Cutting Teeth: A Novel

by Julia Fierro

  As the R-word—absolutely forbidden from the lexicon of a sancti-mommy like Tiffany—flew from Leigh’s mouth, she knew there was no turning back. She had crossed the line.

  Tiffany pushed herself off the chaise lounge with a dancer’s grace, keeping her back to Leigh.

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Tiffany said, pressing both hands onto the seawall and lifting up onto her toes to stretch. “I mean, come on, Leigh. What century are you living in?”

  “Sorry,” Leigh said, reclaiming her spot on the chaise lounge, emboldened and fearful at the same time. “I’m just so stressed out about this. On top of potentially losing Tenzin on Thursdays…” She trailed off intentionally.

  Tiffany whirled around, hair flaring. “Not potentially, Leigh. It’s a done deal. Tenzin is with Harp on Thursdays. Period.”

  “You misunderstood me. I didn’t say yes. I still need to talk to Brad about it. I need a few more days. I’m sure Shabbat Tots will understand. Or maybe you can teach another afternoon? Or bring Harper with you. You can just…”

  Tiffany interrupted her. “No, I already accepted the job.”

  Leigh was at a loss. “Oh-kay,” she said with a huff of a laugh. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  “Please don’t be mad, Leigh-Leigh.” Tiffany sashayed back to the chaise and ruffled Leigh’s hair. “I’m sorry.”

  Don’t touch me, Leigh wanted to say. Tiffany’s apology was as fake as her engagement ring, which she claimed was IF grade and two carats, supposedly inherited from Michael’s grandmother. Leigh had been embarrassed for Tiffany when she told Leigh this; the ring was obviously flawed and no more than a carat and a half. But she’d said nothing. She’d been kind. Now, she wanted to fling the lie back in Tiffany’s face. Remind her that she, Leigh, was a Locust Valley Lambert who could spot a good diamond from ten feet away.

  “I’m going to find a cigarette,” Tiffany said. “Allie looks like a smoker, doesn’t she? Be right back.”

  Before Leigh could answer, Tiffany shimmied off the deck and into the house.

  Leigh stared at the clots of thick cloud that seemed to float atop the water and thought of her family’s country house in Sag Harbor—the lawn that rolled into the sea and the swarms of fireflies that lit upon it in the blue dusk. She wondered if she would see it again.

  Tiffany had been the only one she’d trusted. The only mommy to whom she’d bared her soul. The only one who praised her parenting, who soothed her guilt.

  Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re doing your best.

  And there had been the months of late-night texts, the two women tapping out secrets and confessions to each other for hours. All the affection that poured from Tiffany, the empathy via cartoony emoticons. Little red hearts. Smiling suns. Smiley faces with their mouths pursed as if blowing a kiss. I Love U and U r the best and BFFs 4evah. Tongue-in-cheek, of course, Leigh knew, but Tiffany had chosen her from all the other mommies. The more confident, educated, hipper, and wittier masses of mommies who filled their neighborhood playgrounds and playspaces.

  Tiffany was her only friend.

  waste not, want not

  Tenzin

  Tenzin examined the half-eaten banana sitting on top of the trash, still wrapped in its skin and nestled in a pile of used coffee grounds and globs of yogurt. She glanced out the kitchen window and counted, one, two, three mommies. One, two, three daddies. She wasn’t sure if Allie was to be called a mommy or a daddy.

  The coast is clear, she thought, a phrase she had heard on an American television show.

  She stepped closer to the trash can.

  After breakfast, during cleanup time, Tenzin had watched Susanna hold the half-eaten fruit by her thumb and finger—the same way the mommies held the poopie and peepee diapers of the children (peeyou!). Susanna had complained about the smell, gagging as she exiled the perfectly good banana to the trash.

  They were a mystery, these lesbians and their life. The night before, Tenzin had asked Leigh if it was okay to give Susanna and Allie congratulations on their wedding. Leigh had laughed, “It’s not a secret, Tenzin. Of course you can!”

  Tenzin had tried to explain they didn’t have lesbians in Tibet, but Leigh had looked at her in the same way you look at a silly child.

