The Bright Side of Disaster

by Katherine Center

  My margarita was almost gone. I’d sucked it down like it was an Icee. Gardner took a big swig of his beer and pulled me up. “Let’s do it,” he said.

  I thought he was going to take me toward the dance floor, but instead he took me to a back patio that was pretty quiet. We could still hear the music, but we could also hear ourselves.

  “So this is the basic step,” he said, putting me in position. “Start with your feet together. Like this.”

  I was feeling goofy from the drink. “I’m a great dancer,” I said.

  “I don’t doubt it,” he said, staring at my feet. “Put your hands here.”

  We danced for a bit, him watching my feet and me watching his. Then he said, “Now look up.”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “I have to look down.”

  “No, you don’t,” he said, putting his arm around my waist. He pulled me to him, and we were pressed together.

  “Hey!” I said. “My feet!”

  “Just imagine them,” he said.

  And so I closed my eyes and imagined my feet in their festive black sandals. And he moved me around the patio, the muted music in the background. I had never done that kind of couple dancing before. The feeling was like nothing else. A strong arm holding you, guiding you to the next move, the sense that everything was taken care of, the pleasure of two separate people moving at the same time to the same music. It was, in fact—as he had promised—better than going to the movies.

  He showed me a few more steps and then pulled me toward the door. “Okay,” he said. “You’re ready for the big time.”

  “Now I’m nervous,” I said, pulling back.

  “You just told me you were a great dancer.”

  “I was kind of kidding.”

  “But you like to dance?”

  “In my house. Like I like to sing in my car. That doesn’t mean I want to do karaoke.”

  “This place is too crowded for anyone to notice us. We’ll just slip in.”

  He was pulling my hand toward the door. I was pulling back.

  “If you don’t like it, we’ll leave,” he said.

  I relented, and he pushed me gently through the door.

  Then he said, “But you’re going to like it.”

  And then we were in the crowd, and the crowd was moving, a force on our bodies like a current, and we were caught in it, all of us moving in the same rhythm to the same sounds. The steps were simple, and pretty soon Gardner was pushing me out and pulling me in, spinning me around and leaning me back. I just followed him. My red silk skirt twisted and swung, and I could feel it whispering around my legs. I had thought it was cold in there when we walked in, but on the dance floor, it was just right. Sparkly lights hung from the ceiling, and everything seemed infused with magic.

  And there, in the center of it all, was Gardner. He was calm and even. I thought about how nice it was that men had such big shoulders. I thought about what a good man he was.

  The next song was a bit faster, and I tried to keep up without thinking too hard. His hand was on the small of my back, and I just relaxed into it. He spoke encouragement at every opportunity: “Good! That’s right!”

  As the song ended, he pulled me off to the side. We were both starting to sweat some now. “Do you want to rest?” he shouted into my ear.

  In general, I was tired. There was never enough sleep. But I felt wide-awake at that moment. The next song was starting up, and the crowd was taking off. I shook my head no, and we slid back in.

  I don’t know how much longer we stayed out there, or what time it was when we stumbled back out to his truck. It couldn’t have been too late—the club was still packed. But as we walked out, the music was still so loud in the parking lot that he pulled me to him and dipped me right beside his truck.

  “Thanks for getting me out of the house,” I said as I came up.

  Gardner sent me out to spin, but when I was near the passenger door, I leaned back against it and pulled him to me. He put his hand against the door. He was a little out of breath, and I reached up to his face, thinking at first I was going to touch his hair. Instead, my hand found a place against his jaw, then settled against his neck. He was looking at my mouth, and I could feel his breath on my face. Then he looked up from my mouth to my eyes.

  “I’m not drunk,” I said. “Are you?”

  “I’m not drunk,” he said.

  And then he leaned down to put his mouth on mine. He had one arm against the truck and one arm around my waist. I’d been pressed up against him all night, and with this kiss, this amazing kiss, I was awash.

  Then, too soon, it was over. He pulled back. “We should be getting you home, I guess,” he said.

  There was a pause.

  I wanted to pull him back to me, but I didn’t. I just let him turn me toward the car, unlock the door, and position me inside. He even clicked my seat belt. I leaned my head back. Soon he was in the seat next to me, and then we were speeding along the highway. I closed my eyes. The motor hummed.

  And then we were in his driveway.

  He got out on his side and came around to get me. I didn’t move from my seat. I didn’t even unsnap my seat belt.

  “You’re too good,” I said. “There’s got to be something wrong with you. Tell me something that’s wrong with you.”

