Friday Mornings at Nine (25 page)

The obvious reason was, in fact, the one he’d given her—in two short, snappish sentences—when she dared to ask him if they could talk.

“Not tonight, Jennifer. We have five children in the house,” Michael said before switching on the silent treatment and closing the bedroom door in her face. She almost laughed, it was so uncharacteristic of him. Worse still, she couldn’t believe she actually kind of missed his usual verbosity, even when it came in the form of his complaints.

The result of being left alone in a house full of sleeping (or silently brooding) people was that she could contemplate her mistakes at length but, for good or bad, could take no action. So she hid in the darkened living room, pushed herself into one corner of their sofa and covered her and her Goldilocks outfit with a comforter. She replayed her damning phone call with David over and over in her mind, trying to garner what Michael might have interpreted from overhearing just her side of the conversation.

Clearly, she couldn’t smooth over the fact that she had lied about the phone battery needing to be charged. But to explain
why
she had lied would, likewise, mean explaining about the text messages David had sent her, even if she omitted the inappropriate innuendos of said texts. And
that
would lead to explaining about their prior months of contact…because an ex-boyfriend you haven’t seen in almost two decades didn’t suddenly have access to your cell phone number, did he?

She sighed and buried her head in the comforter. Even if Michael’s ability to reason his way through these steps by the use of pure logic didn’t happen immediately, eventually he’d get there. And the thought of how that would hurt him made her stomach twist and roil with anxiety.

But, were she to be completely honest with herself, there was also a live wire of excitement sparking beneath her apprehension. As with so many aspects of her life, there weren’t many possible areas of change or even frequent opportunities to take simple actions that might shift the course of anything important. But this incident required it of her. She needed things to change, and the certainty that
something
would be altered, some small step taken as a result of this unfortunate incident, gave her hope enough to close her eyes and drift into an uneasy sleep.

The next morning, however, the glare of daily life, especially harsh after the relative peace of the post-midnight hours, sent the nausea and worry flooding back into her system. She had just enough time to sneak into the bedroom—where was Michael?—so she could change out of her costume and comb her hair before the kids raided the kitchen.

“Good morning,” she told the children, just as the front door swung open and an exhausted-looking Michael stepped inside.

“I brought home donuts, eggs and sausage patties,” he announced, speaking to the kids with jollity so fake Jennifer couldn’t believe his daughters didn’t comment on it. Refusing to meet her gaze, he set down his carryout bag on the kitchen counter and looked extra-intensely at the collection of children milling around the table. “Got some great stuff for you guys. Veronica, could you grab a few plates?”

“Sure, Dad,” their eldest said, padding her way barefoot across the kitchen floor and retrieving enough dishware for all of them. To help, Jennifer dug through the silverware drawer and pulled out forks. She tried to hand them to Michael, but he persistently ignored her. Veronica saw her holding out the utensils, though. She eyed Jennifer strangely, but then grabbed them. “I got it, Mom.”

“Thanks, honey,” she murmured.

Veronica and Keaton wanted only donuts. Shelby and Evan were served the eggs and sausage (Michael made sure there were no glutens anywhere on Evan’s plate). And Cassandra, preferring a donut but wanting to be like Shelby, her new role model, asked for a little of each. Jennifer poured everyone either milk or orange juice and stood to the side, watching.

Michael nabbed a vanilla-glazed long john and disappeared into the basement.

So, this was the way it was going to be.

After the kids gobbled their breakfast and Shelby and Cassandra played one last video game, Michael emerged from downstairs and swept Bridget’s three children into his car. On their way out the door, he informed no one in particular that, after he dropped the kids off at their home, he was “going to run errands.” A vague statement made in an odd tone of voice, one that militantly refused to ask anyone’s permission. Not that she would have tried to stop him.

Jennifer exhaled when they left, not even realizing until the car had zoomed out of the driveway that she had been holding her breath.

Shelby, standing a few feet away from her, yawned loudly. “I am
so
tired.”

“Only because you were up playing World of Warcraft until
forever,
” her big sister said, snickering.