  Poor Mommy Susanna, Tenzin thought as she stared at the banana. So much throwing up of food. That morning, Tenzin had walked on the beach with Susanna, while Chase and the twins played pirates with sticks of driftwood. Susanna had invited Tenzin to visit the twins’ home in Brooklyn, to see if she was a good match. Tenzin had added this to her vocabulary list to look up later, but Nicole had told her that the twins’ mommies needed someone to watch the new baby, and so Tenzin had guessed the walk was a kind of interview. She knew she had passed Susanna’s test because the woman had hugged her afterward, her swollen belly pressing into Tenzin’s own belly, soft and slack from three pregnancies. It had sparked a brief, but bright, yearning in Tenzin for a baby. A child who would never know a day apart from its mother.

  Now, staring at the banana, Tenzin felt her mood sink. She and Leigh, and maybe the other mommies, too, were due for their flow. Women everywhere, in Tibet, in India, in America, when the routine of women’s lives matched, so did their cycle. She wanted to blame her tears during her last Skype with her family on this.

  In one swift movement, Tenzin plucked the banana from the garbage, peeled back the mottled brown skin and ate the remaining fruit in two big bites.

  “Tenzin?”

  She turned to face Leigh, who stood with her mouth open, an alert and sweaty Charlotte in her arms. Leigh’s face was red with what Tenzin guessed was too much sun, but as her good employer walked closer, Tenzin saw it was the flush of emotion that pinked Leigh’s cheeks.

  Tenzin smiled with her eyes and nodded, pointing to her banana-stuffed mouth.

  “The baby’s up,” Leigh said.

  The concern on Leigh’s face made Tenzin wish she could give her good employer a great big squeezie-hug, just like the kind Chase’s therapist had taught her to give Chase when he was so excited that his hands shook, and he clucked like a little chicken.

  “You didn’t have to eat that, Tenzin.”

  “Yes, I do. No biggie.”

  She thought of the two-day-old rice she once ate from out of Leigh’s garbage. There was nothing wrong with the rice, and Tenzin had wondered if the newspaper laid over the mound of rice had been too neatly placed, as if Leigh had been trying to hide her wastefulness. The Dalai Lama says not to waste life, then why not avoid wasting anything at all?

  Leigh had passed on many things to Tenzin. A set of pots and pans the color of poppies, flawless but for a few scratches. A plastic pitcher for cold tea Leigh no longer used. A pretty diaper-wipe holder with a Velcro flap that Tenzin used as a purse. Tiffany had given her dresses that wrapped around your body and tied at the hip, and red clogs so shiny Tenzin only wore them to temple on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

  God had been so good to her. Why should she choke on perfectly yummy two-day-old rice and stale cereal and cans of cold beans past the expiration date? This is what she ate for lunch at Leigh’s house, choosing an item she predicted might be thrown away because it had sat in the cupboard too long, or because Leigh had found a brand she liked better.

  “Okay,” Leigh said. “That was terrible to throw away food like that.” She paused, closing her eyes. “I’m sorry, Tenzin.”

  Leigh was still wearing the same shocked look, and Tenzin knew it had nothing to do with her eating the rescued banana. There was something wrong.

  “Tenzin,” Leigh said. She stopped and wiped at her face with baby Charlie’s swaddle cloth. “I’m so happy you are here with us.”

  Her good employer was near tears.

  Tenzin had seen this expression on the faces of protesters in India outside the Chinese embassy, as gangs of officers approached, destined to leave many broken and bloodied in their wake.

  Terror.

 
The protesters had not run, even as the officers’ approaching boots made the ground tremble. They sang of the sun, moon, and stars, songs that would have had put Tenzin and her husband Lobsang on trial in China, maybe cost them their lives. Tenzin had sung the forbidden name of her God-King, the Dalai Lama. It had been her last protest before leaving India for America, and she had sung until her throat ached and sweat and tears darkened the front of her silk chuba. She’d felt fierce and satisfied—praising him, the great Sun—but she had also felt broken, for she and all the Tibetans were homeless.

  The mommies, even sweet Leigh, did not understand. Tenzin, they laughed politely, but you’re not homeless! How could she explain, or make them understand, that it was only in exile in India, far from the Chinese government, that she would dare sing of how the sun, moon, and stars are no longer in Tibetan lands. The lands are dark, and we are very sad that we can’t see them.

