Covet

by Tracey Garvis Graves

  “Rough night?” I asked.

  “I’m just tired,” she replied. “I was up late.”

  Bridget’s four boys were outfitted in Nike athletic apparel from head to toe. I winced when I thought about the cost of the shoes alone, but I’d never heard her complain about money, or more specifically about not having enough. Sam worked at a stock brokerage firm and specialized in options trading, which sounded a lot like gambling except with other people’s money. It was a risky profession in the best of times, and I often wondered how he was faring with the economy in its current state. Whenever anyone commented on the recession or lamented the balance in their bank accounts, Bridget would say, “Sam handles all that. I’m just the one who brings the clothes and shoes and groceries home.”

  “Where did you get Jordan’s adorable outfit?” Elisa asked.

  “T.J.Maxx,” I said, taking a sip of my coffee.

  “It’s so cute,” she said. “Josh looks great, too,” she added.

  “Yes, they both look wonderful,” Bridget agreed.

  After a flurry of final kisses and hugs, the kids boarded the bus when it pulled up at the curb, and we waved good-bye, watching as they rounded the corner and disappeared from view. The men scattered and I stood there with Elisa and Bridget for a few more minutes, talking about all the things we planned to get caught up on now that school was back in session.

  When I walked back into the house Chris was standing in front of the living room window. He turned slowly when he heard me come into the room. “Are discount stores all we can afford now?” he asked, unable to look me in the eye.

  “There’s nothing wrong with T.J.Maxx. The kids’ outfits are just as nice as anything I’ve bought at Gymboree or Gap, and I paid a heck of a lot less for them. We’re still recovering from a recession. Everyone is cutting back and if they’re not, they should be. We have nothing to prove to anyone.” I took a few steps toward him, but he turned away. “The reality is that your severance and my earnings won’t be enough to keep us afloat indefinitely. I’m just being cautious. That’s all.”

  “Believe me, Claire. No one is more aware of our reality than I am. I’m the one who’s carrying the full weight of it on my shoulders.”

  “It’s not just your weight to bear. It’s mine, too.”

  “It really isn’t,” he said. He left the room and walked slowly into the office, closing the door behind him.

  In all the years we’d been together, I’d never experienced anything quite as heartbreaking as watching the lights of my golden boy fade.

  15

  claire

  The doorbell rings while I’m cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. I finally squeezed in a shower after I fed the kids and my hair is wet and combed back. I don’t have any makeup on, I’m naked under my old, pink bathrobe, the one I can’t seem to part with, and I’m not crazy about answering the door in my current state of undress. Why can’t anyone drop by my house when I’m presentable? I glance out the back window. Josh and Jordan are playing with Bridget’s boys and they look like they’re having a good time, so I don’t bother calling one of them in to help me out. The bell chimes again. It’s probably a neighborhood child or someone trying to sell something, so I decide to answer it myself and send them on their way. But when I open the door what I’m not expecting is for Daniel Rush to be standing there in his police uniform. Mortified, I pull the sash on my robe tighter and stutter out a greeting. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he says, smiling. “I just wanted to let you know that they’ve brought your speed limit sign.”

  “Right now?” I guess it’s true what they say: It’s not what you know, but whom. It’s been less than a week since I spoke to him at the Fourth of July parade, and I wonder what kind of effort he had to exert to move us to the top of the list so fast.

  There are two squad cars parked on the street. I look beyond Daniel and watch as an officer unhooks a trailer—on which the sign is mounted—and wheels it into position. I’m not sure of the protocol for this kind of service; it seems rude to just say thanks and shut the door, especially after he’s gone to the trouble to help us. But I can’t stand here in my bathrobe another minute. It feels all weird and desperate housewifey. Opening the door wider, I say, “Please, come in.” He steps over the threshold. “Could you excuse me for a second?” I ask.

  He nods. “Sure.”

