by Merry Jones
But Tommy scooted around the table, tracking her movements and clicking pictures. “That’s great. You look really annoyed. Now look at the ants. I want to get your expressions.”
Nora took a breath, closed her eyes. Do not react, she told herself. Do not let him see that he’s getting to you. She made her face placid and calm, opened her eyes and focused on her string.
“I said, look at the ant farm.”
She didn’t.
Tommy stopped taking pictures. He picked up the television remote and turned off Saved by the Bell. Aiming the camera at her, he clicked a few times. He was trying to provoke her into making faces so he could take embarrassing photos, but Nora was on to him. She ignored him, sorted her strings, and began a new row of purple.
Tommy picked up the ant farm and held it up to Nora’s face. “I told you to look at the ants!”
Nora closed her eyes but sensed thousands of tiny legs, their incessant motion. She heard Tommy breathe in his bologna breath. And without looking, she pushed the farm away.
Tommy pushed back, harder, crouching now, pressing his weight against hers so that the farm was caught between them.
Nora dropped her string and used both hands, thrusting her weight against his. Tommy leveraged his position, using his whole body to shove the ant farm into her face. He was taller, weighed more. She couldn’t resist for long. The muscles in her arms trembled, her shoulders burned. Finally, she simply let go.
Tommy fell forward against her. They rolled backward, Tommy half on top of her. The ant farm, launched by the force of his weight, flew across the family room and crashed into the bookshelf, slamming onto the hardwood floor. For a moment, neither of them moved. They lay stunned, out of breath. Then Tommy’s eyes went wide.
“No!” He bellowed and ran to the farm. “Look what you did, you little shit! Go get a jar or something!”
Nora looked across the room. The plexiglass wall of the ant farm had come loose, spilling sand and a legion of ants out onto the floor. Tommy was frantic, trying to block their progress, to scoop them up and force them back into the broken farm. But it was no use. They were free, their line heading directly toward Nora. She clambered onto the couch.
“Nora! Get me a fucking jar.”
When she didn’t, he spun around, swinging his fists, pummeling her arms and torso. Nora curled into a ball, protecting herself until, finally, he stopped pounding, grabbed a fistful of ants, and dashed upstairs. Nora fought tears. The punches hurt, but she wouldn’t let Tommy make her cry. Damn him and his stupid bugs. Eyeing them, she backed toward the stairs, but stopped as Tommy ran down with a saucepan. He brushed past her and, kneeling over the ants, he cupped his hands, trying to recapture them and drop them into the pot. Ants crawled all over his arms.
“Tommy, they’ll get all over the house.”
“I know that. Don’t you think I know that, you fucking turd?” He swung the pan through the air, yelling, “Look what you’ve done!”
“What I’ve done? You’re the one who shoved—”
“Shut up! You just shut up!”
The ants were halfway to the coffee table. Nora’s knees felt weak; she hugged herself, toes curling.
Tommy was wild eyed. He dropped some more into the pot. Brushed a few from his arms, scrambling to rescue them.
Nora eyed the advancing column. Soon, ants would be up the walls, on the shelves, the table, the sofa, the stairs. Tommy sat defeated, watching their escape. But only for a moment. In a flash, he was on his feet, clicking his camera, recording the shattered ant farm, the parade of survivors.
Nora had no choice. She’d have to fix this herself. Grimacing, she leapt off the sofa and didn’t stop, didn’t look down. She dashed out the sliding doors into the heat, past the silent wind chimes and motionless trees, to the garage where she grabbed the bug spray, and hurried back into the family room, dreading what she’d find. She expected Tommy to fight her, but he didn’t. Tommy was fully engaged, hopping and kneeling around the room, bending low, capturing shots and snapping images, while bugs crawled onto and over him.
Stomach churning, Nora held the can high and aimed. She blasted them all, even the ones on Tommy, who kept shooting, recording the slaughter as one by one, ants shriveled and died, including the big, gross, fat one still in the broken farm that must have been the queen.
When she was finished, Nora took a deep breath and counted until her mind went blank. She deposited the broken farm into the trash and brought back a broom to sweep up the corpses before their parents got home from work. Tommy didn’t help. Without a word, he took his camera and went upstairs to his room.
