Single Dad's Bride

by Melinda Minx

  Sheryl gives a wry smile. “No job, Rita? And you don’t even help Elsie with her homework?”

  “She helps plenty,” I say. “But I just don’t believe that a dad just works and never spends time with his daughter. Stacy told me she never saw much of you, Michael, and—”

  “Enough!” Sheryl snaps. “Elsie, go play in the other room.”

  “With what? You don’t have any toys,” Elsie says.

  “Go!” Sheryl points toward the living room. “Play with your imagination.”

  Elsie stomps toward the living room. “I’m trying to be nice! But everyone here is so mean!”

  When she’s gone, Sheryl says, “Here are our terms. Elsie stays with us on weekends and during the summers.”

  “Summers?” I say incredulously. “Like the entire fucking summer, Sheryl?”

  “Yes,” she says. “And every weekend.”

  “Not a chance,” I say. “Why are you suddenly trying to cut a deal with me, anyway?”

  Rita is standing with her arms crossed. She’s biting her lip and avoiding making eye contact with anyone.

  “Like you don’t know,” Sheryl says. “You got remarried just in time, Deacon. I’m sure that will look nice for the judge.”

  “What are you implying?” I ask.

  Rita grabs my hand and squeezes.

  “You’ve got her trained well,” Michael says, pointing down. “The judge might buy that, but we don’t. Do you really want to risk losing complete custody? If not, you’d better agree to our deal.”

  “No,” I say. “This deal is shit.”

  “What did you have in mind then?” Sheryl asks.

  “Shit,” I say. “I don’t know? Something normal? Like, Elsie lives with Rita and me since she’s my daughter. You guys can visit whenever you want, and she can stay with you from time to time. We can play nice and all try to get along, and you can visit on Christmas and Thanksgiving and Easter...that kind of thing.”

  “That sounds like us getting nothing,” Cheryl says.

  “Except your charity,” Michael adds in.

  “She’s my daughter,” I say, grabbing Rita by the hand and pulling her into the living room. “Elsie! Let’s go! Ice cream time!”

  The car is quiet, even after I start to drive away.

  Elsie finally breaks the silence. “Dad, why do old people think such weird stuff is a good treat?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “The lemon things.”

  “It’s been a long time since they were kids,” I say. “And maybe back when they were kids, lemon cakes were a good treat.”

  “Why did everyone get so mad?” she asks. “Are you mad at me?”

  Rita looks at me nervously. I don’t know how much I should tell Elsie about what is going on. I hate treating her like a sheltered little baby, though, and I always err on the side of being honest with her.

  “No one is mad at you,” I say. “Grandpa and Grandma don’t think I’m doing a good job raising you though,” I say. “They think they can do better.”

  “No!” she shrieks. “I don’t want to live with them! Never!”

  “I know, sweetie,” I say. “And Rita and I are going to fight to keep you. You won’t go anywhere.”

  She still looks sad even after we get to the ice cream shop. It’s one of those places where they have a marble counter, and they press your chosen toppings into the ice cream.

  “What do you want in your ice cream?” Rita asks.

  “I dunno,” Elsie says, looking down.

  “M&Ms, Reese's Pieces, gummy bears, Butterfingers...”

  “Just not lemon cake,” Elsie says.

  “M&Ms,” I say. “She’ll get chocolate ice cream with M&Ms,” I tell the guy at the counter. “And strawberries.”

  I wink at Rita. “Gotta get some fruit in there to keep it a tad healthy.”

  Rita and I share coffee-flavored ice cream with chunks of Butterfingers and raspberries.

  Elsie looks a little less sad as she starts to eat her ice cream.

  “Good, huh?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Elsie says. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, smiling.

  Elsie doesn’t smile back.

  I can’t exactly promise her everything will be okay. All I can do is fight as hard as I can for her. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. She’s my daughter. She’s staying with me.