Shelby shrugged and sauntered into her bedroom, presumably too tired to even answer her sister.

Left by themselves in the kitchen, Veronica helped Jennifer load the dishes into the dishwasher and, while they were clearing the table, Jennifer asked about how the evening went and if the youngsters were well behaved. Typical Mom questions.

Veronica had a wholly different agenda.

“So, what’s going on with you and Dad?” her newly fifteen-year-old daughter asked.

“What do you mean?” Jennifer said, feigning surprise.

“Did you two have a fight or something? It’s really frosty between you.”

Jennifer brushed some stray donut sprinkles into the sink. “It was just a long night. Your dad doesn’t enjoy going to the Wieners’ house, and I’m not that into it either. That’s probably why we both seem a little out of sorts.” Her pulse kicked up a couple of notches. She wasn’t used to being grilled by her daughter and, even worse, blatantly lying to her.

Veronica wasn’t buying it. “Yeah, but you slept on the sofa last night, Mom.” Her long, streaked-blond hair brushed her shoulders as she shook her head in disbelief. “Something’s wrong.”

It was ironic, really, that Veronica was so intensely interested in Jennifer’s relationship with Michael, and so persistent in the pursuit of discussing it, especially given her reticence in disclosing so much as one sentence of worthwhile information about her own romantic affairs. Veronica had kept her own confidence over the last several weeks, particularly in regard to the goings-on at the Homecoming Dance. And, while she’d confessed embarrassment for her antics in Mr. Ryerson’s history class—only when confronted by it, however—she’d been subdued and secretive about what’d transpired between her and the two boys.

According to Shelby, Tim no longer proclaimed his love of Veronica to his pal on the bus. And Erick, who’d made a nuisance of himself with phone calls to Veronica’s cell when she was at home those few days just prior to the dance, hadn’t called at all since then, at least not as far as Jennifer knew. So, Jennifer was almost tempted to make a deal with her daughter:
I’ll tell you, if you tell me.

Almost.

“There’s nothing wrong, Veronica,” she said, injecting a half dose of incredulousness into her voice, laced with a few droplets of amusement. Hopefully she didn’t overdo it.

Her daughter blinked at her. “Whatever you say,” she muttered. “I’m gonna watch some TV, okay?”

“Okay.”

And as Veronica sprinted toward the stairs, her slender legs striding away from Jennifer as purposefully as her father’s had a half hour before, Jennifer couldn’t help but fear she’d lost a precious opportunity for connecting with her daughter. But what would she have said?
I know what it’s like to be attracted to two very different men, honey. What happened between you, Tim and Erick?
Or, even worse:
There’s something both worrisome and powerful about being caught in a love triangle, isn’t there, sweetie? Your father and I are experiencing something similar. Wanna trade stories?

For fear she’d blurt out a ridiculously inappropriate line like one of those in a moment of pure desperation, Jennifer took care to avoid conversation with her own children for much of the day. Thankfully, it was a lazy Sunday and both girls preferred to fend for themselves. Too old, they felt, for trick-or-treating, but still young enough to enjoy seeing the kiddie costumes, they dumped bags of candy into Jennifer’s giant Halloween bowl and prepared for the onslaught of neighborhood children that evening.

Several hours later, when Jennifer had thrown together a quick dinner for the girls (Michael, of course, was still resolutely absent), she grabbed a sandwich for herself and hid out in her office, claiming to be working on some Web designs for a client. Meanwhile, her daughters—who’d spent the day reading, napping, watching stupid shows on cable and chatting with the occasional friend on the phone—nibbled on whatever food interested them, answered the door to appease the latest candy-toting ghost or skeleton and, again, kept only each other company at the table.

Jennifer tried to put aside all self-accusations of being a neglectful mother. Not that she didn’t believe it. She just had to make it through this pretense of parental competence (however sub-par) somehow until Michael returned home. Which, it turned out, wasn’t until well after seven.

Upon his quiet reappearance, he bustled into the kitchen and cobbled together some sort of snack. Then, during the remainder of the evening, he once again spoke only to their daughters, although Jennifer made this easy for him by removing herself from the family’s public spaces. Also, taking a page from his book, she made her few announcements very general, as if they were intended for the house at large.

