Accidents of Marriage (15 page)

Ben didn’t have a clue whether he should stop Gracie from pillaging pictures from the family albums. If it calmed her, who cared?

“What’s going on?” Ben stood with his arms crossed, but his stance didn’t stop Emma’s shower of verbal fury.

“She’s in a coma, Gracie,” Emma continued to shout. “That doesn’t mean she has some kind of superpower and knows what you’re thinking or doing. Stop being so frigging creepy. Put all of them back where they belong!”

Emma pointed an anger-stiff finger at the pictures leaning against books piled on the carpet, semicircled around a red candle leaning in a red mug. Gracie had arranged them as symmetrically as possible, placing them in age order, starting with Maddy as a baby, her giant smile stretched like a rubber band across her face, and ending with a recent beach picture. Maddy squinted against the sun, her hair stiff with salt, her smile still broad.

“You can’t have a candle in your room,” Ben said.

“I’d never light it, Daddy. Promise.”

Why have them, then?
Ben didn’t want to hear the answer. Gracie had probably Googled
voodoo
. Yesterday he’d found a Christian prayer site bookmarked, one where you entered names for prayers. Maddy would have a fit when she came home, but Ben wouldn’t do anything to stop his daughter. His mother’s son, he’d considered logging on and adding an entry of his own.

“Aren’t you hot?” Ben asked. Gracie was wrapped in her red flannel robe, the belt tied tightly around her plump belly. He looked a little closer and saw a tiny angel on the collar. “Who gave you that?” he asked, pointing to the gold pin.

She covered it as though he were about to take it away. “Grandma Frances.”

Wonderful. A perfect match for the crucifix and rosary his mother had already given his daughter. Leave it to Saint Frances to use tragedy as an occasion to turn Gracie into a little novitiate.

“Honey, you don’t need to do all this,” Ben said.

“But I want to,” Gracie said.

“Dad, do something.” Emma bent and picked up a stray sock, using her thumb and forefinger as pincers.

“What do you want me to do? Forbid your sister to have pictures of her mother in her room?”

Emma exhaled like an old woman. “Fine. Let her build her crazy pyramid. Don’t worry; I’ll clean around it. When it catches fire, I’ll call the fire department. And then when they call the Department of Children and Families to take us to foster homes, I’ll call Olivia.”

Ben picked up two dirty bowls from Gracie’s dresser. “Come downstairs for breakfast. Kath and Olivia will be here soon.”

Emma lit up as though the Queen of England were arriving. “We should clean up.”

“They’re coming to talk to me about Mom. This isn’t a party. Anyway, the three of us are going out—you need to watch the kids so I can talk to them. Until Aunt Vanessa comes. She’s taking you all to her house.”

“Even if you go out, they’re still coming here first. Mom
always
cleans up when people come over.” Emma threw her chin in the air, grabbed the full laundry basket, and walked out of the room.

Gracie trailed after Emma, rubbing her collar angel. Ben, in third place, walked behind them one dirgelike step at a time. When he reached the entry, he opened the door to get the paper. Yesterday was the third day in a row there hadn’t been a piece on the accident. Thank God. Ben suspected it might be one more favor he’d owe his father, but for once, he didn’t give a shit. Small things like fewer stares would be a great help for
the man who put his wife in a coma
. Whispers assaulted him everywhere from the local Whole Foods to the CVS where he waited on line to get his prescription for the pain from his ribs.

“Morning, cowboy,” Ben greeted Caleb as he walked into the kitchen.

Caleb grunted, staring at the comic book on the table.

A light scent of urine and the peppery odor of unwashed jeans rose from his son. Ben reminded himself to check Caleb’s closet for
another set of wet pajamas and underwear before the smell permeated the closet forever. The Glade strips or wicks, or whatever it was Anne had stuck to the closet walls when she visited, weren’t doing much good.

Ben bent to give his son a kiss.

Caleb pulled away, his face twisted in disgust. “You’re scratchy. And you smell funny.”

And you’re violets and roses.
He placed a hand on Caleb’s head, rubbing his son’s too-long hair. “Guess we both need a shower, buddy?”

Caleb shrugged and dragged a chair to the counter.

“What are you doing?” Emma asked.

“Making toast.” He climbed on the chair and jammed a frozen bagel, crystals clinging to the outside crust, in the toaster.

“Daddy is making pancakes,” Gracie said.

Caleb shrugged again. “I don’t want pancakes.”