  Her daughter Samten had wept, her chin wrinkling, her nose running, as the police dragged Tenzin and her husband away. Tenzin had smiled at her, shouting again and again, one of the few sayings Samten had taught her, in anticipation of Tenzin’s trip to the U.S., Do not worry, do not worry, do not worry!

  She said the same now, to Leigh in the beach-house kitchen, wrapping her arm around the woman’s narrow birdlike shoulders.

  “No worries, my good employer. No worries.”

  try your luck

  Rip

  Rip woke to Grace’s tossing a piece of paper on his chest.

  “What’s this?” he said, as his eyes came into focus in the sun-filled room.

  He felt the empty space next to him and sat up so quickly his head spun.

  “Where’s Hank?”

  “Oh,” Grace said, feigning surprise. “You’re up. He’s with Harper. Michael’s watching them. He’s definitely Tiffany’s better half.”

  She was refolding the clothes he had already folded and stacked on the bedside table.

  “Well,” he said, “it’s kind of hard not to wake up. When someone opens every shade in the room.”

  No apology from Grace. Which meant, he knew, that she was still pissed, and she was about to introduce a discussion.

  “Is this a love note?” he asked, smoothing the paper she’d tossed at him.

  There were numbers written in Grace’s precise handwriting, an equation of sorts. How did she get those zeros so perfectly round?

  41 hours had been circled twice.

  “It’s the number of hours I spend with Hank each week,” she answered casually, turning away to look at herself in the mirror, to adjust her headband and smooth her glossy hair.

  “Oh-kay,” he said slowly.

  Definitely trouble, he thought.

  “Tiffany told me you told the whole playgroup…” Grace said, still looking in the mirror, where he knew she could see him sitting disheveled and puffy-eyed on the bed behind her. “She smells like body odor, you know?”

  “What did I tell her?”

  And what else could Tiffany have told Grace? He knew Tiffany was a little wacky, but not crazy. Not mad enough to tell Grace about the kitchen the day before. Or was she? She’d be risking everything. Their children. Their marriages. Their lifestyles, because when it came down to it—and it hurt him to admit this—he was in the same boat as Tiffany and the mommies. They were all dependent on their partners, their breadwinners. Without Grace, he was nothing. He had nothing. Not even a savings account in his name.

  “You told all of them,” Grace said, her voice creaking with restrained emotion. “Tiffany, and your mommies, you told them I’m never around. That I’m at work all the time. That I’m not there for Hank.”

  “I never said you weren’t there for Hank.”

  “Then what did you say, Richard?”

  What could he say? She really was gone all day every weekday, and on the weekends she had routine errands. Gym at 9 A.M. on Saturday and Sunday. Lunch with her sister every Saturday at 1 P.M. “Alone time” in her room where she read a book or crocheted little squares she then stitched into blankets for her friends who were expecting babies. And he understood her need for “me time.” Her job was demanding, the stress of managing so many people who were juggling so many millions of dollars had to be exhausting. Frankly, although he would have had his chest hair waxed before admitting this to Grace, or anyone at the playgroup (even Tiffany), it was easier when Grace wasn’t around. When she was home, she was like a shiny object distracting them from their routine, making Hank restless for her attention. Hank didn’t understand why mommy needed her alone time. If Rip didn’t take him to the park (and in winter this was a chore), the boy stood at the closed bedroom door and cried until Grace came out, annoyed with Rip and frustrated with Hank.

  “I may have said you worked long hours. Or that there were some days you didn’t see Hank,” he said. “Isn’t it the truth?”

  She turned to him, and he saw she was close to tears. The woman his sister had once called The Ice Queen began to sob. A tickling thrill shot from his stomach to his throat. This vulnerability was new, and anything new was better than how things had been—he and Grace arguing in the same dizzying circles until the air in their apartment felt stale and claustrophobic.

  “How could you betray me like that? In front of all of…” She paused. “The mommies!”

  Then she was kneeling by the side of the bed, her lineless face cracked in tears, her back shuddering with sobs. He hadn’t seen her like this since—he searched his memory—not since she’d given birth to Hank and been struck with what their OB had called the baby blues.

  He stroked her hair and tipped her chin so their faces were a few inches apart. She was a teary, snotty mess. But beautiful. Vulnerable, for once.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he said.

