular level. Frances loved her mother dearly and also felt very sorry for her, which hadn’t been that great a combination when she was a teenager, but worked now. More or less.

“Nothing much.”

“I heard your neighbor has been sleeping around. Is that such a normal occurrence it’s not worth mentioning?” Her mother laughed, and Frances heard the click of a kettle being turned on. She could see the kettle in her mind, see the kitchen counters with their countless red jars and mugs, a little color being what her mother loved. Anything red. Made her very easy to shop for.

“How on earth do you know that?” Frances took a sip of tea, debated whether she wanted a cookie enough to get up for it.

“Ava told me.”

Frances was surprised. “When did you speak to Ava?”

Her mother laughed again. Clearly, she was in a good mood. Or maybe she was as high as a kite, who knew? “Yesterday. We talk on Skype, you know. You should look into this Internet thing. I think it’s going to catch on.”

“Funny. That’s nice. I hadn’t realized you two were in touch so much.” Her tea was sweet enough without a cookie.

“It’s not that much, maybe once or twice a week. She likes to talk, I like to listen, it’s good.” Her mom sighed suddenly. “I wish I had listened to you more, when you were her age. I have no memories of that time at all. I’m sorry.”

Frances raised her eyebrows. “That’s OK, Mom. It was a hard time, right? Because of Alex. I don’t know how you kept going, honestly.”

“Is that why you called?”

“What?”

“Tomorrow is the anniversary, you know. I thought maybe that was what you were calling about.”

Frances got up and grabbed the cookie jar, which was shaped like an elephant. “No. Or at least, I don’t think so. Maybe on some level I remembered, but I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“He’d be the same age as Michael, you know.”

She bit into a cookie, which truly was delicious. “Yeah, I know. Their birthdays are even close.”

“Little May babies. Both Taurus, strong and calm. I think about Alex all the time, do you?”

A second cookie. “I do. I think about what a great uncle he would have been. I think about the cousins the kids might have had, the nieces and nephews, the grandkids. Of course, he might have married someone we didn’t like, there’s always that chance. Like that girl across the street.”

“Isabel? She ended up marrying a proctologist from Long Island.”

“Serves her right.”

“Who knows, maybe she and Alex would have been happy together. When you lose a child, you lose the life they would have had, too. Right? Don’t you look at the kids and wonder what kind of adults they’re going to be, who they’re going to marry, that kind of thing?” Her mother’s voice faded in and out as she bustled around her kitchen, all those miles away.

Frances laughed ruefully. “Mostly I just try to make it through the day alive, but sure, sometimes I think about the future. Mostly trying to imagine what life will be like once they’ve moved out and I finally have enough storage space.”

Her mom sighed. “I used to pretend Alex was just away, you know. Sometimes when it got too hard, I would just decide he was at camp and I would write him letters in my head, or imagine him climbing on ropes and riding horses and having a wonderful time. I would tell myself it was good I hadn’t heard from him in so long, it meant he was busy and happy.”