Other People's Houses(75)
Someone banged on the apartment wall, and Charlie banged back, furious, his vehemence knocking a picture down and breaking it. “We can’t go back, Anne, there’s no back to go to. See that picture?” He pointed. “We can no more fix our marriage than we can fix that glass. It’s fucked. We’re fucked. It’s done. And it’s your fault.”
She was still curled on the bed, sobbing, when he slammed the door. The breeze moved her hair across her cheek like a kiss.
Thirty-three.
The day of Iris’s birthday dawned bright and fair, as it usually did. Not just her birthday, of course, but most days in Southern California, with their dulcet winds and spangled sunshine. There’s a reason every other major city in the U.S. looks down on Los Angeles and makes fun of its supposed lack of culture, and it rhymes with bellousy. The reason Los Angeles doesn’t care what other cities think of it? It’s too busy looking at all its pretty girls in sundresses and happy people living out their dreams and eating well. Never mind, San Francisco. You can keep the fog.
Anyway, Iris’s birthday was another of those lovely days. Rosco the dog had given Iris a cashmere dressing gown, as soft and silky as a newborn’s earlobe, Wyatt had given her a chew toy in the shape of a birthday cake, and Sara had given her a hand-painted mug with MOM on it.
There was a pause as Iris unwrapped it.
“Uh . . . I like the colors you chose,” she said gently. “But I’ll be blunt: I just have the two hands.”
Wyatt went off into gales of laughter. “That’s MY present! I made that! It’s a sword!” He grabbed the mug from his mom and pointed at the third arm. “See? It’s a sword, and you have a helmet on.”
Sara also looked confused. “I thought that was her hair?”
Wyatt snorted. “No! It’s gray! She doesn’t have gray hair! It should have been silver but they didn’t have silver.” He looked at Iris, crestfallen. “They didn’t have silver, sorry.”
She hugged him close. “It is so perfect and awesome and I love you so much. Silver would have been too much, this way is more realistic. I look like a real knight this way, ready to fight and a little bit grubby.”
He smiled gratefully at her. “They probably did get pretty messy.”
“Of course! Fighting dragons is sweaty work.”
He was still concerned. “I put the names on the presents. I guess I put the wrong ones on. Rosco picked out the birthday cake toy.”
“It’s a very good choice, although I suspect he’ll enjoy it more than I will.” She took an experimental nibble on the chew toy, which made a sad noise. “It tastes like cake.” She looked at Rosco with new respect. Rosco wagged his tail and offered to take it off her hands, if it was bothering her.
Wyatt needed reassurance. “Do you like the mug as much as the pink coat thing?”
“More.”
“Really? You seemed to really like the pink thing.”
“I hadn’t seen the mug yet, and I thought it was from Rosco, remember? He doesn’t usually get things like that, his funds are so limited. I wanted to be encouraging.”
“Can I go watch TV now?”
Iris turned to her bedroom window, which looked out onto the treetops that surrounded their house. From her bed she lived in the forest. “Why don’t you have some breakfast first, and then you can call the other kids and see if . . .” Her phone pinged, and she reached for it.
Happy Birthday, you old fart, read a text from Frances. Does Wyatt want to come up here for pancakes? You can have a birthday breakfast in bed.
Yes! she texted back. That would be awesome!
Sending Milo. Have fun.
“Put on some clothes and go downstairs to wait for Milo, baby, you’re going to your auntie’s for pancakes.” Wyatt yelped and sped off, happy to spend time with his older cousins. They often let him on their computers, and were teaching him Minecraft.
Iris looked at Sara. “Is there any coffee?”
Her wife reached for the birthday mug in Iris’s hand. “Yes, AND fresh cinnamon rolls from Acme.”
Iris snuggled back under the covers. “You spoil me.”
“Well, now that Wyatt’s gone,” replied Sara, “I plan to spoil you some more.” She did a dramatic stripper slide around the bedroom door and nearly fell down the stairs. When they were done laughing, Sara went to get breakfast.
* * *
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Once the rolls were finished, and the icing had been licked off of fingers, Sara rolled over onto her tummy and regarded her wife thoughtfully.
“I want to talk to you about something,” she began.
Iris nodded. “Me, too,” she said. “But you can go first.”
Sara laid her head down on the sheet for a moment, and Iris frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Sara replied. “But this stuff with Anne is making me think.” She looked at Iris. “And the other night . . . you seemed worried. Of course, it could have been a brilliant double bluff and you’re already cheating on me.”
Iris grinned. “I assure you, I’m not sleeping around. And if you are, please don’t tell me, because then I’d have to smother you with this pillow.” She picked one up and shoved it at Sara, who snatched it away, tucking it under herself. Iris watched her wife’s shoulders move, the angles of her collarbone, the curve of her lower back, and decided that whatever Sara had to say better be quick, because she really wanted to take advantage of this time alone. “Go on then, what’s up?” She mock frowned. “Am I too old for you now?” There were three months separating their ages; it had become a running joke.