  18

  Rita

  I get a call for a job interview while Deacon is coloring in that phoenix on the guy’s back. I’ve applied for so many different jobs that I’ve lost track of all of them.

  “We’re a temp agency,” the woman’s voice says. “Just go to this address. It’s a secretarial job.”

  Secretary job. Okay, whatever. It’s good enough. Anything is better than nothing.

  I drive to the address, and find that it’s a small office building filled with lots of different offices.

  I locate the address I had written down and see it’s a lawyer’s office. Could the temp agency not have at least told me a day or so in advance? I’m going in completely unprepared. Even an hour or so would have given me time to learn a little bit about the place. Maybe they are desperate and will just offer me the job.

  I go inside wearing my interview clothes—nice grey pants and a white blouse.

  “Hi,” I say. “I’m here for the interview for the secretary...”

  I realize I’m talking to the secretary, and the office is small. There’s only one desk for a secretary. Maybe this one’s leaving.

  “Have a seat,” she says. “They’ll be with you shortly.”

  I wait a few minutes, and then I see Michael. Stacy’s Dad. I nearly choke.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “Come with me,” he says.

  “I’d rather not…”

  “Please,” he says. “I do have a job for you.”

  I get up and start to turn toward the door. “No thanks, Michael.”

  He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I have a job for you, and something else. Just hear me out.”

  I shake my head, and push the door open.

  He follows me outside to my car.

  “Please, leave me alone,” I say, trying not to look at him.

  When I open the door, he throws a big manila folder into my car. “Just look at it,” he says. “If that raises any questions with you, give me a call.”

  I consider grabbing the folder and throwing it at him, but I want to get away so badly that I just shut the door and start driving. When I’ve put a few miles between Michael and me, I pull over into another parking lot and stop the car. I grab the folder, and I consider just throwing it out on the ground and driving away.

  But what if it’s something incriminating...about Deacon? I should shred it, just in case.

  How bad could it really even be? Deacon seems honest enough. I don’t think he’d have any dark secrets. And if he did? This is my chance to figure out what Michael is going to try to use against him in court. I could just give the envelope to him unopened.

  Or I could look first.

  I decide not to look. As tempting as it is. I drive right back to Deacon’s.

  I wait impatiently for him to finish with his client, and when he’s done, he comes in with a big grin on his face.

  “What are you so happy about?” I snap.

  “This tattoo is a masterpiece,” he says. “Should I not be happy?”

  I slap the folder down on the table. “Michael gave this to me—”

  “You were meeting with Michael? What the hell, Rita!” he storms.

  “I didn’t know!” I say. “He tricked me! A temp agency said a law firm wanted to interview me, and Michael was there when I arrived. I’m guessing it was his lawyer’s office.”

  “What’s in it?” Deacon asks, looking down at the envelope as if it was a snake.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I didn’t look.”

  Deacon gives me a suspicio
us look. “You sound like you’re mad enough at me that you did.”

  I sigh. “I didn’t look. You have any secrets you want to come clean on before you open that?”

  Deacon shakes his head. “No, nothing I can think of.”

  “You sure about that?” I ask. “I’ll be a lot less angry if you tell me before you open it.”

  Deacon laughs and tears the envelope open. He pulls out a thick stack of photographs, squinting at them. “That’s it?”

  “What?” I ask.

  He throws them down onto the table. “It’s nothing.”

  I look at the photos. It’s at least a dozen photos, all of Deacon with a different woman each time. In some photos he’s holding her hand, in others he’s squeezing her ass...or worse.

  “Michael hired a PI to take photographs of me hooking up with one-night stands,” Deacon says, shrugging.

  “How many one-night stands, Deacon…?” I say, looking down at the pile of photos. “Weren’t you in mourning? Grieving Stacy?”

  “Drugs and drinking were never my vice, Rita. People mourn in different ways.”

  “So you drowned your sorrows in women? Jesus! No wonder they want to take Elsie away!”

