Grace (9 page)

“It does make sense, though, to keep a cool head. To think things out,” he says.

“It depends,” she says.

They are quiet again.

“Well, we better get along with it,” she says abruptly, putting the vase with the tulips on the table. “I think the best thing for me to do is to move out, don’t you think?” She sits down.

Cubes of ice slide down Justin’s chest and settle in the brine at the pit of his stomach. “Wait, wait a minute, Sally,” he says. He pulls out the chair opposite to her. This is not the way he wants things to go. This is not the way at all.

“After all, it is
your
house,” she says.

The ice melts and the brine, cold, churns. Justin puts one hand on the back of the chair and braces himself. “Don’t you feel you are carrying things a tidbit too far?” He is relieved he has managed to choose words that spare him from exposure, that camouflage how scared he feels at this moment.

“Tidbit?”
she asks.

And at once he realizes his mistake. It is a quintessentially British word weighted with quintessentially British condescension. The colonial boy automatically mimicking British ways.

“‘Tidbit too far?’” she repeats.

Why couldn’t he have simply said
Too far, much too far?

“Too far.” He says it now. “You are taking things much too far.”

But she is already angry. “Not when you are sneaking up on me to find out who I am talking to on the phone.”

What should happen next is that his fear should intensify. What happens next is that he feels a load, a stack of bricks, topple off his shoulders and fall, crashing to pieces on the ground.
No more secrets.

“Okay,” he says and holds up his hands, the palms open wide. “Okay.” He pulls the chair out further.
It’s out in the open.
He sits.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you,” Sally says.

“I wouldn’t have been worried if each time you didn’t end the conversation or put down the phone the minute I walked in the room,” he says.

“You still had no right to do that.”

“No right?” He will not sit passively for this one. “What do you mean,
no right?
I am your husband.” But only a few weeks ago he was chastising a male student for treating his girlfriend as property. “At least tell your boyfriend to call you somewhere else,” he says, flicking off that tremor of conscience that could
have stopped him. “Don’t have him intrude on my privacy. In my house.”

“Yes,” she says, “you don’t have to remind me. I know it is
your
house.”

Moments ago when she said
your house
he did not correct her though he had taken pains when they married to assure her that he considered the house to be both theirs. So he is not innocent now of flexing his muscles, of trying to dry up the liquid that had pooled in his stomach. “Don’t change the subject,” he says.

“I don’t have a boyfriend. That is not the problem.”

“And don’t have him hanging up on me, either.”

“There is no other man.”

“You want space?” he jeers, but he is acting as much for her as for himself. “I know what you want space for.”

She looks at him directly in his eyes. She does not waver. “Okay, Justin, okay. I will tell you. But it is not what you want to hear.”

He sits up and prepares himself.

“I know what you want,” she says. “You want a Sally done gone and done me wrong song. You want Justin, the Righteous; Justin, the sinned against; Sally, the sinner. But you won’t get that, Justin, because Sally has not sinned.” She looks down on her hands. “It was my therapist,” she says.

“Therapist?” He repeats the word foolishly.

“Those calls,” she says facing him again, “they were from my therapist. I didn’t want to let you know I was in therapy. I didn’t want to hear your scornful remarks. I didn’t want you
telling me about my psychobabble again. I told the therapist to hang up if you answered the phone. I lowered my voice because I didn’t want you to hear what I was saying. And when I come home late, it is because I’ve had an appointment with the therapist. That’s it, Justin. No man, no lover, no boyfriend, no husband betrayed. Just an unhappy wife trying to make herself better.”

The liquid returns, the acidity in the brine burns. He stands up. “I bought the tulips for you,” he says. He knows he says it too late.

“They’re pretty,” she says.

He walks to the kitchen door and looks through the glass panes into the darkening evening. “So what now?”

“I want to move in with Anna.”

Frost encases his heart. “And what about Giselle?” he asks, quietly, softly.

“She goes with me, of course.”

He does not move. He does not turn to look at her. He remains where he is, at the kitchen door, still staring into the dark. “No,” he says and repeats it. “No.”

She waits.

“I cannot have you do that. No, Sally.”

“You cannot have me …?” Her voice trembles with indignation.

He walks toward the table. “If you go, Giselle stays here,” he says. “This plot you and Anna have cooked up won’t work, Sally.”

“Anna has nothing to do with this,” she says.

He stands in front of her. “I don’t want you to leave, Sally. I want you to stay, but if you leave, Giselle remains here.” His voice is flat, toneless, but there is no mistaking its finality. “Understand me, Sally, I will not let you take Giselle out of this house.”

Around seven o’clock it begins to snow, a light dusting of white that evaporates the second it reaches the ground, but twenty minutes later the snow comes down in fat flakes and makes its magic again on the filthy streets. A carpet of white pretties up the hills of dirty snow on the edges of pavements and covers the slush and garbage on the street corners.

Justin and Sally have not spoken to each other since he gave her his ultimatum. She is curled up on an armchair in the living room, her head bent over an open book propped up against her thighs. He is in his den grading papers, or trying to. It is not only his fight with Sally that makes it difficult for him to concentrate. He is worried. Giselle is not back and the snow is coming down harder.

He gets up and peers through the window.
What time is Anna expected to bring Giselle home?
He wishes he could ask Sally. He looks at his watch. It is eight o’clock. At twenty past
eight, he puts down his pencil and looks outside again. He cannot see his street from the windows in his den but the oak tree is outlined in white and piles of snow surround the trunk.

He listens for sounds at the front door. The main roadways will be slushy. Cars will slide across them. There will be accidents. He cannot sit still, and ten minutes later he is up again. He goes down to the kitchen. Sally has left his dinner on the table. There is no place set for her or for Giselle. She must have eaten already. She must have fed Giselle before she left.

