Second House from the Corner (3 page)

 

THREE

The Good Husband

Preston is waiting up for me. It never fails. No matter what time I come home, my husband is always waiting. I polished off two of the four miniature bottles of merlot in the theater, and I'm all cried out. When I saunter into the living room I feel toasty and relaxed.

“Where have you been?” Preston looks up from his tablet. His brown eyes darken beneath his horn-rimmed glasses. The History Channel is on, as usual.

“Hello to you too, darling.” I stand in the middle of the floor with my hands on my hips.

“You went out dressed like that?”

“I know. The kids were so out of control tonight I didn't even realize that I hadn't changed until I was damn near at the movies. Least you know I'm not cheating on you.” I bend down for a peck.

“You went to the movies?”

“Mmm hmm,” I move to pick up Rory's yellow dump truck and carry it into the dining room/playroom. “Why, what's wrong?”

“You didn't answer your phone. I had no idea where you were.”

“The picture had started.” I grab his hand and pull him up from the sofa. “It was a hard day.”

Before he can pout further, my lips are on his. My yoga pants are old but tight and it's not long before Preston's hands glide over my ass like he's a horny teenager.

“Next time send me a text.” He moans in my mouth and rubs his groin against mine. Preston is easily four inches taller than me, but somehow we fit. My husband is the sun, and I am the flower stretching toward his ray.

“I didn't even know what to pay Sam.” He tugs me tight.

“You paid her, right?”

“That's not the point. I don't want to find out my wife's whereabouts from the babysitter.”

I push back. “Oh, Preston, get over it. I'm entitled to some time alone.”

Sam is usually good about having the kids clean up after themselves, but tonight toys are all over. Preston must have walked in before she had a chance. I open the toy box that we keep in the corner of the dining room and start shoving toys in. Honestly, I give my husband a long leash. I don't check his whereabouts. He comes and goes when he pleases, but my leash is short and tight. My unbuttoned mood tightens back up.

“Good night,” I say, with Rory's shoes in hand.

“What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Come here.” Preston is on his feet and cuts my path before I can make it out of the living room.

“So dramatic.” He breathes on me. “Can't a brother be concerned about his wife?”

His lips graze mine and I thaw. Preston smells like sand and something smoky and I inhale until I'm full. Breathing me out, I take him in, all of him.

On the sofa, he's right next to me. Arm wrapped around my shoulders.

“How was your day?”

“I picked up two new accounts in Sparta.” He lifts my shirt over my head.

“Oh,” his breath cinches. I'm wearing the pink satiny bra that smashes my breasts together.

“One is a big fish that I'd been working on for weeks.” His tongue teases over the length of my cleavage while he unhooks my snaps.

“So proud of you, honey.” I move my arms and thrust my boobs forward so he can have full access. Preston traded in his nine-to-five and started The Lyons Group when Rory was born. He represents companies for health, life, and disability insurance. A traveling salesperson with a small office at the foot of our town, and he rarely makes it home before the children go to bed. Long leash.

“What are you thinking about?” He has come up my body and we are eye-to-eye.

“You.”

Preston's lips feel like pillows of marshmallow. His hands move with grace and I lean back so he can touch all of me. Even after ten months of dating and seven years of marriage, it takes him only about thirty seconds to make my mind turn to fuzz, to erase all of the bumps in my day.

“You taste so sweet,” he purrs against my stomach.

I bubble. Arch my back. Hug him with my knees. My womanly parts are swollen, panting for our connection. My fingers are in his hair. Preston crawls up my body.

“Foxy, you are so beautiful,” he whispers against my bottom lip. I gasp as his fingers work my pleasure. My leggings are around my ankles and the thong I by chance wore is shoved to the side. My husband claims me, devours me, does me good.

“This is what I've been waiting for.” He groans as we find our connection and swim. Long, deep strokes. The couch rocks on its tiny hoof heels.

“Should. We. Close. The door?” My brain floods with watery images of sleepwalking children. I lick his neck and squeeze his lower back. My thighs are soaking wet.

“They're gone. I just checked. Relax, baby.”