  He snatches the photos off the table and stuffs them into the envelope. “Just because I’m not as sexually repressed as you, Rita, doesn’t mean I’m a bad father! I didn’t do anything wrong. None of these women meant shit to me! It helped me feel better, one night at a time, that’s all.”

  “You asshole,” I say sliding the chair back and standing up. “You should have told me.”

  “Told you what?” he says. “That I have a dick?”

  “That you can’t keep your dick in your pants, asshole! Is that what I am, too? Your way of feeling better for one night at a time?”

  “No,” he says. “You’re different, you’re…”

  “I’m the twentieth, the thirtieth? Lucky number fifty? I have a hard time believing you, Deacon. I’ll keep doing this for Elsie, but I shouldn’t have gotten involved with you...like that.”

  “If you can’t accept my past…” Deacon says. “Then yeah, maybe you’re right.”

  I throw up my hands and stomp out of the room. Then I go outside, and the next thing I know I’m in my car, crying. I drive aimlessly, not wanting to go back to Deacon’s place. Not that I have anywhere else to go.

  “Rita?” my dad asks when I arrive at the door.

  “Hey,” I say. “Mind if I stay the night here?”

  “What about Deacon?” my mom asks. “Your husband.”

  “I know he’s my husband, Mom, can you just not pry?”

  “Don’t pry,” my dad says, turning to my mother.

  They let me collapse on the couch, and Dad heads to the kitchen where he starts fussing with the coffee machine, while Mom pretends to do a crossword puzzle.

  I think of Deacon with all those women, and I wonder how I could possibly be different for him. No, I know how I could be different: I’m pretending to be married to him. He has to be nice to me, or he risks me blowing his whole setup. Sleeping with me was just...some fun thing he could do. Or was it really even fun for him? Was it maybe just habit? He’ll sleep with any woman near him, as far as I know.

  The sound of the screen door sliding shut wakes me. Mom sees me open my eyes and puts down her book.

  “You’re up?”

  “I guess so,” I say.

  “Your dad just stepped out, so now you can tell me what happened.”

  I sigh. “What happened to “don’t pry?”

  I guess this is the cost of staying with them.

  “I don’t really know,” I say.

  “He cheated on you, didn’t he?” my mom asks. “A man who looks like that, with you, and—”

  “Mom!” I snap. “Think about how heartless that sounds before you just say it. You’re saying he’s out of my league?”

  “Of course he is, Rita,” my mom says, laughing. “And that’s good, you should always swing for the fences.”

  Why does everyone have to use baseball analogies?

  “So he did cheat, right?” my mom goads, looking smug.

  “Not exactly,” I say.

  “He did, or he didn’t,” my mom says. “And if it was just a one-time thing, I recommend you forgive him. You won’t find another one like that, one who earns—”

  “He didn’t,” I say. “Okay? But I found out that he’s a lot different than I thought.”

  “How’s that?” she asks.

  “I found out he...after Stacy died, he was with a lot of women.”

  Mom shrugs. “And? He was lonely and heartbroken.”

  “Come on,” I say, crossing my arms. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  “I am on your side, Rita,” my mom says. “I’m trying to get you back with Mr. Moneybags. You’re risking your marriage because he was with women before he was with you? Who cares?”

  “If he’s been with like, thirty women, what are the chances that I’m better than them…”

  “Come on, Rita,” my mom says. “Did he marry any of those other women?”

  I sigh. I can’t tell her that the marriage is fake. That my inexperience is almost the whole reason I was chosen at all.

  “Shouldn’t he have like, grieved for Stacy? Whenever a guy’s wife dies in a movie, he’s always too wracked with grief to so much as look at another woman.”

  “Life isn’t a movie, Rita,” my mom says. “People grieve in different ways.”

  I hear the screen door slide open, and Dad pops in. I stop talking.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “I figured out why Rita is here,” my mom says. “She’s upset because Deacon slept around...before they were together. He didn’t even cheat on her.”

