by Britney King
Maybe she rolled her eyes. Maybe she bit her lip. I was already too far gone to pinpoint which.
I extended my hand. “I’m Tom.”
She took it in hers. I wondered if she was always so accepting. “Mel.”
“Nice to meet you, Mel,” I said, trying out her name on my lips. Her skin was smooth and warm, her handshake soft. The kind of woman you could break and have fun doing it. The kind of woman I married.
She blushed again. God, she was attractive. Classically beautiful, properly so. Model perfect. A tilt of the head, a glance up and down. Curiosity, everywhere. “What?”
“Nothing.” This time it was me who looked away. I forced myself to take a sip of water. Reminded myself, I’m married. Not dead. What harm could a little banter do? “Short for Melinda?”
“Huh?”
So, beautiful. But not so quick on the uptake. Guess you can’t have it all.
“Your name. Is Mel short for Melinda?”
“Oh.” She shook her head. “No. For Melanie.”
“Hmmm,” I said spotting Sam Watson across the bar. The meeting that morning hadn’t gone as well as I would have liked. Not once I’d presented him with the numbers. This isn’t normally my job. I’m an accountant, not a salesman. I’m here filling in for Adam, our actual sales guy—the one who supposedly has the flu and chose not to suck it up. That left Mark, our leader, with no choice but to send me. I don’t like to disappoint Mark, and that is how I’ve found myself here, both in this town and in this bar, both of which I hate.
Sam Watson is a very close third. He wanted into New Hope, he assured me. He likes the idea of the church, of the exclusivity, the chance to invest his almighty dollars. The tax deduction is also a nice incentive. But he’d countered for a lower percentage of a tithe. A percentage I couldn’t agree to even if I wanted to. In addition, he’d wanted us to waive the membership fee, and that I was for sure unwilling to concede. Which put us at a standstill. Meaning our second meeting had to work in my favor.
Melanie glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’m afraid I’ve been stood up.”
Suddenly, I had an idea. Suddenly, I was glad for her appearance. I needed The Watsons on our books. They would be very good for business, and also, I was determined to win. I knew there would be hell to pay if I let Mark down.
“Sam,” I called, motioning him over.
“Join us,” I said to her.
She sat up a little straighter. “I can’t.”
My eyes locked on hers. “Sure you can.”
For a second, she looked taken aback. But then, she downed her drink and offered a shrug. I took that as a yes.
“Tom,” Sam quipped taking my hand. His eyes were on Melanie. “Sam,” I said, squeezing harder than I needed to. “Always a pleasure.”
He broke grip first. “And who is this?”
“Melanie,” she stated, welcoming his hand. I got my answer. She’s not hesitant.
Sam placed his other hand on top of hers. He held it there for two seconds too long. That’s how I knew it was pretty much in the bag.
“I didn’t know we were having company,” he mentioned when he let go. He turned to face me. “What a lucky surprise.”
“Tom and I just sort of bumped into each other,” Melanie confessed shyly. I start to think maybe first impressions aren’t that reliable. “Anyway,” she added more candidly, “I’d best be going.” I watched as she smoothed her hair. Sam Watson watched too, captivated.
“Stay,” I offered. I could see that’s what she wanted. Clarification. And then, “I’m sure Mr. Watson won’t mind.”
His brow rose. “Fine by me.”
“I ordered you a scotch,” I said, turning my attention to him. “I hope that’s okay?” I saw the bottle in his office this morning, so I already know it is more than okay. I leave that part out.
“Perfect.” His focus was on Melanie.
“You seem familiar…”
No, she doesn’t.
“Everyone says that,” she told him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s my face, I think.”
“So, you’re not from here?”
Melanie shook her head. “Boise.”
“Wow.” Sam laughed boisterously. “Can’t say I was expecting that.”
She smiled with her eyes.
“What brings you to Houston?” Sam asked.
“A job.”
“You?”