He pours a glass of water from the plastic container in the refrigerator and walks into the living room. Sally does not look up from her book. Perhaps she knows there is nothing to worry about. Then an awful thought snakes its way into his head. He is practically running when he climbs the stairs. But everything is as it was in Giselle’s bedroom. Her favorite doll is there on her bed; her clothes are in the closet.

The snow comes down in fatter flakes, in thick drifts that stick to the window.

“Isn’t it a little late for Giselle to be out?” He is in the living room again.

“Giselle will be fine. She’s with Anna,” Sally says, but she still does not lift her head from her book.

“The roads will be slippery,” he says.

“Anna’s a good driver.”

“Maybe …,” he begins again.

“Anna has her cell phone. If there’s a problem, she’ll call.”

Yes, he should have thought of that. Still, her calm annoys him.

“Since when have you two become such good buddies?” he asks.

“Anna and I have always been best friends,” she says.

And he knows that, but it is different now. She is threatening to move in with Anna. “Well, you’re real close now,” he says spitefully.

“Giselle likes Anna, and Anna loves Giselle. They get along well.” She seems unperturbed.

“Anna is lazy,” he says.

She flashes him a dirty look. “To you, maybe. But the people at the Botanic Garden don’t think so.” She returns to her book and flips a page. “They love her,” she says.

“She’s supposed to be an English professor, for Chrissake.” He has raised his voice, and Sally twists her body sharply toward him again. She opens her mouth to speak but the doorbell rings and the words, if she has uttered them, get lost in the flurry of Justin’s race to the door.

“Giselle! At last!” Justin bends down to pick up his daughter. Sally hovers next to him and when he straightens up, Giselle reaches over to Sally and pulls their heads together with her tiny arms.

For an uncomfortable moment Justin and Sally find themselves cheek against cheek, and then Sally disentangles herself. She removes Giselle’s arm from across her neck, kisses it and backs away. “Had a great time with Aunt Anna, didn’t you, Giselle?”

Justin puts Giselle down. “My God, your hair is all covered with snow.” He does not give her a chance to answer Sally’s question.

“It’s nice, Daddy. I like the snow in my hair.” Giselle licks the side of her mouth where a speck of snow has melted.

“Where is your hat?” Justin looks at Anna as he asks this question. Anna glances at Sally and Sally rolls her eyes in sympathy.

“Where is her hat, Anna?” Justin is more direct.

“It’s not Aunt Anna’s fault,” Giselle interjects. “I lost it in the park.”

“She could catch a cold, Anna,” Justin says tersely.

“She lost it when we were leaving. We went by car to the library so she didn’t need it.”

“Is that why her head is covered with snow?” Justin dusts Giselle’s head though by now it is merely damp.

“Don’t be mad with Aunt Anna, Daddy.” Giselle clasps his hand.

“And why are you so late?”

“We stopped for ice cream, Daddy.”

“Anna, you know I don’t like Giselle having sweets so late at night. It stimulates her. She can’t sleep if she eats sweets this late.”

“It was not sweets, Daddy.” Giselle tightens her grip. “Aunt Anna bought ice cream for me.”

“I’m leaving,” Anna says. She had not taken off her coat nor unbuttoned it. Now she flings one end of her scarf across her shoulder. “Bye, sweetie.” She hugs Giselle. “See you tomorrow, Sally.” She kisses Sally. “I’ll be over by five.”

Sally and Giselle follow her to the door. Justin does not move. He is thinking, as she says good-bye again to Sally,
Come
over by five if you want to, but this is the last time I will permit Giselle to be alone with you.

GISELLE TALKS NONSTOP through her bath. It is Justin’s turn to bathe her. Sally makes an appearance at the doorway and then is gone, but it seems enough to satisfy Giselle that nothing has changed: one parent is nearby when the other gives her a bath or reads a bedtime story.

“The librarian looks like you, Daddy,” Giselle tells him, lathering her doll’s face. She keeps one doll in the bathroom and washes it when she bathes.

“Like
me?” he asks her.

“Well, not like you, Daddy. You’re more handsomer.”

“More handsome,” he corrects her.

“You are like the prince that woke up Snow White,” she says. She has yet to learn about race.

“Well, not quite that handsome.”

“Yes, you are. Yes, you are. Mommy thinks so. She told me so.”

He feels a physical pang to his heart. Perhaps he and Sally can fix what is wrong between them. Perhaps they should talk some more. Perhaps when she told him that she sees a therapist he should have asked her why. He should have not allowed doubts to gnaw at him, to have prevented him from asking.

“Mommy loves you, Daddy. She loves you just as much as I do.”

She knows something is not right. He tries to distract her. “Tell me about the story you heard at the library,” he says.

“It was about Brer Rabbit,” she says. “Throw me anywhere, but not in the briar patch.” She covers her face with her hands and shakes her head. “Anywhere, but not in the briar patch.”

Justin dumps a handful of bubbles on her head. She giggles. “You know, Daddy, Brer Rabbit was lying. He loves the briar patch.” She is still laughing when he bundles her up in a towel.

Later, when Sally reads to her, he sits on the rocking chair in her room. It is long past her bedtime, and before Sally can finish the first page, her eyelids grow heavy. Justin sighs: He cannot imagine a night when he is not able to sit like this with her, watching her fall to sleep. He and Sally tuck her in and leave the room together.

“You didn’t have to be so nasty to Anna,” Sally says as soon as they are out of earshot. “She is kind to Giselle.”

“We are Giselle’s parents,” he says. “We are kind to her. She does not need Anna.”

“A child needs anyone who loves her.”

He waits for the platitude:
It takes a village.

She disappoints him.

“If Anna loved her like her parents do,” he says, “she would not have given her ice cream so late at night. She would have known it was not good for her.”