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Authors: Emily Gray Tedrowe
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country-club payments doesn’t exactly mean the poorhouse.”
“What about Con Ed last month? And didn’t you say you’d stopped the IRA contributions? Again?” There was an older man at the milk-and-sugar station nearby, but Rachel didn’t lower her voice.
Bob blew out a long breath. “I don’t think we want to revisit the diving thing.”
“ I don’t,” Rachel cried. “Do you?”
“No,” Bob agreed. It happened this way each time: one or the other would broach the obvious, Lila’s diving expenses, and then both would back off, swearing not to change the girls’ lives more than they already had been. Rachel worried, though, that hanging on to Waugatuck was starting to look odd, especially as more and more people knew about their circumstances.
“Like those welfare moms with flat-screen TVs,” she said to herself.
“What are you talking about?”
She waved it away, because something else occurred to her. “Weren’t you supposed to see Nikki today?” The speech therapist. His language, in those first few weeks of recovery, had been jumbled—“metal detector,” he’d called his IV pole, and “box” forcup—and although it had seemed to right itself almost immediately, those incidents had propelled him into long-standing sessions of rehab work, just in case.
“I canceled,” Bob said.
“What?”
“We had a writer’s group ,” he explained patiently, gesturing toward the rest of the booth. “And now that I think about it, that’s a fifteen-dollar co-pay right there. Not to mention parking. What do you say we blow it all on two cheddar scones? I’ll even throw in another iced tea, in honor of…well, just because I’m that kind of guy.”
“But—” She knew it sounded childish. “I thought I was the one who made the appointments.” She’d been calling Nikki for over a year to schedule Bob’s visits.
Bob reached over to give her arm a little shake. “Ray. What do you want me to do? Go back in time and turn down the leave? A whole year’s leave at half pay? Because sometime over the summer it might cause a little problem for my daughter’s diving lessons ?”
“Well, if you’re going back in time, why stop there?” Rachel said, and then stopped, confused. She had started to say this lightly but knew right away she had crossed some kind of line. Bob was quiet, watching her closely as if to track her own response to her remark.
They sat, silent. Hannah Deardon, a past babysitter of the girls, now married and very pregnant, caught Rachel’s eye and waved energetically from the window out front. She mouthed something long and complicated, supplemented with much pointing and hand gestures.
Bob waved too. “What’s she saying?”
“That she’s due…next month? And will be coming by the store soon. Which reminds me.” Rachel put her hand on the keys, on the table.
“I’ll transfer from the savings,” Bob said.
“No, I’ll do it. Or—well. Maybe our tenant’s check is in the mail. If not, I’ll go bang on his door. Our door, I mean. Ha ha.” But Bob ignored this little attempt. Rachel lingered. She had the distinct feeling of being in the wrong. But then again, an apology, a real one, was beyond her.
“Did you see her picture in the newsletter?” The club mailing had arrived with a front-page photo of Lila in full pike position, midair, her forehead nearly touching her calves. The caption read, “Airborne! Fourteen-year-old Lila Brigham takes first place at the Waugatuck Invitational.”
“When I showed it to her, all she said was that she wished they’d run a picture of her inward two. She said the front flip was worse.” Bob smiled thinly, recognizing the long-standing joke about Lila’s perfectionism.
“All right,” Rachel said uncertainly. “See you back at the ranch.” She wished he wouldn’t just sit there, as she pushed through the door back into the hot, patchy sunshine.
She had been in the shower when he collapsed, that morning,
“What about Con Ed last month? And didn’t you say you’d stopped the IRA contributions? Again?” There was an older man at the milk-and-sugar station nearby, but Rachel didn’t lower her voice.
Bob blew out a long breath. “I don’t think we want to revisit the diving thing.”
“ I don’t,” Rachel cried. “Do you?”
“No,” Bob agreed. It happened this way each time: one or the other would broach the obvious, Lila’s diving expenses, and then both would back off, swearing not to change the girls’ lives more than they already had been. Rachel worried, though, that hanging on to Waugatuck was starting to look odd, especially as more and more people knew about their circumstances.
“Like those welfare moms with flat-screen TVs,” she said to herself.
“What are you talking about?”
She waved it away, because something else occurred to her. “Weren’t you supposed to see Nikki today?” The speech therapist. His language, in those first few weeks of recovery, had been jumbled—“metal detector,” he’d called his IV pole, and “box” forcup—and although it had seemed to right itself almost immediately, those incidents had propelled him into long-standing sessions of rehab work, just in case.
“I canceled,” Bob said.
“What?”
“We had a writer’s group ,” he explained patiently, gesturing toward the rest of the booth. “And now that I think about it, that’s a fifteen-dollar co-pay right there. Not to mention parking. What do you say we blow it all on two cheddar scones? I’ll even throw in another iced tea, in honor of…well, just because I’m that kind of guy.”
“But—” She knew it sounded childish. “I thought I was the one who made the appointments.” She’d been calling Nikki for over a year to schedule Bob’s visits.
Bob reached over to give her arm a little shake. “Ray. What do you want me to do? Go back in time and turn down the leave? A whole year’s leave at half pay? Because sometime over the summer it might cause a little problem for my daughter’s diving lessons ?”
“Well, if you’re going back in time, why stop there?” Rachel said, and then stopped, confused. She had started to say this lightly but knew right away she had crossed some kind of line. Bob was quiet, watching her closely as if to track her own response to her remark.
They sat, silent. Hannah Deardon, a past babysitter of the girls, now married and very pregnant, caught Rachel’s eye and waved energetically from the window out front. She mouthed something long and complicated, supplemented with much pointing and hand gestures.
Bob waved too. “What’s she saying?”
“That she’s due…next month? And will be coming by the store soon. Which reminds me.” Rachel put her hand on the keys, on the table.
“I’ll transfer from the savings,” Bob said.
“No, I’ll do it. Or—well. Maybe our tenant’s check is in the mail. If not, I’ll go bang on his door. Our door, I mean. Ha ha.” But Bob ignored this little attempt. Rachel lingered. She had the distinct feeling of being in the wrong. But then again, an apology, a real one, was beyond her.
“Did you see her picture in the newsletter?” The club mailing had arrived with a front-page photo of Lila in full pike position, midair, her forehead nearly touching her calves. The caption read, “Airborne! Fourteen-year-old Lila Brigham takes first place at the Waugatuck Invitational.”
“When I showed it to her, all she said was that she wished they’d run a picture of her inward two. She said the front flip was worse.” Bob smiled thinly, recognizing the long-standing joke about Lila’s perfectionism.
“All right,” Rachel said uncertainly. “See you back at the ranch.” She wished he wouldn’t just sit there, as she pushed through the door back into the hot, patchy sunshine.
She had been in the shower when he collapsed, that morning,
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