Four: Stories of Marriage

by Nia Forrester

  “What would you like me to do, Mr. Cole?” she asked.

  How the hell was he supposed to know? This was her job. It couldn’t be the first time she had to deal with a kid having a tantrum.

  “Let her … look, let me call you back.”

  He ended the call then immediately initiated a new one.

  “Tracy,” he said, when she answered. “You went by the house?”

  “Yes. To take Layla to …”

  “And then you just left?”

  She said nothing.

  “You know what happened once you were gone?”

  “I don’t, but … I can imagine,” she said. Her tone was subdued.

  “Then why the hell did you do it?”

  “What do you mean why? I wanted to see her!”

  “If you’re not at home, you’re not at home. Don’t come dipping in and out, confusing the hell out of our kid. She’s over there having a shit-fit because she doesn’t understand why you left her!”

  “Are you saying I can’t see our daughter when I want to?”

  “Jesus, Tracy …” Brendan stopped himself before he raised his voice. “Of course I’m not saying that. If you were home …”

  “But I’m not. So we’re going to have to …” Her voice sounded clogged, and then she stopped speaking abruptly.

  “Are you crying?” he demanded. “There’s a really simple solution to this. Just go home, Tracy. Just … whatever you’re doing, just …” He exhaled. “Where are you now? At the condo?”

  “Yes. But …”

  “I’m coming over,” he said. “Let’s just get this bullshit straightened out.”

  And before she had a chance to respond, he ended the call.

  “I’m going to have to get caught up on this later,” Brendan announced, as he re-entered the conference room. “I have something I need to take care of right away.”

  Justin, Simone and two other members of their team had been briefing him on the preliminary numbers for their European import artists, and the news wasn’t good. The division was losing money, having bet on a French rapper and a British R&B singer who Justin thought they could market as the new Teena Marie. But the strategy had fallen flat. The French rapper had good looks, but his English was indecipherable and his beats lackluster; and the R&B singer was not burning up the charts as the new Teena Marie in part because the current generation was unfamiliar with the old Teena Marie.

  “This meeting can’t continue without you though,” Justin said, shifting impatiently in his chair.

  “Then we need to reschedule.”

  “Some of these decisions are time-sensitive,” Simone reminded him. “Close of business time-sensitive.”

  Brendan slapped his iPad shut and glanced at his watch. It was just past one-thirty.

  “Okay, let’s pick up again at three-thirty. That work for everybody?”

  But he was already on his way out the door, and only barely heard their responses.

  Letting himself into the apartment, Brendan was assailed with the scent of lemon and vanilla, and suddenly was transported back to the second trimester of Tracy’s pregnancy. She was sensitive to smells then, and everything from Brendan’s cologne, to the bath soap they used and even the aroma of coffee in the morning made her ill. The only smells that didn’t were vanilla and lemon.

  Brendan forgot how they’d discovered that, but once they had, Riley and Tracy had gone to an upscale decorating store where the candles were made only from natural scents and bought what Brendan thought had to be their entire stock of lemon and vanilla-scented candles. Every evening when he got home, this smell—the one he was surrounded by right now—had greeted him. He had joked at the time that after the baby was born he would never be able to drink another glass of lemonade or stand the sight of a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

  “Trace!”

  Calling out to her, he shed his suit jacket and tossed it over the back of an armchair.

  Moments later, he heard Tracy up above in the loft, and then she was coming down, taking the steps slowly, like someone on their way to a place they’d rather not go. She was wearing jeans, rolled to capri length, and a white shirt so long it resembled a tunic, that Brendan recognized as one of his. Her feet were bare, and her hair loose, and cascading over her shoulders.

  When she was closer, he saw that her eyes were rimmed in pink, and recalled her sniffles on the other end of the line during their call.

  “Tracy,” he said, when she was standing almost directly in front of him. “What’re we doin’? What’re you …?”

  Her face crumpled a little, as though she might begin to cry again but she pulled herself up and took a deep breath.

  “I could have done without hearing about Layla’s meltdown,” she said. “I didn’t need to know that.”

  “Yeah, you did. Because actions have consequences, Tracy. And you’re always doing this … going off on some, I don’t even know what to call it … and not thinking about …”

  “So, you call your mother, Brendan?”

  “What else was I supposed to do? You spring on me at five o’clock on a Sunday that you’re going on … strike or some shit when you know I have work the next day?” He stopped himself before he went further and took a deep breath. “Look. I just want to know what’s going on. You can’t seriously be this mad because I smoked a little weed at the club. Mad enough to leave me and Layla?”

  “I’m not leaving you and Layla. I’m just taking some time. I just need …” She broke off and shook her head.

  “What?” he asked, frustrated. “What do you need?”

  Tracy tried to turn away from him, but Brendan held her by the shoulders, so she would look at him. And the moment he touched her, she was crying again.

  “You don’t know what it’s like,” she said through her tears. “You don’t know what it’s like …”

  “What what’s like? Talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.”

  But all Tracy did was shake her head. And all he could do was pull her closer, hold her against him, and allow her to cry.