  I run upstairs, flinging off the robe as soon as I reach the bedroom. I’d planned on putting on my pajamas after I cleaned up the kitchen, but I rifle through the laundry basket of clean clothes sitting just inside the door until I find a tank top and some shorts. I step into a pair of underwear and once I’m fully dressed, I walk back downstairs where Daniel is waiting patiently in the entryway. I’m suddenly conscious of the fact that I didn’t take the time to put on a bra and I hunch forward a bit. Technically I’m small-breasted enough to go without, and the tank top has a built-in shelf bra that provides a little support, but it’s the air-conditioning running full blast that I’m worried about; I have no idea what it’s doing to my nipples, and I’m afraid to look down and find out. My concern kicks up a notch when Daniel glances at my chest. I turn around, looking for something to cover myself with, but the only item of clothing within reach is Jordan’s Tinker Bell hoodie—size 6X—hanging on the knob of the coat closet near the front door. But when I turn back around I realize that it’s the medical alert dog tag I wear around my neck that has caught his eye, not my nipples. It was probably tucked too far down into my shirt at the parade, but it’s almost impossible to hide it when I wear a tank or swimsuit. I don’t think much of it anymore, and my friends and family are used to seeing it. “I can’t thank you enough for helping us with the sign,” I say. “I really appreciate it, and I know my neighbors will, too.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Would you like something to drink? Iced tea or a Coke?”

  “No thanks. I’m good,” he says, smiling at me. He points at my cheeks. “Looks like you got some sun today.”

  “Yes,” I say. “A little too much.” I noticed my pink cheeks when I got out of the shower, and I can already feel the sting of the sunburn. I made sure I put sunscreen on the kids but forgot to put enough on myself. I have to stop doing that or my face will look like shoe leather by the time I’m forty. “We spent the day at the community pool.”

  “Are you enjoying your summer?”

  “Yes. I work from home but my schedule is flexible, so we’ve been able to do some fun things.”

  “What do you do?” he asks.

  “I’m a graphic designer. Freelance,” I add. “I usually work on a per-project basis.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes, very much. It’s nice being able to choose what I work on.”

  “We’re talking about redesigning our department logo. The chief has asked for ideas but we’re not a real creative group.” Daniel pulls a business card out of his pocket and hands it to me. “This is our current logo. They want something similar, but updated. The last I heard they were going to set aside budget money to hire someone. Send me your rates; my e-mail address is on the card. I can put in a good word for you if you’re interested in submitting a bid.”

  “That would be great,” I say. I walk over to my purse and pull out one of my own business cards, then hand it to him. “I have professional references and testimonials listed on my website.”

  He takes the card. “Thanks.”

  The sliding glass door off of the kitchen opens, and Josh yells, “Mom?”

  I call out to him. “In here, Josh.”

  He follows the sound of my voice and he and Griffin stop suddenly when they see Daniel. “We didn’t mean to do it,” Josh yells.

  “It was Gage’s idea,” Griffin adds.

  “Do what?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Josh hedges, stammering.

  �
��It was an accident,” Griffin adds. He’s gone ghostly white.

  I turn to Daniel. “You have a lie detector down at the station, right, Officer Rush?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Daniel says. “Let me know if you’d like me to take these boys off your hands.”

  I stare at Josh and Griffin pointedly, watching their expressions change, their shoulders slumping in defeat. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

  “We were chasing Jordan around with a handful of worms. She said she was gonna have us arrested.” He points at Daniel. “And look!”

  Daniel presses his lips together, trying his best not to smile. I seize the opportunity to administer a lesson. “Well, I suggest you go outside and apologize before I turn you over to the authorities.” They hightail it out of the room immediately and the sliding glass door slams.

  “Nice work,” Daniel says.

  “I try,” I say, laughing. “Those boys torment her constantly. She can hold her own, but they had this one coming.”

  Daniel’s radio squawks and he turns up the volume and listens.

  “Busy night?” I ask.

