Read Online Cutting Teeth: A Novel by Julia Fierro - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Julia Fierro
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looked out at the Long Island Sound, as dark and still as a lake, only the occasional hesitant wave kicked up by one of the motorboats in the distance. It saddened him, this sea without any waves, as if it had been rendered impotent by the land on each side, as if it were cowering between two bullies.
He was buzzed. Or maybe more than that, because he’d lost count of the beers he’d put back since he, Hank, and Grace had driven out that afternoon. Grace had insisted they listen to some peppy kids’ album instead of Rip’s music, claiming the mix of grunge and rock was far too mature, that it “terrified” Hank, an argument that had led them, somehow, to a revisiting of that past week’s most popular debate. To buy or not to buy Hank the princess dress set (gown, tiara, and plastic shoes included) their son had coveted for so long.
“Just like Harper’s,” Hank had lisped, a dreamy look sedating his features.
As if, Rip thought, Hank was envisioning himself in a faraway land, he and his friend Harper frolicking among singing animals and Technicolor toadstools, a fairy-tale castle sparkling in the distance.
Rip was pro princess dress. Grace, con. He urged Grace to be open-minded, to let Hank express his unique fantasies. This was 2010, after all, a boy could wear a princess dress.
By the time they had crossed the causeway, Rip had opened his window to let in the mix of tangy brine and aging honeysuckle, and to drown out Grace’s half of their argument, which had now graduated to what had been their #1 hit on the squabbling chart for the last six months. The debate over whether they should have another kid.
Once again: Rip, pro; Grace, con.
Now, as the sun slipped closer to the sea, Rip dug his elbows into the concrete seawall and ran his hands over his stubbled face. Yet another perk, he thought with a smile, of the stay-at-home-daddy life. Not having to shave every day.
His fingers still smelled like the coconut-scented sun lotion he had lathered on the kids. At playdates, the undesirable child-care tasks often fell to him, and soon after he and Hank and Grace had arrived at the beach house, he’d been silently elected sunscreen applicator and grappled with one squirming kid after another as he applied, and reapplied, the BabyGanics organic sunscreen.
He had invited Grace along that weekend with hopes that a few days among his mommies would inspire her, would pluck at her biological heartstrings. Maybe the sight of the kids on the beach—their sun-browned skin, their boundless enthusiasm, their wonder over every shell, crab, and minnow, would change her mind. His plan was already backfiring. Hank had loathed the beach, acting as if each grain of sand was a personal assault. And there was already tension between Grace and Tiffany. He could tell, as soon as he’d introduced them, that there’d be pecking between them before the weekend was over.
But, Rip thought—and there was always a but for Rip. He considered himself a believer. Not in God per se, but in man. In Rip. In self-actualization. When the doctors had told him and Grace that it might be difficult for Rip to have children, he had torn the reins from Fate’s gnarled hands and steered that chariot to fatherhood. With a little help from an anonymous sperm donor, of course. Still, the day Hank had been born, wrinkled and swollen, Rip knew the boy was his own. He had wanted to shout down the pale yellow corridors of the maternity ward. Fuck Fate! I have a son!
The screen door flew open and out dashed Nicole’s son Wyatt, clad in nothing more than Spider-Man underoos. Nicole’s husband, Josh, followed, his face reddened with what Rip interpreted as embarrassment and fury.
Rip waved hello and received a tight smile in return as Josh jogged after Wyatt, who skipped around the deck, effortlessly dodging his weak-chinned father. Josh wore wrinkled suit pants, and the armpits of his button-down shirt were dark with sweat. Rip looked down at his own
He was buzzed. Or maybe more than that, because he’d lost count of the beers he’d put back since he, Hank, and Grace had driven out that afternoon. Grace had insisted they listen to some peppy kids’ album instead of Rip’s music, claiming the mix of grunge and rock was far too mature, that it “terrified” Hank, an argument that had led them, somehow, to a revisiting of that past week’s most popular debate. To buy or not to buy Hank the princess dress set (gown, tiara, and plastic shoes included) their son had coveted for so long.
“Just like Harper’s,” Hank had lisped, a dreamy look sedating his features.
As if, Rip thought, Hank was envisioning himself in a faraway land, he and his friend Harper frolicking among singing animals and Technicolor toadstools, a fairy-tale castle sparkling in the distance.
Rip was pro princess dress. Grace, con. He urged Grace to be open-minded, to let Hank express his unique fantasies. This was 2010, after all, a boy could wear a princess dress.
By the time they had crossed the causeway, Rip had opened his window to let in the mix of tangy brine and aging honeysuckle, and to drown out Grace’s half of their argument, which had now graduated to what had been their #1 hit on the squabbling chart for the last six months. The debate over whether they should have another kid.
Once again: Rip, pro; Grace, con.
Now, as the sun slipped closer to the sea, Rip dug his elbows into the concrete seawall and ran his hands over his stubbled face. Yet another perk, he thought with a smile, of the stay-at-home-daddy life. Not having to shave every day.
His fingers still smelled like the coconut-scented sun lotion he had lathered on the kids. At playdates, the undesirable child-care tasks often fell to him, and soon after he and Hank and Grace had arrived at the beach house, he’d been silently elected sunscreen applicator and grappled with one squirming kid after another as he applied, and reapplied, the BabyGanics organic sunscreen.
He had invited Grace along that weekend with hopes that a few days among his mommies would inspire her, would pluck at her biological heartstrings. Maybe the sight of the kids on the beach—their sun-browned skin, their boundless enthusiasm, their wonder over every shell, crab, and minnow, would change her mind. His plan was already backfiring. Hank had loathed the beach, acting as if each grain of sand was a personal assault. And there was already tension between Grace and Tiffany. He could tell, as soon as he’d introduced them, that there’d be pecking between them before the weekend was over.
But, Rip thought—and there was always a but for Rip. He considered himself a believer. Not in God per se, but in man. In Rip. In self-actualization. When the doctors had told him and Grace that it might be difficult for Rip to have children, he had torn the reins from Fate’s gnarled hands and steered that chariot to fatherhood. With a little help from an anonymous sperm donor, of course. Still, the day Hank had been born, wrinkled and swollen, Rip knew the boy was his own. He had wanted to shout down the pale yellow corridors of the maternity ward. Fuck Fate! I have a son!
The screen door flew open and out dashed Nicole’s son Wyatt, clad in nothing more than Spider-Man underoos. Nicole’s husband, Josh, followed, his face reddened with what Rip interpreted as embarrassment and fury.
Rip waved hello and received a tight smile in return as Josh jogged after Wyatt, who skipped around the deck, effortlessly dodging his weak-chinned father. Josh wore wrinkled suit pants, and the armpits of his button-down shirt were dark with sweat. Rip looked down at his own
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