“I’m making them from scratch, just like Grandma Anne,” Ben said. “She gave me the recipe.” Unasked for. Some kind of hint, he guessed, to wake him from the steady diet of frozen food and pizza he’d been feeding them. Like the world spun on whether or not they ate some goddamned vegetables.

Emma snorted. She sat with her feet up on Maddy’s empty chair, turning the pages of the
Boston Globe
.

“Is that so unlikely?” He went to get the flour canister. Gracie was on her knees, rummaging through the low shelves of the pantry closet.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“This is what Mommy uses.” Gracie held up a package of Aunt Jemima. “She says it’s easier than Grandma’s and just as good.”

Ben took the box. “You want me to make this kind?”

Now it was Gracie’s turn to shrug.

Oh, God, Maddy, the kids are doing nothing but shrugging and peeing. Wake up, baby.

He grabbed a pair of reading glasses—Maddy’s—filmed with grime and dust from sitting on the kitchen counter, and held the box up to eye level.
Add 1 egg and 1 cup water.
Sure looked a hell of a lot easier than Anne’s page-long instructions.

“What do you think, Em?”

“Pancakes are too fattening. I’m just going to have a hard-boiled egg.”

Come on, Emma; help me out here. I’m drowning.
“If anything, you’re too skinny. Have the pancakes with us.”

“I’m only skinny because I don’t eat pancakes.”

Ben threw the box on the counter. “Jesus, you ate a pint of ice cream last night.”

“I don’t want the pancakes.” She kept her eyes focused on the paper as she said it.

“Fine. Forget it. I’ll just make them for Gracie and me. Don’t ask for any when they’re all done either.”

He reached for a mixing bowl.

“I don’t need them either.” Gracie’s tentative voice came from behind him. “I’ll eat a boiled egg like Emma.”

Ben came up too fast, bumping into Gracie and dropping the blue plastic bowl, which looked chewed on one side. They lived like paupers, surrounded by mangled bowls and freezer-burned bagels.

“I said I’m making pancakes, and I’m making pancakes.
Everyone
is having pancakes. Do you hear me?”

No one answered. Emma gave him a disgusted look and sucked her teeth.

Ben clanged a large metal stirring spoon and ladle on the counter. He opened the drawer at the bottom of the stove, pulling the screeching metal out far enough to find the griddle. “What a mess,” he muttered, feeling his children’s disapproval the moment he finished speaking. “Well, it is a bloody mess.”

“Do you know that’s a swear word in England?” Gracie asked.

Ben ignored the question as he lifted pots and skillets from deep in the drawer, trying to reach the flat pan at the bottom. When he finally had it in hand, he wanted to make pancakes like he wanted to go food shopping, or fold laundry, or pay the bills, or any of a thousand other goddamned tasks. He kicked away the pots he’d flung and banged the Teflon griddle on the front burner. The toaster protested as Caleb jammed the bagel a second time. “I said we’re having pancakes, Caleb. All of us.”

“So? I can have a bagel too. And you can’t make me eat them, anyway.”

“Don’t think I can’t,” Ben said.

Caleb ignored him, kicking the cabinet door from his perch on the chair.

“Stop that. Do you want to dent it?”

“You can’t dent wood.” Caleb kicked the cupboard again, a little softer this time.

Ben took two deep breaths. “You can gouge it. Which is basically a dent.” Ben opened the refrigerator and took out an egg. He reached into the cabinet for a measuring cup, went to the sink, and poured a cup of water. Using a tired plastic whisk, he beat the batter until it only had a few lumps, and then dropped a chunk of butter on the skillet.

“You don’t need butter.” Emma’s voice was rich with resentment. “It’s Teflon. Mommy doesn’t use butter.”

“Well, Mommy isn’t here to cook these, is she?” He felt them lock up like wooden dolls. “Anyway, this is how
my
mother used to make them.”

“I thought you said Grandma Frances hardly ever cooked,” Emma said. He saw her in his peripheral vision, pointedly ignoring him.

God help him, he’d like to muzzle all of them. “
Hardly
is the operative word,” he said. Calmly. He ladled pancake batter into the sizzling butter, trying to make a
G
,
C
, and
E
like Maddy did, but ending up with misshapen globs. When he tried to smear them together to make circles, he succeeded only in dragging the half-cooked batter around, making a goddamned lumpy mess. He grabbed the spatula to scrape them off and start again.