  He turns it back down. “No. It’s been slow. This is a nice diversion, actually. I should probably get going, though.”

  “Okay. Thanks again for the sign. I really appreciate it.”

  “Sure.”

  Daniel follows me to the front door and we step outside where the temperature is considerably warmer. He pauses on the front porch. “E-mail me,” he says. “About the logo.”

  “I will.”

  “Have a nice night, Claire,” he says, smiling at me.

  For some reason, the smile makes me blush. I feel the heat on my cheeks, deepening the color I already have. Hoping he doesn’t notice, I say, “You, too, Daniel.”

  I watch as he walks down my sidewalk, gets into his car, and drives away.

  16

  claire

  When Chris had been out of work for eight months we spent the last of his severance on Christmas presents for our families and the kids, deciding to forgo gifts for ourselves, both of us insisting that we didn’t need anything. We weren’t often extravagant with each other, so it wasn’t a big adjustment for us, but Chris seemed a little down about it. He’d always done a good job of finding just the right gift to give me and he wasn’t the kind of husband who ever forgot my birthday or our anniversary.

  With his severance depleted, our only source of income was our savings and the money Chris collected from his unemployment benefits, money he initially hadn’t wanted to apply for at all. “You’re entitled to it,” I reminded him. He hated filling out the monthly paperwork, and even more than that, he hated filling out applications for jobs he was completely overqualified for just so he could show that he was indeed attempting to find a job. The realization that his applications were going unnoticed, that no one was even considering him for those jobs anyway, was even harder for him to take.

  I walked into the office one snowy January day with a bowl of soup and a sandwich. The omelet I’d made him for breakfast was still sitting, untouched, on the plate I’d delivered four hours earlier. “Chris. You didn’t eat your breakfast.”

  He didn’t even look up from the computer screen. “I’m not hungry.” He rubbed his temples, like I was a pain he could massage away.

  “You can’t just stop eating,” I said.

  He sighed and pushed his chair back from the desk. “I said I’m not hungry.” I started to speak but Chris cut me off. “You know what, Claire? What I really need is for you to leave me alone,” he said. “Stop asking me how I’m doing. Stop asking if I’m eating, or sleeping. Just stop.”

  He’d never lashed out at me like that before, but he had an expression on his face that worried me more than his tone or his words: It was the look of sheer desperation. The pupils of his eyes were dull and flat; the blue lacked sparkle and the whites were streaked with red. I wanted to throw my arms around him, say something, anything that would make him feel better. But the realization that he didn’t want those things from me, that I was only making it worse, brought tears to my eyes. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll leave you alone.”

  So I stopped hovering, stopped asking him how he felt or if there was anything I could do, and he retreated even further into himself, barely speaking to me. Before long, he wasn’t the one with whom I shared the highlights of my day; Elisa or Bridget, or sometimes Julia, filled that role. I didn’t seek Chris out the way I once had, as a partner, a confidante. Certainly not as a lover. Finding new ways to cope, to satisfy the needs he once met, unsettled me. I felt as if my world had been turned upside down, but in a completely different way than his had been. He had a goal, and once he found a job, his worries would disappear. But in the interim, I had no idea what to do about mine.

  Our household dynamic shifted, buckled under the weight of its problems until the only option was to adapt lest the whole infrastructure crumble. Self-preserving in the short term, absolutely disastrous for the long haul.

  We did it anyway.

  • • •

  I sought refuge at my parents’ house one particularly lonely, desolate winter day. My mom was standing near the stove when the kids and I walked into the kitchen, and I inhaled the smell of pumpkin bread as I shrugged out of my coat. My spirits lifted instantly; it smelled like my childhood and to let someone else be the parent that day was exactly what I needed.

  “Well, this is a nice surprise,” my mom said when the kids ran toward her, almost knocking her over in their haste to smother her in kisses. “Your timing is perfect. I was just about to make the dough for chocolate chip cookies while the bread is baking.”

  “Can we help, Grandma?” Jordan asked, jumping up and down.