But the thought is in the air and now I can't let it go. His tongue finds my ear, my cheek, and his breath feels like warm cider as it rushes down my throat. Preston grabs both of my hands, placing our palms against each other, and we dance. He drives my body into the sofa and talks that stuff that I like, but my mommy brain won't fade. I lean into his waist, give a push, and then slip away.

“Foxy,” he whines, hands out like one of the children.

“One sec.” I swing my hips hard as I move through the room, closing the living room shutters and turning off the television. My fleshy ass wiggles and I know I'm giving him a show. The light from the cable box gives just enough blue so that Preston can see me.

“What you want, baby?” I put my hands on my hips so he can see all of me. My curves, my stretches and pulls, the map of my life on this body. I stand like it's a curtain call.

Preston is sitting up. Legs ajar. His eyes glow with greed. “Come.”

I fall into his arms, sink, sigh, surround him.

Warmth courses between us. He clings to my hips and I undulate. The friction is automatic and in no time I grip the back of the sofa and spill.

His patience has waned and I am tossed on my belly. Teeth are on my back, fingers where I like them. I sense the quickening, feel the urgency in his rhythm, paw the sofa, and then surrender to the release of my husband's storm.

Spent, we lean with our legs crisscrossed. My head is listening to Preston's heartbeat. His fingers draw circles on my arms.

“Better?” I say.

“Yes.” He adjusts himself on the floor, with his back resting against the sofa so that I am sitting between his legs.

“What made you go to the movies?”

I tell him about the fighting car ride, forgotten keys, commotion over dinner, and the hair-conditioned bathtub.

“I'll drive them to camp tomorrow for you.”

“Really? Tomorrow's Wednesday.” Preston only drives the kids on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

“My morning meeting got pushed back so I can do it.”

I squeeze him tight and kiss his chest.

“You're too good to me.”

 

FOUR

The Aftereffect

The next morning, the tempest has passed. The water has receded. I can't even remember what the storm was all about. I tighten the strap on my cotton robe and move into the girls' room to start their day. I kick some dolls and crumpled tutus out of my way to reach the beds.

Two has climbed into Liv's crib and is wrapped around the baby like a lover. Rory also abandoned his room in the middle of the night and is snug in Two's bed. Our nights are filled with mattress movement.

“Two,” I rub the small of her back.

“Rory, good morning,” I call. He wiggles away from me so I sing, “Good morning, good morning, little chinchilla.”

I'm on the second verse when Two pops up.

“Monkey!” she shouts and Liv raises her messy head.

“Good morning, little monkey, good morning, kitty cat and colorful peacock. Good morning.”

With that we are on the steps, Liv on my hip, Two's hand inside of mine, and Rory right beside me. At the bottom of the stairs, Rory scrambles into the kitchen. He dashes into the chair next to the window. Two is right behind him.

“That's my seat, Rory.”

“I sat here first.”

“It's my turn. Move.” She pushes.

“Twyla, sit here,” I point to one of the three other chairs at our table. For the life of me, I can't figure out what makes that particular chair so special.

“That's not fair.” She crosses her arms over her chest. Her ponytails have come loose and she looks rested and beautiful.

I kiss her cheek and then whisper, “Tomorrow will be your turn. Promise.” She's mollified for a moment and gets distracted by the Cheerios I've left for them on the table.

I serve my normal diner-style breakfast: waffles and bacon for Rory, a bagel for Two, and oatmeal for Liv.

Preston comes into the kitchen wearing long sweats and a fitted T-shirt. His eyes look sleepy and his mouth twists into a shy grin.

“Morning, Fox.” He kisses my lips with his hands on my waist. “You felt good last night,” he says, only loud enough for me to hear.

I blush.

“Here.” He stuffs my thong in my hand and then closes it.

The basement door is open so I toss the panties down the steps. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Love me.” His eyes twinkle.

“Don't forget you promised to drive the kids.”

“Awww, I want you to drive us,” the kids chime from the table, but I pretend not to hear them. I shoot Preston a you-got-this look, and then head upstairs to lay out their clothes.

Before I am finished, the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts through the house. I love that Preston makes this his morning task.

