Other People's Houses(54)
For some reason it was a blight that hit every family hard. It started with the application form, which was only slightly less detailed than the forms for getting into one of the city’s charter schools, which were currently heading the field of Forms That Are Complicated Beyond Belief. Then there was the day, which started at some ungodly hour like seven on a Saturday, when the teams got picked. You’d see groups of experienced parents herding their kids together as swiftly as greyhounds rounding a track corner; while other, less experienced parents ended up wandering around with wobbly chinned kids looking for a group that “had room.” Shockingly painful, especially when your kid ended up in a little clump of other kids whose parents didn’t understand the process. It was the sporting version of the Island of Misfit Toys, and if you think five-year-olds haven’t seen that movie, you’re drunk. Then there was Team Parent and Snack Mom and Volunteer Coach, all positions that went to parents who’d just gotten off the turnip truck, soccer-ly speaking.
She personally hated Team Parent, but Coach was also a disaster. She’d seen world-famous directors in bright jerseys made of nonbreathing material reduced almost to tears by the challenge of getting a dozen six-year-old boys to run in the same direction. Get a thousand horses to come over a hill at once, sure; get precious actors to emote on cue, no problem; wrangle a set of producers who don’t understand the importance of using real butterflies, damn the cost, all in a day’s work. But stand in the blazing October sunshine getting Tarquin, Samson, Argo and Aero (twins) to stop kicking the ball at one another’s heads, impossible. Snack Parent sucked ass, too: She once saw a mom who published a well-known mommy blog about finding the joy in every moment, handing out Tic Tacs from the bottom of her purse as the postgame snack. Thank God the bottle of Xanax was in her other bag.
On this Saturday Frances had drawn the short straw because Michael had some work thing he “needed” to do. She was marginally bitter as she stood on the sidelines being grateful she wasn’t Snack Mom this time, when she heard her name being called. She turned and smiled, while inside her head she said, Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. She braced herself.
Shelly was a mom in Milo’s class, and Frances hated and feared her in equal measure. She was a “cool mom” on the surface. Casual shoes that cost a fortune, leggings on toned legs under vintage kaftans, jewelry personalized with her many children’s names, a commitment to veganism and alternative medicine, a firm belief in the joy of a childhood lived free of electronics and sugar, and a tendency to gossip about other parents with the rapier knife of a trained assassin. She specialized in concern, and as she got closer, Frances could see the small eyebrow furrow that indicated she was about to ask about Anne Porter.
“Frances, how are you?” Shelly cooed, embracing Frances and, as always, making her feel momentarily guilty for doubting this woman’s good intentions. “How are the kids?” She turned and looked at Lally, who was running in the wrong direction, but grinning like an idiot. “Lally looks like she’s having a good time.” She kept watching as the referee came over and turned Lally around, sending her heading in the right direction without apparently realizing she’d been turned. “And that’s all that matters really, right?”
“Of course,” said Frances, correctly reading the implied comment on Lally’s lack of athletic coordination. Shelly’s kids were naturally good at lots of things, which, to be fair, was hardly their fault. Otter and Persimmon, both girls, and Gin and Arable, boys. Shelly liked to question gender-normative naming conventions because, as she had memorably put it at one early birthday party, names carry such weight in our society. Frances often wondered how much weight being named after a water mammal, a fruit, a clear alcohol, and a farming term carried, but as the kids themselves were very nice and easygoing, she’d never posed the question.
“I heard the news about Anne Porter, it’s terrible.” Shelly looked at the ground, almost conjuring a tear, and radiating Genuine Concern. She looked up in time to catch Frances’s raised eyebrow, and added, “Not that I know her very well, of course. Not like you.”
Frances wondered if Shelly was suggesting that Frances was somehow complicit in Anne’s cheating, but decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Yes, it’s sad. I hope they’re able to work it out.”
“For the children.”
“Sure, but also for them. I imagine divorcing someone is very painful, even if you’re both ready to leave the marriage.”
“And Charlie presumably isn’t ready, seeing as he wasn’t the one cheating.”
Frances shrugged. “You’d have to ask him. I’m trying to stay out of their business.”
“How do the kids seem?”
Frances nodded her head at a distant field. “Theo’s playing goal, and hasn’t let any in yet, so he’s presumably fine right now. Kate is sitting with her dad over there, doing stickers. I expect they’re sad, but they’ll be OK. Kids are resilient, right?”
Shelly looked at her and tipped her head to one side. “You know, Frances, you don’t need to be defensive. Friends rally around at times of crisis, it takes a village, right?” She smiled sweetly. “It’s interesting when other people’s pain brings up issues . . . Are you and Michael having problems?”
Frances resisted the urge to punch the other woman in the throat. “I didn’t think I was being defensive, Shelly. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.” She felt herself starting to sweat, hating any kind of conflict. “If you’re so worried about the Porters you should go and speak to Charlie, he’s right there.” She wasn’t even going to touch the comment about her own marriage. She herself never felt she was intimate enough with someone to ask about their marriage, unless they were, like, friends for a decade or related by blood or thrown together on a sinking cruise liner or something. You came across this false, fast intimacy all the time in the circles she moved in. People who loved to talk about their feelings, their fears, their colonic irrigation, their therapy, their children’s therapy, their sex life, their new car. Frances barely had room in her head for her own feelings plus a running grocery list. She felt like the Mad Hatter: No room! No room!