  “This is like that job-interview question,” he said. “‘What’s your greatest flaw?’”

  I nodded. “And you have to say ‘I work too hard.’”

  “I once got that question in an interview,” Gardner said.

  “And how did you answer?”

  “I said, ‘I work too hard.’”

  I nodded. “There’s nothing else you can say.”

  He touched the seat belt where it crossed my collarbone.

  “So what is it?” I asked. “Your greatest flaw?”

  He kept his eyes on the seat belt, and then finally said, “I give up on things too easily.”

  “What kind of things?” I asked.

  He thought about it a minute. “People.”

  “That’s a terrific flaw,” I said. “I’d love to have a greatest flaw like that.”

  He helped me out, and we walked arm in arm down to my house. At the door, on the porch, he put his lips against my forehead, breathing in a little as he lingered there. “Put yourself in bed,” he said.

  “Not a problem,” I said.

  “Maybe you and Maxie could come by tomorrow.”

  “To your house? You’re going to let me see it? Are you done?”

  “Not quite,” he said, “but there’s something I want to show you.”

  And then, as if he was trying to resist but couldn’t, he brought his mouth to my neck and kissed me there. It made me feel tipsy all over again. And even after the kiss, he rested his forehead against my shoulder, lingering there like he didn’t want to go, like he’d give anything at all to be able to stay in that one place.

  Then he pulled back just enough to look into my eyes. “See you tomorrow, Jenny.”

  And he was gone.

  I wasn’t quite ready to face my mother. For one, I was late. And for another, I was totally smitten. And she’d be able to tell, and she’d tease me and then I’d give her all the details and then somehow this night would be more of a story than a memory. I didn’t want to have to fit it into words just yet. Tomorrow, while I was wrestling Maxie into the car seat, I wanted to be able to go back in my mind and replay it all as if I were almost still there.

  I leaned against the door for a minute. I took a deep breath. Something good was happening. My life was rising from the ashes, and the sight of it left me feeling something like hopeful. Gardner could really kiss. And even better than that, something in me was starting to stir.

  And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a funny thing. In my driveway, mostly blocked from view by the house, was the back end of a Ford Explorer. A navy-blue Explorer. I moved one step at a time to the edge of the porch and leaned out for a better look. And there it was.
In the driveway. On this night, of all possible nights, Dean had come home.

  27

  I almost didn’t go into the house. I spent a few minutes with my key in my hand trying to come up with another option. But Maxie was inside, so there was nothing else I could do. I thought about staying on the porch for a while. But I had to go in. If for no other reason than I needed the sleep.

  I put my key in the lock and pushed open the door to find my mother sitting, arms folded, across from Dean, who was playing with his keys.

  “Look what the cat dragged in,” my mother said, gesturing at him.

  “How was she?” I asked. First things first.

  “She did great,” she said. “She woke up twice, and I went in and patted her each time, and that was that. Easy.”

  “You patted her?” Maxie would never have let me get away with that.

  I wanted the blow-by-blow, but it appeared now that I wouldn’t get it. My mother was itching to leave. Literally.

  “Well,” I said, “I guess I can’t keep you.”

  “I’ll call you in the morning,” she said, gathering her things.

  And then she closed the door. I was alone with Dean, whose first coy and slightly flirtatious words were “Damn, your mother is mean.” As if I were going to say, “Isn’t she?” and pop him open a beer to kick off a late-night bitch session. As if starting off like nothing had happened would make it true that nothing had actually happened. As if there were any degree of meanness that he didn’t deserve.

  He looked scruffier than I’d ever seen him. His hair was longer, and he had a very unfortunate wispy goatee. It was so strange to see him there, in the flesh. There was this body that I’d spent so much time with, and touched so often, and I could see his chest just under his shirt, a chest I’d put my head on a thousand times. It could have been on the other side of a razor-wire fence.

  His approach to the situation was clearly to act perky and cute. It had worked with me many times before—with little things. I marveled at the fact that he was doing it now. It wasn’t like he’d forgotten to pick up butter at the store. Could he really think this approach would work? Could he be that dumb?

  I didn’t say anything. I went to the kitchen and started doing the dishes.

  Dean followed me. “Where you been? On a date?”

  I just kept washing. I didn’t even know how to start talking to him. I put the dishes on a clean towel to dry.

  “You look great, by the way,” he said.

  I brushed past him.

  “Last time I saw you, you were pretty big.”

  I bent over to take off my shoes.

  “You really look great,” he said again. “You look like the old you.”

  I stood up. “I’m not the old me. I’m not anything like the old me.” I walked into my bedroom.