“Kids, finish up,” I call down from the top of the stairs. While I wait, I make their beds and put the dolls and stuffed animals away. Rory dresses himself, but I help Two button her blouse.

“Brush your teeth and no fighting.” I give them a hard look and then head down to the kitchen.

“Smells good.” I pour two cups and hand one to Preston. He is standing at the counter bent over the newspaper.

“Are you checking the lottery again?”

“I forgot to play yesterday. I hope my number didn't come out.” He flips the page.

“You sound like an old lady.”

“I'm serious.”

“You know, all you'd get back is the money you've put in.”

“This is my po' black man's stock market. You won't complain when I hit big.” He rolls the paper and swats me on the butt.

I stick out my tongue. Preston has never hit for more than a few hundred bucks, but whatever makes him happy. We all need something to believe in.

*   *   *

I'm at the door waving good-bye when the telephone rings. I know its Gran before I answer it. She phones the same time every day, and starts in on her constant chutney of chatter before I croak a proper good morning.

“Oh, didn't expect you to be home. Ain't it your day to drive the kids?”

I wonder then why she has bothered to call, but I say, “Yeah. Preston took them. They left a minute ago.”

“Well, I'm glad I caught you. Wingdings on sale at ShopRite this week for seven ninety-nine. Should get two or three bags and put 'em in the freezer. I ain't seen them lower than nine ninety-nine in months. They good to have.”

My Gran's favorite topics are food and God. It just so happens that the supermarket chain that we both frequent is in New Jersey and Pennsylvania. From Philadelphia she tells me what to buy for my family.

“You're right,” I oblige.

“How's Preston?”

“Fine.” She drops quiet. I can sense her stiff, arthritic fingers struggle with turning the circular as her right eye squints hard. A chunky, black Magic Marker is pinched between her pointer and thumb. When Gran spies something for the church she'll check it, my aunt Crystal's food gets an X, but for me, there are loopy rings safely enclosing what she deems fit.

“Oh, Faye, five-pound bag of those red potatoes you like only two dollars. Cook that with some forty-nine-cent cabbage and you got a meal.”

Liv slithers her way into the kitchen. She's small for ten months and instead of crawling, she slides, one arm commando-style across the room and grabs my ankle. I kiss her cheek and then put her in her high chair and tie on her bib. She gnaws on a Baby Mum-Mum rice biscuit and watches while I pull a bag of whiting from the freezer. I'll fry that tonight with some potatoes and string beans.

“Oh, I remember what I wanted. The nursing home called. Said your mother would be doing a lot better if she had some visitors. You know I can't get all the way out to no Valley Forge. Not less Mr. Scooter takes me, and his hip is bad so I don't wanna call on him too much.”

“Let Crystal take you.” I wipe at the syrup spot on the kitchen table.

“I ain't getting in the car with Crystal. Is you crazy? 'Sides, that's your mother laying up there. You need to go see her. How long has it been?”

I can't even remember.

“That's what I thought,” she snaps, as if I've said it out loud.

My other line clicks.

“Gran, I have to take this call. Let me talk to Preston and I'll get back to you.”

“Don't take too long.” She hangs up the telephone. Gran never says good-bye.

“Hello.”

Nothing.

“Hello?”

Breathing.

The line goes dead.

It's just as well. I only have an hour to get out of the house. Liv has her Mommy and Me music class at eleven, which is the highlight of my week. The pile of laundry waiting for me to fold at the foot of my bed gets ignored. The baby's ExerSaucer fits in the opening of the bathroom door. I've become accustomed to showering with a breeze.

*   *   *

The class is a fifteen-minute drive. Liv babbles while I listen to the local NPR station, absorbing my dose of current events and news. As I pull into the parking lot, I can see that it's chaotic. The four-room building where the music classes are held also hosts a kids' art studio and preschool movement and yoga. Children's classes in the suburbs are big business. Every mother wants to make sure little Honey-bunch has every advantage and is ahead of the curve, so we bump ourselves until battered, piling on classes in music, Mandarin, art, swim, and Gymboree before our little people can even walk and talk.