During one of these—“Recycling day is tomorrow. So, if you have anything to toss in the bin, please do it tonight.”—Veronica strolled by and shot her a disbelieving frown face. Soon after, the girls slipped into bed without either Jennifer or Michael being called in for anything, not even their daughters’ usual last-minute queries. The already quiet house suddenly turned morgue-like in its silence.

Jennifer knew the tension between her and Michael couldn’t go on indefinitely and, being that she felt herself to be primarily to blame for its emergence, she worked up the courage to seek him out. Downstairs. Where he was gazing at the TV with complete absorption, despite the fact that it was turned off.

“Michael?”

He sighed and turned toward her. He didn’t say anything, though.

“Michael, is it possible for us to talk now?”

He shrugged, his jaw tense.

She took a few steps closer to him but stopped when his eyes narrowed. “Look, um, I’m very sorry about misleading you yesterday. About the phone. I’d been getting a lot of…messages, and I really just wanted to turn it off.”

He raised his eyebrows slowly. “Misleading? Odd choice of word. Don’t you mean
lying,
Jennifer?” He crossed his arms and answered his own question. “Yeah. Definitely lying.”

She bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Michael.”

He didn’t acknowledge her response. “And then there’s the whole issue of the
nature
of your conversation. That was really…something.” He smirked, a very odd facial expression for her husband, and stared hard at the side wall, as if recounting the lines of dialogue he’d overheard.

Her entire body cringed at the memory of that. She took a deep breath and forced her mouth open. She wasn’t certain yet what she’d say, but she owed him an explanation of some kind. “I—”

“Oh, no, Jennifer,” he interrupted. “Don’t even think this is something you can take care of by spitting out a few vague sentences and being done with it.” His eyes bore right into her face. “You weren’t just talking with another man. You were making plans and sharing secrets with that other man. A man whose name I happen to recognize.” He paused. “Unless there’s more than one David in your life.” He paused again. “Was it your old computer geek boyfriend? Answer yes or no.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Interesting. Really. It’s funny, I’ve been thinking all day today about what you’d told me about that relationship. About the things he said to you. The things he did. How he’d hurt you. And, yet, out of fucking nowhere, he’s calling you. But that’s not the interesting part. The interesting part is that, from the sound of it, it wasn’t the first time. Or even the fifth time. Was it?”

She shook her head slightly.

He laughed, but it was a raw, hurting sound.
“I don’t want to stop talking to you either, David,”
he mocked.
“No, I haven’t told my husband about our super special plans, but I will. And I promise I’ll be there.”
He took a ragged breath. “You wanna explain that?”

She swallowed. “Michael, please don’t be so upset—”

“Oh, I passed
upset
hours ago.” He pushed himself to standing and began pacing around the room. “What’s the big event that’s happening in a few weeks?”

“It’s just a reunion,” she said. “My old computer club from college is having a reunion, okay? That’s why David first contacted me.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. “How long ago?”

“A few weeks. Not that long, really.”

“Well, it’s October thirty-first today. And I know you’re really good with numbers and dates.” He said this like it was a kind of fungal infection. “How about you tell me
exactly
when and how he contacted you.”

“August thirteenth,” she confessed, not bothering to camouflage the truth. She knew Michael was intent on nailing her no matter what she said. “Via e-mail.”

“A little more than a
few
weeks, perhaps?” Again, he didn’t wait for an answer before pressing on. “I knew there was something going on with you. I
knew
it.” He rubbed his temples briefly. “And this reunion is going to be when and where?”

“November thirteenth. At C-IL-U.”

“Ah. Less than two weeks from now. Also interesting, Jennifer. And a fair driving distance away. When, precisely, were you going to mention it to me? Or weren’t you? Perhaps you were just going to say you were going out with your friends and would be back really, really late.” He studied her expression for a moment, but she had no idea what he saw there. “I wouldn’t put it past you. You’re one of those sneak-around and do-whatever-the-hell-you-want types. So quiet. And so careful. And so full of your little secrets.”