In the commotion, Nora forgot all about her bracelet. Hours later, she found it on her pillow. All that was left of it was an
unraveled, tangled wad of string.
Friday, August 10, 2018
W
hen her phone rang, Nora ran up the steps to the kitchen and grabbed it off the counter. Her hands were still shaking as she checked the caller ID.
“Dave?”
Early in their marriage, he’d call without a reason. He’d talk about nothing in particular, saying he just wanted to hear her voice. Back then, they’d been more connected. Now when Dave called, it was most likely to say he’d be home late. He had client appointments, partner meetings, depositions, trials. Lots of reasons to miss dinner.
“Nora, what’s wrong?”
How had he known something was wrong? All she’d said was his name.
“Nothing.” Adrenaline still pumped through her body, but she wouldn’t take up his time talking about a spider. Not while he was at work.
“So, don’t count on me for dinner tonight. Depositions to
prepare for the Langdon case. It’s a nightmare.”
Nora knew Dave’s voice as well as she knew her own, and she recognized the lie. The almost undetectable tensing of his vocal cords was as clear to her as a fire alarm. Nora bit her lip. She held the phone, not speaking, and gazed out the kitchen window. She could almost see the heat. The children’s swings hung completely still. The weeping willow drooped; the oak tree’s leaves didn’t rustle. The lawn needed mowing. And moss covered the slabs of slate along the garden path. Theirs must be the most unkempt yard in all of Bryn Mawr. When were the mowers coming?
Tuesday?
She remained silent, deciding not to make it easy for him.
“I’ll be as early as I can.”
Nora still said nothing. She remembered other times that he’d lied. Painful and pointless confrontations had resulted from calling him out. Havoc caused by some trivial fib like a bill being paid late, or a doctor appointment that wasn’t kept. And then came the bigger lie, the one when she’d been pregnant with Ellie. Afterward, he’d sworn he’d never cheat again, so this lie wasn’t like that one. This lie, whatever it was about, had to be
insignificant, not worth cornering him.
The girls stampeded into the kitchen. Sophie’s curls had come completely free of their elastic bands and bounced as she ran.
“Nora? Okay?” Dave asked. As if it mattered what she thought. As if her opinion could alter his plans.
“I’ll try to make it home before bedtime. If not, kiss the girls for me.”
Nora told him that of course she would and hung up,
bothered.
Almost five-year-old Sophie stood beside her, tilting her head and blinking her wide, quizzical eyes. Sophie often looked at Nora this way, wordlessly asking, “What’s wrong?” As if Nora would define the world for her, explaining the significance of each individual incident that occurred. At that moment, Sophie’s eyes were a mix of violet and red, matching her purple T-shirt. In the morning, they’d been yellow like her pajamas. Her eyes were chameleons, constantly changing, mirroring whatever was close to her.
“Were you talking to Daddy?” she asked.
“Yup.”
“Why are you mad at him?”
Lord. Ha
d she sounded mad? Was she that transparent? She’d have to be more careful with her voice.
“I’m not mad.” Nora made herself smile. “Why would I be mad at your daddy?”
“Because I bet he’s not coming home for dinner again,”
Sophie said.
“Daddy never comes home for dinner.” Ellie’s voice was
matter of fact, disinterested. Her eyes were brown, like Nora’s. Steady and deep, they seemed the opposite of Sophie’s, not emitting light but sucking it in, drinking it.
“He comes home when he can, pumpkins. He works hard to take care of us, and he wants to be here for dinner. But tonight, Daddy has to work late. I’m disappointed, not mad.” Nora
continued to smile as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel.
“You looked mad when you were talking to him.”
Christ. Couldn’t she let down her guard for a single moment? Why did Sophie always have to be watching her, missing nothing? She tossed the dishtowel onto the counter.
“Sad and mad. Mad and sad,” Ellie repeated in singsong. A year older than Sophie, she often sounded younger.
Don’t count on me for dinner tonight.
Why was she so bothered that Dave wasn’t coming home? Probably she wasn’t. Probably she was still upset about the spider and its eight long leaping legs.
