Read Online The Mother Garden by Robin Romm - Free Book Online Page A

with layered hair is unraveling a scarf as she yells into a cell phone. Next to her, two elderly women close up shop. They bring in a table of mangoes and plantains.
    Blithe’s face is so expressive. When she mimics her father’s new girlfriend, a cattle dealer he met online, she expands her nostrils, widens her eyes, and talks without moving her tongue. Apparently, the woman has some kind of speech impediment. After two drinks, Uri’s told her about growing up in Providence, his rocky relationship with his brother, Alvin, Alvin’s ridiculous trophy wife, Bev (who insists on wiping down restaurant seats with disinfectant before she’ll sit). Blithe laughs easily.
    After the third round of drinks, Blithe leans close. She tells him her apartment is just around the corner, he should come see the watercolor her father sent for her birthday.
    He shouldn’t go. It’s obvious where this is headed. He looks at his watch. It’s eight. If he swings by, gets her home safely, he can make it back to Berkeley before India’s class gets out. They leave the restaurant and he’s careful to hold his bag over the bulge in his pocket. As they walk, her hand brushes his forearm twice and lingers. He breathes in sharply, getting a dizzying whiff of that pear shampoo.
    Blithe’s studio is IKEA tidy. Everything has a little red cabinet of its own. Her bed sits stately in the middle of the room, heaped with throw pillows in rich, dark colors. She has a little lamp with a beaded shade that throws gold light all over the covers. There’s no other place to sit. Blithe goes to the little kitchenette, takes out an open bottle of bourbon, and pours them each a glass. Her squat, square tumblers have little Georgia peaches etched into them. She gestures to the painting on her bookshelf.
    â€œI like the red in it,” he says.
    She faces him. They haven’t had dinner and they’re both sufficiently drunk. Uri takes a big swallow. The bourbon’s terrible—cheap with a sharp burn—but there’s a nice numb heat spreading over his chin.
    â€œI’ve had so much fun with you tonight,” Blithe says. Her mouth is open slightly; her teeth look strong and clean. “You’ve made my birthday.”
    Blithe waits, but Uri doesn’t say anything. And then she smiles slyly, reaches for the tie at her hip, and undoes it. The dress falls open. Only the lace on her bra is black. The rest is a rich, silken cream. Uri takes her by the waist and pulls her toward him, sliding the dress off her arms with his palms. Then it’s like watching a tree fall in slow motion: she barely bends, just falls on top of him, willingly, sloppily, and as she lands Uri feels a crunch against his thigh; wetness starts to ooze.
    â€œOh for Christ’s sake,” he says, pushing Blithe off him. All the gold shards of light on the sheets are just India’s intelligent eyes, watching him silently as the egg makes its way into his pubic hair.

    Blithe gets another egg from the refrigerator, but she doesn’t have a Sharpie so he can’t draw the face. And what’s more, there’s a wet, sticky mess in his pants pocket and all over the sock the egg was wrapped in. He rinses both things out in the sink—but how will he explain to India that the egg is now faceless, when she clearly saw that he’d drawn on it, and that the sock is sopping wet?
    â€œI don’t understand,” Blithe says. “What’s it for?” Blithe’s breath smells like Lysol.
    â€œIt’s a competition,” Uri says. He wants to say with my wife, but he’s too much of a coward. Blithe must know he’s married, though he’s managed never to bring it up. He doesn’t wear a ring. Neither does India. When they got married, India begged that they each tattoo a circle on their big toe. She thought it was more binding, not to mention more interesting. At that point in her life she