  “I get to help, too,” Josh said, elbowing his sister out of the way.

  “Josh,” I admonished. “Tell your sister you’re sorry. You can both help.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled.

  My mom got out the big white bowl, the same one she’d been mixing cookie dough in my whole life. She instructed the kids to wash their hands and began lining up the ingredients on the kitchen counter.

  I looked around. “Where’s Dad?”

  She turned on the oven light and peered inside to check on the bread. “He’s in the basement,” she said. “Working on the train track.” I heard the slight irritation in her tone, which meant my dad was in the dog house for something. “You kids be good for Grandma,” I said. “No fighting. I’m going to go down and see what Grandpa’s up to.”

  “Tell him we’ll be down as soon as we make the cookies,” Josh said. He loved the trains almost as much as my dad did.

  I opened the basement door and walked down the stairs. My dad whirled around at the sound of my footsteps when I entered the room. “Claire!” He smiled at me, the way only he could, and held open his arms. I went to him and he enveloped me in his embrace. “What brings you by? Are the kids and Chris with you?”

  “The kids are upstairs making cookies with Mom. Chris is at home.” The office door was closed when we left, so I didn’t tell my dad what Chris was up to because I had no idea. “How’s the train track coming along?”

  “I’m working on a playground. The kids will love it.”

  Three weeks after my dad retired, he decided he needed something to fill his days. “I’m going nuts,” he told my mom.

  “He’s driving me crazy,” my mom told me. “He’s got to find something to do; he’s underfoot all day.”

  My dad solved the problem by immersing himself in the world of model trains, and one end of the basement showcased his entire collection. He actually spent more time working on the track than he did with the trains. He’d mounted it on a large platform and the elaborate, winding track included trees and shrubs, small outbuildings, and houses. There was even a frozen pond with a miniature ice-skater on it. Jordan l
oved that the best. I walked over to check out his progress with the playground. He was right. The kids would love the tiny swing set and slide, and the picnic table. “What’s happened here?” I asked, pointing to a jumbled pile of track that wasn’t connected to anything.

  “I’m switching the direction so that it winds back around. I’ll probably switch it back,” he muttered. I sat down on the old plaid couch. The bookshelves along the adjacent wall still held all the mementos of my youth, including my soccer trophies and my senior picture from high school. My mom had saved every award or certificate I’d ever earned and they were lined up on the shelves in their outdated eight-by-ten frames. I found the nostalgia comforting and also a little embarrassing. The room was one giant time capsule. Chris loved to come down here and tease me good-naturedly about the shrine my parents had erected in my honor. The bane of an only child.

  “What’s new, Claire-bear?” my dad asked.

  “Nothing. Just waiting for spring.”

  His doubtful expression said he wasn’t buying it, not for one minute. He walked toward the couch and sat down beside me, polishing his glasses on the hem of his flannel shirt. “You gonna tell your dad what’s really wrong?”

  His candor surprised me. I expected these kinds of questions from my mom, had in fact fielded several since Chris lost his job, but not from him.

  “I can’t reach him, Dad. We don’t talk and he won’t let me help him.” Tears welled up in my eyes, maybe because it felt cathartic to finally say it out loud or maybe because everything was falling apart and I wanted nothing more than to let my dad handle it, the way he’d fixed my bicycle when the chain came off or changed the oil in my car when I started driving. I knew those thoughts were ridiculous because I was a grown woman, a mother of two, and I could hardly expect him to solve my adult problems.

  “What Chris is going through is a hard thing, Claire.” His tone was gentle, but his words stung. My own dad didn’t think my emotions were justified. He noticed my expression. “Now, don’t get your feelings hurt, honey. It’s hard on you, and the kids, too. I know that. This hasn’t been easy on any of you. But a man wants to take care of his family, and it doesn’t matter whether they’re capable of taking care of themselves or not. He’s out of sorts. Doesn’t know what to do with himself.”