“So. Supper.” Nora cleared her throat and gave a cheery grin. She tried not to think of arachnids or where Dave would be at dinnertime. “Go wash your hands.”
“Chicken fingers?” Ellie sat on one knee, chewing her
thumbnail.
“Ellie, stop that.” Nora raised an eyebrow. Ellie’s hand shot away from her mouth and stayed behind her back as she followed Sophie to the powder room.
Nail biting was only one of Ellie’s issues. She also was afraid of the dark, of being alone, of bad dreams—so much so that she couldn’t sleep in her own room and instead stayed in Sophie’s. Ellie didn’t mix easily with other kids, often preferring to play by herself. Nora assured herself that all of these behaviors were merely developmental, nothing to worry about. After all, the girl was not yet six years old.
Even so, Nora did worry. Because, before the nasty, mean-spirited, teenage Tommy, there had been a young, shy, quirky and quiet Tommy who had been a loner, playing by himself, never having a single friend that she could remember. Unless she counted insects.
Never mind. Ellie was nothing like Tommy. God, no. Nora took chicken fingers out of the freezer as Ellie, back from washing her hands, began folding dinner napkins into perfect rectangles, seams straight, corners aligned.
No, it wasn’t the spider. It was Dave. The lie in his voice. Don’t count on me for dinner. What was he lying about?
Nora needed to relax. She handed Sophie forks and knives to set out and asked Ellie to get a box of macaroni from the
cupboard. She filled a pot with water.
While they waited for the water to boil, she and the girls washed nectarines and grapes. They peeled and sliced bananas and cut a cantaloupe for fruit salad.
As supper took shape, Nora was oddly conscious of her movements. Kneeling, reaching, lifting, turning, slicing. She held her stomach tight and her shoulders erect as she took out a bowl for the fruit salad. She dumped macaroni into bubbling water, performing her role as mom even as she kept hearing Dave’s voice with its subtle tautness. Don’t count on me for dinner tonight.
“Why didn’t you tell Daddy about the spider?” Sophie watched the macaroni boil.
Nora saw it again, leaping through the air, scampering over the floorboards. Her back rippled and arched. “He was busy.”
Her hands trembled as she stirred milk and powdered cheese onto the noodles. How absurd to be so affected by a smashed spider. People killed things all the time. Mosquitoes, flies. Mice. And how about meat? Eating a chicken finger required killing a chicken. Killing was a normal part of daily life. Carefully, Nora opened the oven and took out the cookie sheet. She placed pieces of chicken onto plates. When she turned off the stove, she heard the gasp of an expiring flame.
There was no deposition. Dave had lied. In fact, lately he’d been lying a lot.
Nora dished out fruit salad with a sprinkling of shredded coconut. If she were less sure of Dave, she might suspect that her husband, whose intense gazes could still roast her flesh, was having another affair.
But he would never. Last time, he’d wept. For a full six months he’d begged her forgiveness, promising his eternal love, fidelity, and honesty until she’d finally taken him back. Knowing what was at stake, he wouldn’t risk cheating again. No. It had to be something else. She and Dave were fine.
Even so, the syllables burned: af-fair. Nonsense. Not possible. Dave was devoted to her.
She poured two glasses of milk. Sophie asked for ketchup, so Nora squirted some onto her chicken.
Don’t count on me. Don’t count on me. Don’t count on me. Don’t count on me.
When was the last weeknight Dave had been home for dinner? She couldn’t remember. Damn. Nora stood at the kitchen counter, her mind taking off, showing her pictures of Dave pressing himself against some other woman, kissing her, unbuttoning her shirt, reaching inside and sliding his fingertips under lace. Acid spread through Nora’s throat, burning her lungs and stomach, dissolving her marriage, her life. Don’t count on me for dinner—
“More mac and cheese, please!” Ellie called. “Mac and cheese, please!” She pounded her fists and rattled the dishes, laughing and yelling. “Mac and cheese, please!”
“Ellie! For God’s sakes, stop!” Nora’s voice sliced the air. She spun around, her eyes narrowed. She’d been louder and shriller than she’d intended. Her hand rose, grabbed a chunk of her hair.