  Dad laughs. “Hell, Rita, if sleeping around before meeting someone could be held against someone, your mom would have dozens of reasons to be furious with me! I used to really get around back in college, I—”

  “Roger,” Mom says. “We both know that’s not true.”

  Dad’s shoulders slump, and he says, “There were a couple…”

  “The literal definition of couple,” my mom says. “Two, yourself included. You slept with one girl before me, and I was so good you never looked back.”

  I try to plug my ears, but I can still hear my mom’s voice.

  Dad is laughing. “Alright, you got me there. If I hadn’t met you first, though, boy would I have been plucking up every last flower on the quad. I’d—”

  I really dig my fingers into my ears, and I start to hum. Finally I can’t hear him. I never want to imagine my parents having sex. As far as I’m concerned, the stork delivered me.

  Mom shakes me by the shoulders. “He’s stopped. You are so prudish, Rita, I can’t believe we raised you sometimes.”

  “It’s a rebellious thing!” my dad says. “I told you that first time she asked us to go to church with her and we refused, we lost her!’

  “Don’t start with this again, Roger—”

  “I’m telling you!” he says. “If we’d have pretended to be interested, she would have gotten into something else.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Like drugs. Nothing could be so rebellious or as bad as going to church, huh?”

  My mom sighs. “Well, it did make you so prudish that you’re fretting over Deacon’s past. Live for now, Rita. I’m sure there’s something in the Bible that says that.”

  I laugh. Ever since I became religious, that has been Mom’s go-to line. She’ll give me some advice, and then say that she’s sure something in the Bible backs her up.

  “What’s for dinner, Dad?” I ask.

  Dad always does the cooking.

  “Bratwurst,” he says. “Basted in beer.”

  “Again?” my mom asks.

  “Don’t like it?” he snaps. “Cook yourself!”

  I eat with them, and I actually start thinking over what my mom said. Is it really my place to judge what Deacon did in th
e past? If I talk to him, and he says he’s serious about being with me, then what does it matter what happened before? Did Deacon give me a hard time about how few people I’ve been with? No...he never made me feel bad about that, so why should I do the same to him?

  The logical part of my brain tells me not to be angry, but my blood is still boiling. I decide I’ll stay the night with my parents, and then go talk to Deacon tomorrow. After my head has had time to clear.

  19

  Deacon

  The phoenix tattoo is almost done. I get lost in its bright colors, ignoring that it’s on a big fat dude’s otherwise hairy back. He had to shave clean for the tattoo at least.

  I try not to think about Rita. How the hell can she overreact so badly? Sure, it’s not exactly noble how many women I fucked after Stacy died. The tortured and celibate husband routine was never really my speed. It’s not like I wanted anything serious with any of those women...losing Stacy was still a fresh wound. I still loved her.

  Rita has no right to judge me over that. Though in the back of my mind—or the pit of my stomach—I feel like shit over it. I hurt her, even if I don’t agree with her interpretation of my actions. I hurt her all the same.

  I push all that shit out of my mind and focus on the job in front of me. I watch as the needle moves in and out of Santiago’s skin. I wipe away the blood and zoom in on the colors.

  “I gotta shit, man,” Santiago says.

  “Again?” I ask.

  “Taco Tuesday, man!”

  “Jesus, dude,” I say. “I get into a spell here, and the muse is calling to me, and you gotta shit out tacos every fifteen minutes?”

  He gets up from the chair and waddles toward the bathroom.

  I sigh.

  He slams the door, and then I hear him grunting, and then I hear a horrible sound.

  “Turn on the fan!” I shout.

  I hear the fan drone on, but I can still hear him over its hum. I decide to step outside until he’s done.

  I lean against the wall and do everything I can to not think about Rita. She’s wormed her way into my mind ever since I slept with her. Even since I kissed her. Ever since I saw her nipples poking through her shirt.