Read Online Deep Down True by Juliette Fay - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Juliette Fay
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“It wasn’t even closed all the way.”
“I . . . I didn’t . . .” he stammered, surprised. During their marriage he’d often joked that she was intractably pleasant, even to telemarketers. “I shouldn’t just barge in,” he said. “I don’t live here anymore.”
“I’m well aware of that fact. You live in Hartford now. With Tina, apparently.” There was a tingling in her fingers that made her want to grab something and squeeze hard. Not just because of the live-in girlfriend or the ringing doorbell, or even the fact that her daughter was apparently undoing all her efforts at nourishment. This rage seemed prehistoric in origin, and if she wasn’t careful, she might just grasp Kenneth in a tender place—the throat, perhaps, or somewhere south of that—and dig in. Kenneth’s fingers kneaded at his jacket cuffs, and trepidation stung at his cheeks. After all these years, had she somehow managed to intimidate him?
“I should have told you about that,” he spouted. “I meant to, and then things seemed to come up. But the kids really like her, I think.”
Dana snorted sarcastically. This was different, having Kenneth on the defensive. This felt good. “Whether they like her or not is not my problem. But in the future you need to inform me of big changes like this. They ask me about it, and I should be prepared to answer, not caught off guard like some insignificant ... I need to be kept apprised, you understand?”
“Yes,” he said, eyes cast to his shoes. “Yes, absolutely.”
When he left with the kids, Dana pondered her confrontation with Kenneth. She’d so rarely ever taken him to task like that. It was the highlight of her day, she realized. How pathetic.
CHAPTER 8
S ATURDAY PASSED IN A HAZE OF THINKING ABOUT Morgan’s problem, then trying not to obsess about it, then chastising herself for not facing the issue, all the while drinking what must have amounted to a gallon of sugar-free lemonade. By the afternoon her stomach hurt. She forced herself to find an eating-disorders Web site, but before she’d read more than a paragraph, she got thirsty again and went for another glass of her painkiller of choice.
The one thing she was able to accomplish was preparing a meal for the McPhersons. “Alder?” she called as she swaddled a loaf of sourdough bread in foil. “Sweetie, I have to drop off this dinner. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes!”
When Dana approached the small ranch-style house, she double-checked the number on the mailbox, because it seemed like the wrong building. It looked tidier, less sad than the other time she’d been here. The lawn was mowed, she realized, and the shrubs had been trimmed. She juggled the foil pan of chicken tetrazzini and the shopping bag that contained the rest of the McPhersons’ dinner and rang the doorbell. Footsteps sounded, and Dana took a step back from the door, organizing her features into a mildly pleasant (but not overly happy) look.
The woman she’d seen the last time, tall and slack-shouldered, opened the screen door. Though she was likely only in her mid-thirties, lines of tension were creased between her eyebrows. She drew a breath and generated a smile. “This must be dinner!”
“It sure is,” said Dana. “Can I bring it in for you?”
The woman opened the screen. “Oh, watch the suitcase!” she said as Dana nearly tripped over it. “My brother came to help out for a few days, but he’s heading back tonight.” Her voice tightened at the mention of this imminent abandonment. “He’s got his own family, of course.”
Dana put the food on a small side table by the door. “He must be good company.”
She nodded. “He took the kids to the playground for one last swing on the swings before he leaves.”
“How many do you have?”
“Three,” she said. “My oldest is six, then four, and the baby is almost two.”
Oh, God, thought Dana, three little ones and a dying husband. “You must be busy!” she said, trying to
“I . . . I didn’t . . .” he stammered, surprised. During their marriage he’d often joked that she was intractably pleasant, even to telemarketers. “I shouldn’t just barge in,” he said. “I don’t live here anymore.”
“I’m well aware of that fact. You live in Hartford now. With Tina, apparently.” There was a tingling in her fingers that made her want to grab something and squeeze hard. Not just because of the live-in girlfriend or the ringing doorbell, or even the fact that her daughter was apparently undoing all her efforts at nourishment. This rage seemed prehistoric in origin, and if she wasn’t careful, she might just grasp Kenneth in a tender place—the throat, perhaps, or somewhere south of that—and dig in. Kenneth’s fingers kneaded at his jacket cuffs, and trepidation stung at his cheeks. After all these years, had she somehow managed to intimidate him?
“I should have told you about that,” he spouted. “I meant to, and then things seemed to come up. But the kids really like her, I think.”
Dana snorted sarcastically. This was different, having Kenneth on the defensive. This felt good. “Whether they like her or not is not my problem. But in the future you need to inform me of big changes like this. They ask me about it, and I should be prepared to answer, not caught off guard like some insignificant ... I need to be kept apprised, you understand?”
“Yes,” he said, eyes cast to his shoes. “Yes, absolutely.”
When he left with the kids, Dana pondered her confrontation with Kenneth. She’d so rarely ever taken him to task like that. It was the highlight of her day, she realized. How pathetic.
CHAPTER 8
S ATURDAY PASSED IN A HAZE OF THINKING ABOUT Morgan’s problem, then trying not to obsess about it, then chastising herself for not facing the issue, all the while drinking what must have amounted to a gallon of sugar-free lemonade. By the afternoon her stomach hurt. She forced herself to find an eating-disorders Web site, but before she’d read more than a paragraph, she got thirsty again and went for another glass of her painkiller of choice.
The one thing she was able to accomplish was preparing a meal for the McPhersons. “Alder?” she called as she swaddled a loaf of sourdough bread in foil. “Sweetie, I have to drop off this dinner. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes!”
When Dana approached the small ranch-style house, she double-checked the number on the mailbox, because it seemed like the wrong building. It looked tidier, less sad than the other time she’d been here. The lawn was mowed, she realized, and the shrubs had been trimmed. She juggled the foil pan of chicken tetrazzini and the shopping bag that contained the rest of the McPhersons’ dinner and rang the doorbell. Footsteps sounded, and Dana took a step back from the door, organizing her features into a mildly pleasant (but not overly happy) look.
The woman she’d seen the last time, tall and slack-shouldered, opened the screen door. Though she was likely only in her mid-thirties, lines of tension were creased between her eyebrows. She drew a breath and generated a smile. “This must be dinner!”
“It sure is,” said Dana. “Can I bring it in for you?”
The woman opened the screen. “Oh, watch the suitcase!” she said as Dana nearly tripped over it. “My brother came to help out for a few days, but he’s heading back tonight.” Her voice tightened at the mention of this imminent abandonment. “He’s got his own family, of course.”
Dana put the food on a small side table by the door. “He must be good company.”
She nodded. “He took the kids to the playground for one last swing on the swings before he leaves.”
“How many do you have?”
“Three,” she said. “My oldest is six, then four, and the baby is almost two.”
Oh, God, thought Dana, three little ones and a dying husband. “You must be busy!” she said, trying to
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