Ellie went silent and pale.
Sophie stared at Nora, stunned, as if she’d been slapped.
Oh God. What had she done? Nora ran to hug them, first one, then the other. “Sorry. I’m sorry, Ellie. I didn’t mean to yell.”
No. She hadn’t meant to yell. Not at them, never at them. She kissed Ellie’s cheeks and held Sophie’s head to her chest, inhaling the blend of herbal shampoo and kid sweat. She assured them that Mommy loved-loved-loved them and was just tired. Everything was fine. Of course they could have more mac and cheese. Only next time don’t bang the table. And guess what? After supper, they could have ice cream from the truck when it came by. Nora made herself sound cheerful as she released them. She pushed her hair behind her ear and gave Ellie a wink. Watched her girls eat with gusto.
What had she just done? Inventing scenarios that got her upset and then snapping at her children? Dave’s late nights were legitimately about work. He was a lawyer with a demanding practice. She’d overreacted because his phone call had come right after she’d battled that hideous arachnid. She’d transferred her adrenaline-soaked fury onto poor, over-worked, loyal, lovable, sleep-deprived Dave.
Yes, that was what had happened. Silly woman.
Nora got herself a fork and put the extra mac and cheese into a cereal bowl. She sat with her girls and chatted about camp, swimming lessons, and mosquito bites. She refilled their glasses of two percent and smiled, not letting on that she kept seeing a grotesque creature dodge and contort as it tried to escape her blows, or that she kept replaying the actual kill, wondering at how easy, how darkly exhilarating it had been.
Tuesday, July 22, 1993
W
as that Craig Treschler? Oh God, it was.
Nora slumped down in her seat, trying to be invisible. What was Craig doing there, on the day camp bus, wearing a Main Line Tadpoles T-shirt? Only counselors wore those. Wait, was he a counselor? At her camp? How? Why? She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Yes, it was him, for sure, sun-tanned and muscled, looking chipper even now at the end of a long, blistering hot day. Chatting with the driver before starting down the aisle.
Don’t sit with me. Don’t sit with me. Don’t even look at me. Keep walking. Why was he st
opping? Oh God. He was grinning, baring his big white teeth. The better to eat you with. What was he grinning at? Was it her? She froze, dreading what he’d say or do. Had he recognized her? Would he mock her? “Why, look who’s here, it’s the scumbag’s sister!”
Nora clung to her camp bag and looked out the window. Was he still standing there? What if he grabbed her camp bag? What if he taunted her?
Out in the parking lot, parents had lined their cars up to collect campers who didn’t ride the bus. One or two at a time, the camp director escorted kids into back seats and buckled them in, their faces red from exertion or their hair damp from the pool.
Nora stared but didn’t see the kids, their mothers in their cars, or even the bus. Instead, she saw herself on her bike after school on a June day. She had stopped at the corner before crossing the street as a bus growled slowly up the hill, spewing black exhaust. It was the Lower Merion high school bus—Tommy’s bus. As it passed, she heard shouting and saw a commotion inside, something zooming over the kids’ heads, arms reaching to grab it. Were the kids playing catch? On her bus, everyone had to sit still and be quiet. They couldn’t shout, let alone play games. Was it different in high school?
Something flew out a window and crashed onto the bushes along the curb. A book? It couldn’t have been. Who would throw a book? She turned, saw that it was, yes indeed, a book lying open on top of an azalea bush. As the bus chugged up the hill, another book tore through the air, pages flapping and fluttering until it flopped into the gutter in front of Mrs. Carlson’s house.
What was going on? In the excitement of playing catch, had someone’s books fallen out the window? Puzzled, Nora rode up the steep street, racing the bus, so she could tell the driver that someone had lost their books.
“How’d you like soccer today, dude?” Craig’s voice startled her, brought her back to the present. He was standing next to her, talking to a little boy in the seat directly in front of her.
The kid wasn’t scared though. He beamed, telling Craig about his game, how he’d scored a goal and almost scored another one. Nora kept her head turned toward the window, told herself that Craig wouldn’t recognize her. And if he did, he wouldn’t pick on her, not here, not in front of the little campers. Not with the bus driver able to hear.