She laughed playfully. Nervously. “What is that supposed to mean?”
It means he’s a pretentious prick, that’s what it means.
Before he could answer, I stepped in. Marking my territory. Lying where I knew it would serve me. I didn’t want to spend a second longer than necessary in this town, in this bar. I wanted to close the deal, and I’d just learned exactly the kind of bait I needed to do it. “Melanie is interviewing with New Hope.”
She gave me a sideways glance. “It’s just Mel.”
“Forgive me,” I said, lifting my water from the table. “Just Mel is considering a job with the church.”
Watson’s face offered a satisfied look. “For the project Mark has been telling me about?”
I’m not sure which one he’s speaking of so I simply say, “We’re not sure yet.”
“Well, amen for that,” he said, I assume before he realized he hadn’t had enough to drink to be that brazen in front of someone he was looking to impress. “Man,” he added as he straightened his back. He must have wanted to get a better look at her tits because his eyes were not where they should have been when he spoke next. “They’ll be very lucky to have you.”
“I haven’t made any firm decisions.” Thankfully, she didn’t notice Watson being rude because her eyes were watching me.
Sam finished his scotch in one gulp. “Leave it to Tom to kill two birds with one stone.”
He motioned the bartender for another. “I’ve heard about this guy…”
Melanie smiled. “Yes, I get the feeling Tom is very good at double dealing.”
I downed the last of my water. “Not as good as I’d like to be.”
Chapter Three
Melanie
Three months later
Be careful about the forbidden. It’ll get you every time. Maybe I could get used to this place, I think, as I look out the window at the front of the house, across the street, where someone is mowing a lawn. A service person. Few people around here know much about manual labor.
In that way, it’s not so different than where I came from. Somehow, although I haven’t completely put my finger on exactly how, things are very different. The facades are tasteful, the lawns tidy and expansive. Here, one-or two-acre lots frame smaller, neat houses, a quaint mix of modern and old-fashioned. Sophisticated, built to look like old money, even if that’s not what occupies them. To my right, there are children playing in the street. There’s no absence of people. Not like back home where people have second, and even third places of residence. Often, more. That’s how smart people hide money. Here, I’m the only one hiding anything. In fact, our street is particularly idyllic, an air of sleepiness, a veneer of safety. Tree-lined and shady, it reminds me of a model town constructed for no other reason than to show the way people used to live. So, I guess some things remain the same.
I watch as a mother calls her child in from the yard. Crouching so she’s at eye level, she points her finger, scolding him for playing in the street. If I have children, I think, my hand instinctively going for my belly, or rather when I have children, I will make nothing off limits. I will let them drink their selves silly, eat themselves sick, smoke themselves into oblivion, fuck their way to heartache. And when they are at the height of their hangovers—at their worst, hurt, lonely, full of regret—I will drag them to a recovery center where we will gaze at addicts, true addicts in the throws of withdraw. I will drag them to wings of hospitals to see patients that are relatives who aren’t ours just to say look, that is what you will become. It will be like a visit to the
zoo, only animals of a different kind, and yet, no less trapped.
And if ever I want to show them what a person looks like who is dead inside, I can skip the strangers and the field trips. I only have to introduce them to their maternal grandmother. What is wrong with her, they might ask? They will want to know the point I am trying to make because unlike the writhing addicts and the half-dead hospital patients, she will look fine on the outside. Look closer, I will tell them. You see her eyes, notice how they are vacant? And when she wraps her arms around you, like any good grandma would, you will feel the void. That’s because she is empty— a hollow shell of a woman who long ago gave all her worth to a man. Set it up like a bank account, and after years of withdrawals, one day she woke up and realized there was nothing left.
There are many kinds of love, I will teach them. And someday, when they are old enough to understand, I will tell them the truth. I did not marry for any of them. I used to see my father with his mistresses, his admirers. Don't worry, he said to me once. I do not love them. Not like I love you.