  13

  The truth was, Tracy didn’t always feel lucky to be married to Brendan. Sometimes it was exhausting, and other times, it could be perplexing. In every relationship, there is one party who is a little more accustomed to being happy, and healthy and whole. And the other party less so. Or, as in Tracy’s case, there is one who has almost no recollection of having ever been all three of those things at once. And so, there were times—more than she liked to admit—when she had to play catch-up and learn things that she had come to full adulthood having never been taught.

  On Layla’s first birthday, they celebrated with a trip to Charlotte where Brendan’s parents lived. They had been married less than a year, and the novelty of being, at long last, his wife was still almost the first thing Tracy thought about when she woke up each morning. And on the day of Layla’s party, it had been no different.

  She woke up, as thrilled as a kid on Christmas morning, thinking about the plans she and Brendan’s mom had, for decorating the house and backyard, for picking up the cake, for arranging a gift table. Tracy hadn’t given much thought to the fact that since they weren’t in New York, most of the guests in attendance would be people she didn’t know.

  By two o’clock that afternoon when the party got underway, the Coles’ house was filled with their friends from church and other social groups, people they had traveled with, and some of Brendan’s old friends from high school. Most were parents themselves and had brought along their own kids, most around Layla’s age but some a little older. Brendan was in his element, circulating among the crowd, reminiscing about old times, getting folks caught up on his life, and getting caught up on theirs. He and Tracy barely had time to interact with each other during the hubbub, until it was time to take the obligatory photo of Layla digging into her smash-cake.

  Brendan’s smiles, his laughter had dominated the room. And, as always, everyone seemed drawn into his orbit. Tracy
though, was especially aware of one of those satellites, a woman named Thalia, who Brendan knew in high school. Thalia, who had come with her three-year-old son, wasn’t exceptionally good-looking or anything but she had one of those bubbly, ebullient personalities that perfectly complemented Brendan’s.

  All afternoon it seemed, they laughed together, and ribbed each other and moved as a team herding the kids for activities and games and cleaning up after them. Tracy on the other hand, stayed mainly in the kitchen with her mother-in-law, pulling together trays of food for the adults, serving drinks, playing the hostess. She knew she looked immaculate in her seafoam linen dress, and that her hair, painstakingly curled that morning, remained perfect. She had even gotten a French manicure, trimmed on the shorter side, ideal for an active hands-on mom.

  But Thalia—in worn jeans, flip-flops and a loose, comfortable t-shirt that over the course of the day got stained with juice and icing—in Tracy’s mind had stolen the show. She watched with envy as the other woman tossed aside her slippers and ran a foot-race with the horde of children, pretending to lose to a chubby five-year-old, and flinging herself onto the grass in mock-defeat and exhaustion.

  Tracy felt a ball of envy and resentment swell in her chest. Suddenly, she hated herself for her icy perfection in her ridiculous, uncrumpled linen shift-dress. She spent the afternoon obsessing about how gravely she had misread the situation. Looking at Thalia out on the lawn, she thought, ‘that is how a mother behaves at her child’s birthday party.’ That was how she was supposed to be. It felt as though Thalia knew that and had stolen it from her.

  Later that evening, when they were getting ready for bed, and Brendan was talking about how much fun the day had been, Tracy picked a fight with him. She accused him of flirting with Thalia and interrogated him, asking what exactly the nature of their former relationship had been. And as always, he had gotten a confused, but weary expression on his face. The one that said, ‘why do you always do this?’

  He didn’t ask the question aloud, though she wished he had. She often wished he would. Because if he asked, she might have told him. It was because in this life they had, this picture-perfect life that he had given her, she often felt like an impostor. Nothing in her childhood—nor her adulthood for that matter—had prepared her all this … happiness.

  Of course, he knew all the rules, because he had grown up in a loving, supportive and warm home with loving, supportive and warm people. Birthday parties that were fun and rowdy didn’t have to get orchestrated, they just … were. Nothing in his experience had led him to believe anything other than that. But it wasn’t so with her. And sometimes, even in situations that came second-nature to the average person, she just honestly didn’t know how to … be.

  Brendan was holding her now while she cried, and burying his face in her hair, whispering, ‘shh’ over, and over again. She couldn’t see his expression, but Tracy had no doubt it was the same confusion she had seen on his face countless times before.

  “Look at me,” he said, pulling back a little.

  She did. His eyes were warm, concerned. Full of love.

  “Tell me what I need to do.”

  “I don’t know,” she said shaking her head.

  He kissed her then. A long, deep kiss that Tracy grabbed onto, and fell into with gratitude. This, she knew how to do. This, she knew how to respond to.

  He walked her backward across the living room and into the bedroom, peeling back the long white shirt so expertly that it was on the floor almost before Tracy knew what was happening. Then he was shrugging himself free of his own clothing, and gently shoving her back onto the low-slung bed.

  The sheets were still disheveled from Tracy’s having slept there the night before, and they felt soft as tissue against her naked back. Brendan kissed her across her chest, and along the edges of her bra until it was she who was impatiently reaching back to unfasten it and expose her nipples to his attention.

  Her jeans came off while he kissed her neck and shoulders and Tracy kicked them aside. Brendan lifted his head only long enough to peel down her underwear and then he moved lower, to her stomach, the ticklish spots on her hips, along her thighs and behind her knees.