“You’re supposed to use a plastic scraper on that pot,” Emma said. “And you didn’t let the pot get hot enough.”

“Do you want to do this, perhaps?” he asked.

“Forget it, Dad. I was just trying to help. Excuse me.”

“Cut the crap, Emma.”

“You’re just unwilling to control your anger, Dad. You could if you chose to.”

“Watch it.”

“Why? Isn’t it the truth?” Emma asked. “That’s why Mommy’s in a coma, right? Because of you. You were probably so mad you were speeding like Evel Knievel.”

First he had to hear Maddy’s words coming out of Emma’s mouth, and now Jake’s words assaulted him. He closed his eyes for a moment. He took a page from the advice Maddy gave him—advice he’d mocked even as he stored it up for emergencies.

Self-talk, Ben. Use self-talk. You can’t have two thoughts going simultaneously. Replace the ugly thoughts with good ones. Replace “She’s a fucking idiot” with “Do I really want to hurt the woman I love?” It works.

Ugly thought:
I want to muzzle my children.

Self-talk:
My children are going through a hard time. They need me.

He would not yell anymore this morning. He would not.

Self-talk:
Be cool and unruffled. Do I want to hurt my children’s feelings?

“It wasn’t my fault, Emma. We’ve spoken about this.”

“Not according to the police, right? Because they’re building a case, right?” Emma stood, using the sides of her fingers to wipe off her tears. “And Grandpa’s going to try to pull strings, right?”

For God’s sake, was Jake inside his daughter’s brain?

“Grandpa can’t get charges dropped against a guilty man. That would be corruption. He’s not getting involved anyway. He’s just helping the lawyer.” The lawyer who was the Judge’s old law partner.

“He could twist the law to your advantage. That’s what Grandpa Jake said. And if you hadn’t had road rage, you wouldn’t have crashed. It
was
your fault.”

“
Road rage?
Grandpa said I had road rage? Listen, the next time you want an answer, you come to me. I’m your father, not Grandpa Jake. It was the other car who caused this accident.” He shook his finger at Emma. “Who do you think is holding this family together right now? It sure as hell isn’t Grandpa Jake.”

A burning smell and screeching noise came from the toaster. Ben turned around to see Caleb sticking a fork into the metal appliance.

“
What are you doing? Take out the fork!
” Ben shouted as he ran over to Caleb.

“The bagel’s stuck.”

“Are you nuts, Caleb?” Ben grabbed his son’s arm, swinging him off the chair in one motion. He unplugged the toaster, bent it on the side, and pulled out the bagel with tongs. “Are you trying to kill yourself?”

Caleb ignored him, giving another annoying shrug using only one shoulder.

“Well, are you?” Ben screamed.

“Maybe you want me to die. Just like Mommy.”

He sat on the floor, next to where he’d tossed his son. “Oh, Jesus, Caleb.” He pulled him on his lap, trying to hug the stiff boy. “Mommy’s not going to die. And I love you. I love all of you.”

Caleb remained rigid. Ben felt as though he were trying to comfort Pinocchio before he became a real boy. His son’s little-boy legs and arms stuck out like wood sticks, resisting Ben’s comfort as though by a force of will. Ben pulled him closer, and at that moment, as though blinders were removed from his eyes, he saw the filthy bandages covering Caleb’s foot.

•  •  •

One long hour later, Vanessa arrived to take Caleb to the doctor to check on his bandages. Ben should have gone. He should have canceled this date with Kath and Olivia, who stood on the porch now. They terrified him as a couple. He assumed that between them Kath and Olivia knew his every foible and habit, from whether he wore boxers or briefs to the sounds he made at orgasm.

Kath hugged him, holding him a moment longer than usual. It was a sympathy hug, acknowledging troubles. Olivia pecked him on the cheek.

And that was the mark of a woman who blamed him.

“Kath! Olivia!” Emma ran over to the women, who each took one of Emma’s hands as though following stage directions.

“Baby girl, how are you?” Olivia kissed Emma’s forehead. “Mmm, you smell good. Like oranges. What is it?”

Emma glanced at Ben before answering. “Some body lotion of Mom’s.”

“She’d be happy you were using it,” Kath said.

“Finish it. We’ll buy her another bottle.” Olivia looked over at Ben, who didn’t have a clue what message he was supposed to be getting.

“Right. Sure,” he said. “I’ll get some just in case. We won’t upset Mom.”