Maybe he never thought I, his own flesh, would grow up to be that. Little did he know.
I am not so different from his lovers, really. I, too, chose my partner for utility. For what he can offer me. It may not be love, but it is sufficient enough.
I do not want to end up like my mother.
I learned a few things over the years by watching her. I learned more from my father. I learned you can get away with pretty much anything so long as you’re judicious about it and go about it with a smile. He started out easy with his women, matters of convenience, mostly. Secretaries— babysitters—basically the low-hanging fruit. Kind of like one might start out drinking two-buck chuck before gradually growing bored and moving on to the good, high-dollar stuff. And still, he is a kind man, well liked. That's what people who think they know him would say. You wouldn’t have to twist their arm either. But appearances can be deceiving. Just ask my mother.
If one were to mention the backroom dealings or the affairs, the waves of heartbreak left in his wake, the women, so many women, those same well meaning people would mostly blame her. Well, she stays, they'd tell you, lips and palms pressed together. I guess it can't be that bad. Or more likely they’d point out a flaw. Something's missing, they’d say. She must be a prude or surely she’s too controlling, too demanding. Rarely would they blame my father for being the taker, the addict that he is.
But then, nobody has a perfect heart.
That’s how I landed here. In my new life, on my new lane, shiny and bright. It was simple enough in the beginning. But nothing ever stays that way, does it?
Maybe that’s why short love affairs have always been my favorite kind. Abrupt, beautiful. Technicolor and surround-sound. Like a warm summer morning, when there’s still so much promise to be had for the day. Before things get real. Before you see into the depths of a person. Before they see into the depths of you.
That’s why I chose a starter husband. Nothing’s permanent, plenty of room to move up.
Easily enough, I bumped into Tom on the street. When people ask how we met, that’s how the story goes. At least that’s the simple version. A drink or two for me. Zero for him. A one-night stand and, well, the truth is a little more complicated. But isn’t it always? In any case, I won’t bore you with the details.
Fast forward to now. He’s cooking dinner. I’m cooking his kid. Or so he thinks. We’ve been man and wife for two weeks. Supposedly, I’ll be fourteen weeks along, tomorrow. Give or take. My darling husband has been a widower for all of six weeks. It doesn’t take a genius to work out the math. Simple, and yet, anything but.
“So, did you get around to reading the agreement today?” Tom asks, peering up at me once I’ve made my way into the kitchen. I think he must have called me three times before I could tear myself away from the front window and force myself to face him. I lean against the counter and cross my arms. Pretend I haven’t heard. Maybe I haven’t. I’m too focused on the butcher knife he’s holding. I watch him slowly and methodically chop a head of lettuce.
“Melanie?” I realize he’s going to spell it out. “The agreement. Did you read it?”
“No,” I say and because I’m too lazy to come up with an excuse three weeks running, I fall back on the tried and true. My eyes meet his. “I wasn’t feeling well.” I sigh then long and heavy. I want him to feel my pain. “I thought they called it morning sickness…but it’s all day, every day. ”
He cocks an eyebrow. “That should pass soon.”
“Let’s hope.”
He mixes the lettuce with his hands and tosses it in a bowl. “When June was pregnant—”
I suck a breath in sharply. I hold it and bend at the waist. A searing pain tears at my side. Heat rushes through me. It’s fire, and it’s burning me all the way down. Ligaments stretching, the internet said when I researched what I’m supposed to feel at this point. Must be the placebo effect. Or Munchausen syndrome. Who knows? It’s better than the norm. At least I feel something.
When I recover, Tom says, “Maybe you should lie down.”
“No,” I tell him, my voice strained. My stomach flip-flops. I might be sick and not for the reason he thinks. That name—his dead wife’s—it’s the first four letter word, not counting work, that I actually dislike.
“Suit yourself,” he says. I rise slowly, steadying myself. I fill my lungs with air and then blow out my cheeks, breathing fast in and out. Just like they do in the movies. Lamaze or whatever it’s called.