  The sounds of her labored, rhythmic breathing filled the room, but Brendan was silent and intent as he propped her feet up onto his shoulders and leaned into her. Tracy rested her hands atop his head and relaxed into the familiar but always thrilling feeling of his tongue, his lips, his entire mouth on her. She exhaled, her eyes shut, and her conscious mind drifted away.

  Her release wasn’t just pleasurable, it was cathartic.

  While her eyes remained shut, and her body was still shuddering, he moved up and entered her. Tracy reached forward and clutched him tight. The movement of his hips began slow, and smooth, the strokes steadily building to something much more deliberate, almost punishing. He always seemed to understand what she needed, and when she needed it. And today, she needed mindlessness.

  Just as she was about to reach her second climax, Brendan pulled out and turned them both onto their sides, moving behind her, and sliding into her that way. One large hand cupped her breast, and the other slid beneath her and nudged her thighs apart. His fingers stroked her in perfect time to each penetrative forward motion until all sensation was the same and of a piece—a concentration of heat, pleasure and connectedness. Brendan’s mouth was against her neck, her shoulder, then her ear. He said something, his voice a raspy whisper that stirred her hair. Tracy didn’t hear it, but she knew, because this was Brendan, that what he said was probably, no, definitely ‘I love you.’

  She was still struggling to catch her breath when he extricated himself and sat up. When she opened her eyes, he was looking at her, his expression mildly amused. He leaned in and they kissed, but Tracy was almost too spent to reciprocate.

  “Shower?” he asked.

  Tracy turned fully onto her back. He was wet with perspiration, and so was she, a little pool of sweat puddling at the dip in the base of her neck.

  “In a bit, maybe,” she said.

  She would need a moment. To gather herself, to regain her senses, to remember how to use her extremities. Brendan seemed to sense this and grinned at her.

  “You a’ight?” he asked, laughter in his voice.

  “Yes,” she said, still a little breathless. “Just … one second.”

  “Well, I’m gonna go jump in the shower,” he said. “I have to get back for a three-thirty. You want me to get you a car?”

  At that, Tracy became alert once again.

  “What?”

  “A car,” Brendan said as he stood.

  He was so beautiful naked, that Tracy was momentarily distracted. But then her eyes drifted to his face and the certainty on it led her to a sinking realization.

  “You’re leaving right now?”

  “Yeah. But I need to shower first. I’ll call you a car when I call for mine to get back to the office.”

  “Why would I need …?”

  “C’mon, Tracy. To take you home,” he said, an edge of impatience in his voice. “Do you need me to call you a car, or no?”

  Pulling herself to a sitting position, she grabbed the sheets and covered her chest.

  “No,” she said, her voice brittle. “I don’t need you to call me a car to take me home.”

  Brendan pursed his lips and glanced up at the ceiling. “Why not?” he asked, his voice tight. “I thought we …”

  He was so sure, so sure that he had fixed it. Whatever ‘it’ was, in his estimation, all it took was a couple orgasms, and he was sure he’d made it better.

  “What did you think?” she asked him. “That you’d come over here and literally screw my head back on straight? We haven’t even had a conversation yet, Brendan. I don’t think we’ve exchanged a dozen words since you walked in the door.”

  “What is there to talk about? I asked you what was wrong, what I can do for you and you didn’t even have an answer for me. You don’t even know what y
ou’re doin’ here! This is just some more of your crazy-ass, irrational …”

  “Get out,” Tracy said.

  “Tracy …”

  “Get out!” she screamed.

  He stared at her, his jaw fixed, a vein in his neck pulsating with the apparent effort not to yell back at her.

  “You came over here to fuck me calm, just so I would go back to Brooklyn and take care of Layla!” she said. “You’re not even interested in hearing …”

  “Hearing what?” This time he did yell. “Tell me! Because I’m dyin’ to know. What is your problem exactly? That you live a damn near perfect life of ease in one of the most expensive neighborhoods in New York City, and yet can’t order up a second baby like you would a puppy from the pet store? What, Tracy?”

  “Get out,” she said again, this time much more quietly. “I would hate for you to be late for your three-thirty meeting.”

  14

  He made it home only slightly after six o’clock and by then, Layla had long regained her calm. Trish on the other hand, was still a little frazzled and on edge. Only once he saw her did Brendan realize he had forgotten to call her back as promised. He had no idea how she finally managed to calm his daughter down and didn’t ask. But he did slip her an extra fifty as he let her out of the townhouse. She was halfway out the door when she turned and offered him an apologetic smile.

  “About tomorrow,” she began. “I have a …”

  Brendan nodded wearily and held up a hand to stop her. “It’s fine, Trish. I’ll make other arrangements.”

  When he shut the door, he turned to sight of his daughter sitting on the bottom step of the staircase leading to the second-level, chewing absently on the leg of a stuffed rabbit. His gaze met hers and she offered him a beatific smile around her mouthful of fur. Brendan stood there and looked at her for a few beats, taking in the long-lashed wide hazel eyes, the burnt sienna complexion and the auburn curls, streaked in gold.