  “I really try,” she said, then a hiccuping sob escaped. “I try to do my best. Maybe I’m just not meant to be a mother.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Rip said. “Hank adores you.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes squinting in suspicion. “Don’t give me that shit. You don’t really think that. I know it. You have to have it this way. It’s like a sickness. Your martyr complex. You’re like some passive-aggressive housewife!”

  “Sure,” Rip said, with a bitter laugh. “That’s right. I like your never being home. I like having no help. I can’t take a shit by myself, without you or Hank … You’re both demanding in the same way, you know? Always taking. Sucking the life out of me.”

  Grace pitched face-first into the mattress. “I know!” she cried into the comforter. “You’re right. Why is everything I do so un-mommylike?”

  He’d won, and it made him feel awful. He lowered himself onto the bed beside her and stroked her back.

  “That’s not true, sweetie,” he murmured into her ear. “You make everything possible for our family. Hank and I are so lucky to have you.”

  As he stroked her back, he felt her soften beneath him. Respond to his touch. He kissed her neck first, cautiously, and when she didn’t brush him away, he made his way to her mouth. He undressed her, he licked her, he tweaked her nipples while he made her come with his tongue. He pulled down his boxers and spread her legs—his penis is his hand. But then she was on her knees, taking him into her mouth.

  He hadn’t brought the condoms she always made him wear. Just in case one of his swimmers picked up speed.

  “I want to be inside you,” he moaned.

  She ignored him.

  When she stopped midsuck to adjust her hair, he could tell she was getting tired. She was growing impatient. Her head bobbed up and down. Too fast. She’ll run out of steam, he thought, she’s got to pace herself, or this would end up like most of the blowjobs she’d given him in the years since Hank was born. Half a blowjob.

  “Honey”—he held her head in his hands, stopping her, as painful as it was—“that’s enough.”

  She looked up at him, spit glistening on her lips.

  “I want to come inside you,”
he said.

  “No,” she said. A single, flat denial.

  Instantly, the mood flattened, too. She put in another five minutes of decent work, tiring out toward the end (sorry, my neck is sore), practically handing his penis back to him, then crawling up to nibble on his earlobe while he jerked himself off. As he came closer to climaxing, he thought about the text Tiffany, definitely drunk, had sent him the night before. The text had been a tease because he knew that she knew the answer, especially after she’d felt his hard-on in the kitchen.

  who would u rather fuck? allie or susanna? ;)

  You. The answer he never sent.

  Now, as Grace lay limp next to him, performing the bare necessities—her cheek pressed to his chest, her hand between his thighs cupping his testicles, he conjured a vision of all three of them—Allie, Susanna, and Tiffany—naked and writhing on the beach. When he finally came, Grace was still lying dutifully beside him, but he’d flown far away from her. He was no longer in the dusty bedroom but beside the sea, entwined with Tiffany, inside her.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Rip was on the deck with the rest of the mommies and daddies. The children had a surprise, Tenzin had told them with her usual hand-clapping vigor, and she and the kids had been out of sight since.

  Rip and Michael were wrestling. They had both wrestled high-school varsity, it turned out, and were now grappling in the middle of the deck while Grace, Susanna, Tiffany, Nicole, and Allie sat side by side in deck chairs, their oversized sunglasses turned toward the afternoon sun.

  “Get a room already,” Tiffany said.

  “Gross,” Grace said, “You’re practically dripping sweat into each other’s mouths.”

  “Oh, God,” Susanna groaned. “Don’t make me puke. Again.”

  “Ha-ha,” Rip said between grunts, as the mommies tittered, but the truth was, he was winded. Michael was going practically no-holds-barred. Rip had Michael in a headlock, but he could feel his grip loosening as they grew sweatier. Although the thought embarrassed Rip, he wondered if Michael could smell the sex on him, and he found himself hoping Michael could feel the muscles Rip had once sported. When they’d first moved to the city, right after college, Rip had been struck by the fear he felt; the panic when, during a block party, some Italian-American teens from the neighborhood had picked a fight with kids from the projects. Bottles had been smashed, a folding table collapsed, and a girl was thrown to the asphalt. Rip had jumped up from his seat on their stoop and pulled Grace into the dark hallway of their apartment building, daring only to peek through the small window in the door. In short, he’d been a fucking pussy, he’d thought afterward, recalling the icy fear that shot through his body and the roadrunner rate of his heart.