The other night when I couldn’t sleep, which is most nights really, I made the grave mistake of googling childbirth videos. Whoever said childbirth is a beautiful experience is a liar. All I saw was blood and gore and pain. No way am I going through that. Ever. I saw enough to know that Lamaze is something I’ll never need. I’m smarter than that. I’d make a beeline for the drugs at the first twinge of pain. What’s the point of suffering anyway? I’d said that to Tom once when it came up.
“I don’t know,” he’d said. “I guess that’s the way God intended it.”
“You’re wrong,” I told him. “If God had intended women to suffer he wouldn’t have invented birth control.”
He looked at me funny.
“Or narcotics,” I added.
“God, I love you,” he said.
I don’t know why he said that. But I was relieved. I didn’t say it back. Some things are too precious to lie about.
Tom meets my eye then as though he knows what I’m thinking. But he can’t. I watch as he takes steaks from the refrigerator. If we’re having red meat, it must be a special occasion. My husband is very particular about his health. Husband. That word didn’t bother me as much as the word that is supposed to come after it. Mother. The thought sucker-punches me. Sweat beads at my temples; my knees feel weak. I might faint. I watch as Tom pulls the raw steaks from the marinade and places them on a platter. The sight reminds me of the birth video. I have to look away.
“There’s something I want to discuss with you,” he says catching my attention. “After dinner.”
He knows.
“Which is why I was hoping you would have read the agreement.”
I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. “I told you. I was sick!”
I wait for him to say something. He doesn’t. He simply washes his hands carefully, soaping them twice. Then he deftly dries them. I hate the way he’s so calm about everything.
I open a drawer, pretend I’m searching for something, and then slam it shut. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
Tom cocks his head. “What’s there to say?”
“I don’t know—how about I’m sorry you’re sick? How about I’m sorry for knocking you up?”
“Here,” he offers. “I think you should sit down.” He walks around the bar and pulls out a chair. There’s a smirk on his face. It’s faint, but I see it nonetheless. I want to knock it right off.
“I don’t want to sit.”
“Y
ou shouldn’t get so upset in your condition. You really need to take it easy.”
My condition. That’s one way to put it. God. My hand moves to my still-flat stomach. Instantly, I feel relieved. I’m not ready to get fat. I’m not ready to be anyone’s mother. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. I can’t say that’s changed, and yet, I can’t tell him the truth. Not yet.
“You’re going to be a mother,” he tells me. “That means putting what you want aside, Melanie.” His tone is bitter, and I hate it when he calls me by my full name. This and the fact that he combined it with the M word makes my head spin. Just the thought of someone calling me mommy makes me dizzy. My throat tightens. I feel my organs being crushed, panic rushing to the surface. This is why I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe. I’m suffocating in my lies.
Tom doesn’t notice. He pushes the cutting board my way. “Can you finish slicing the cucumber?”
“I thought you wanted me to take it easy?”
“Well, I have to tend to the grill.” His brow lifts. “I assume you want to eat.”
I roll my eyes and step toward him. He hands me the knife.
“You are so beautiful,” he tells me, his hand on mine. I stare at them, our fingers intertwined, gripping the knife. Something in me melts. Or at least it wants to. I’ve never felt more together, more a part of something. I’ve never felt more alone. I read on the internet what I’m supposed to feel, what I’m supposed to think, and I try to make it come naturally. But it rarely does. It takes so much pretending to be this way. People have no idea. It’s only fun sometimes. Mostly, it’s exhausting.
Ask him for the money.
“I was thinking about going shopping tomorrow… Nothing fits.”
He murmurs something I can’t make out.
I shift from foot to foot. “Tom?”
He searches my face.
“I need money.”
“I gave you money.”
“I spent that.”
He tilts his head. The muscle in his jaw flexes. “You spent six thousand dollars in two days?”
