Bad Mommy(9)

“Oh, Darius, this is our new neighbor, Fig,” she said, fussing with her hair. “She moved into the Larrons’ old house. I invited her over for a piece of my terrible cake and coffee.”

Darius set his briefcase down. Mercy turned to look at me like she was just noticing I was here again. I made a face at her and she smiled. My heart almost burst open right there.

“Hello, Fig. Welcome to the hood,” he said, leaning forward to take my hand. I noticed he had a particularly crooked smile that was quite infectious if you zoned in on it. I looked away quickly when I felt myself blushing.

“Hello,” I said, standing up. Cake crumbs sprinkled from my lap to the floor. How embarrassing. I made to pick them up, but Darius stopped me.

“Don’t bother. We have a Roomba.”

“A what?”

He pointed to a little round machine in the corner. “A little robot vacuum.”

“Oh,” I said.

“How did you enjoy my wife’s terrible cake?” he asked, rolling his eyes.

I’d been right about the grey at his temples. I saw it all now, the slight salt in all the pepper. He was not too tall, probably six feet even, with the type of broad shoulders women went on about. I wondered how many female clients he had, and how they were able to concentrate when he was looking at them.

“It was probably the best cake I’ve ever had,” I said, honestly. “And as you can see, I eat a lot of cake.”

I patted the extra weight around my belly. Bad Mommy blushed, turning away so we couldn’t see her face.

“My wife is modest about almost everything she does,” he said, looking at her with affection. “And she does almost everything better than anyone else.”

She shot him a look over her shoulder as she put the coffee mugs in the sink, and I suddenly felt sick. Had anyone ever looked at me like that? No, probably not. George spent most of our marriage looking at the television. I was ripe with jealousy.

“I better go,” I said, tugging on Mercy’s little foot. She smiled at me before yanking it away. “Thanks so much for having me.”

“Fig, you should come to our girls’ night next time we have one,” Bad Mommy said, drying her hands on a dishtowel and walking around the island to stand in front of me. “Some of the girls in the neighborhood, every other Friday night. That way you can meet some new people. Get out of the house.”

Darius was nodding his head even as Mercy tried to stick her fingers up his nose.

“That would be lovely,” I said. “What time?”

“We meet over here at six o’ clock,” she said, shooting Darius a look. “Six,” she emphasized again. He bobbed his head guiltily.

“Sometimes things run late at the office,” he said. “Jolene gets really upset if I’m late every other Friday at six o’clock.” She threw her dishtowel at him and he caught it with a smile. When he winked at her I got butterflies.

Yup, I felt sick. More and more by the minute. I edged my way to the door and the Averys followed me.

“Goodnight then. I’ll see you on Friday.”

They stood waving at me all the way back to my house. What a perfect fucking family. Tonight, I decided, I would have two shortbreads.



I watched them arrive from my bay window. Hens, six of them, though Bad Mommy told me the number always varied depending on who was free to come. Three of them were skinny, and the other three were skinnier than the skinny ones. I tugged on the floral top I’d chosen. It was the only going-out shirt I had, unless you counted my Christmas sweater collection, but you couldn’t wear sequined Christmas trees in July, could you? At the last minute I changed into a light sweater with blue snowflakes on it. They were all wearing skinny jeans or tight dresses that showed off their rumps. The only thing I had that remotely resembled skinny jeans were the workout pants I bought to steal the Averys’ mail. I pulled them out of the wash, giving them a sniff before I put them on. Looking at myself in my full-length mirror, I smiled. All I needed now was something for height since I was on the short side. I settled on black sandals I’d bought a year ago and never worn. I ran a brush through my hair one last time and put on some lipstick. I wished I hadn’t been binge-eating shortbreads all week, promising myself I’d work it off later. Fuck them. I was beautiful just the way I was. George had put me down for years. I wasn’t going to let a bunch of skinny bitches do the same. I marched out of my house, almost forgetting to lock the front door in my determination.

Their door opened before I could knock. Bad Mommy stood in the doorway, a cocktail already in hand, her cheeks rosy, and her eyes shining.

“Hey Fig,” she said, breathlessly. Her eyes traveled the length of me, in what I regarded as outfit approval, then she said, “Ready to have some fun?”

She stood aside to let me in and suddenly I felt choked by anxiety. I didn’t so much like people. Why was I doing this again? No, I told myself. Those were things George wanted me to believe. George hated going out, so he’d tell me that no one liked us anyway, and what was the point of being social when no one liked you? It’s just you and me, Figgy, he’d say.

“So ready,” I said.

She led me into the kitchen where all the hens were gathered around a martini shaker on the counter. There were three things that drew women into a hungry-eyed cluster: liquor, men, and gossip. Gossip was the strongest draw, but put all three together and you had a sort of desperate, heated frenzy on your hands. I pictured women from the Stone Age gyrating naked around a fire; one of their husbands had discovered fire, the others were jealous. Good God. Tonight, I was going to be part of an age-long tradition. It was exhilarating.