  “Can you hold still?” he said, and then tried to touch my hand.

  I jerked it away. “You’re not staying here. Go find a motel.”

  Dean gave me a hurt look.

  I started taking off my earrings.

  “I gave you those,” Dean said.

  “You’re not staying here,” I said.

  “Give me one night,” he said. “I’ll sleep on the sofa and see the baby in the morning and be gone the minute you give the word.”

  “I have to get to bed,” I said.

  I walked around the bed that I now slept in the middle of, and I found some blankets in the closet, along with a sheet and a pillow. I threw them at him.

  “She’ll wake up at least one more time tonight, and I’ll go in to nurse her. Do not come in or bother us in any way. Also, don’t use the toilet, because it’s against the wall her crib is on. If you need to pee, go outside.”

  “What if I need to, you know, do more than pee?”

  This is what we had come to. “Do you?” I asked.

  “No. I mean hypothetically.”

  “Figure it out,” I said. “Dig a hole in the yard if you have to.” I looked at him. “A deep hole.”

  “Maybe a neighbor’s yard,” he said, nodding, as if we were collaborating.

  “Whatever you do, don’t make any noise. If you wake up the baby, you’ll be sleeping in your car.”

  It was time to go to bed. It was one in the morning. She’d be up at six. Best-case scenario, I’d get four and a half hours.

  “Good night,” he said as he left the room.

  If I could have slammed my door without waking Maxie, I would have.

  My mother had been wondering where my rage was. Where was the indignation? The anger? The furious loathing? Well, it must have been with Dean on his travels, because the minute he stepped inside my house, I knew exactly where it was. It was everywhere. How dare he come into my house with bad facial hair and act like he had any right to be there? Tomorrow, I was changing the locks.

  Maxie woke two more times that night. None of the other mommies in our group had babies who slept through. Some woke only once. Others slept in their parents’ bed and spent most of the night on the boob. Maxie was the wake-up record holder, and when we compared notes, the other moms were impressed with her average. I’d shrug and say, “She’s an overachiever.” When the next morning came, as was often the case, I felt more tired than when I’d gone to bed.

  And then there was Dean to face. Except not really. Maxie and I were up before dawn, and even though we went all through the house doing our usual morning things, Dean slept right on through. I couldn’t imagine sleeping like that. Since Maxie, everything woke me up—rain, lawn mowers, folks talking out on the street. Even a strong gust of wind could do it. Every sound was an alarm clock for me. Sometimes I’d find myself standing beside the bed before I knew why I’d gotten up. Only a dog barking. Only a car door slamming. Back to bed.

  Dean did not have the same problem. He slept on my sofa—through Maxie crying, through Herman’s bird-in-the-magnolia-tree barking frenzy, through my opening and closing the front door on numerous occasions—until eleven in the morning. And he woke at eleven only because I poked him with my shoe. Okay, maybe I kicked him. Maxie was asleep, and it seemed like a good time to get rid of him.

  He rolled over and buried his head in the sofa pillows. Then, I suppose, he remembered where he was. He lifted his head and said, “Hey.”

  “You aren’t welcome here anymore,” I said.

  “Good morning to you, too.”

  “You need to pack up your stuff and go.”

  “Can’t we talk?”

  “No.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Write it in a letter, chief.”

  He hadn’t had any coffee, something he always did before trying to think or talk. He was in his boxers, his undressed self exactly the way I remembered it.

  “Just give me a couple of minutes to wake up.”

  “You get two minutes. Maxie’s taking a nap, and if you leave soon enough, I might get a nap, too.” God, I’d have given anything for a nap.

  “You named the baby ‘Maxie’?”

  “How can you not know that?”

  “I know I’ve been out of touch.”

  “You have been nonexistent.”

  “I’ve just been having a hard time lately.”

  “Are we going to compare suffering now?”

  “Could we just get some time to talk?”

  “There is no time, Dean. Not anymore. There is the baby, and there is far too little sleep. And there is nothing in between.”

  “Except dates. Looks like you’ve got a few of those.”

  “Are you trying to guilt-trip me? I’ve had three hours of downtime in the past seven months. How many have you had?”

  “I’m not. I’m not trying to guilt-trip you.”

  I put my head in my hands. If he’d come home even five minutes before Gardner kissed me in that parking lot, I might have been something almost like happy. But now all I wanted was for him to leave.

  “Can I just talk to you for a minute?”

&n
bsp; I sighed loudly and walked into the kitchen.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m getting something to eat.”

  Dean got up and followed me, eager, I’m sure, to root through the fridge for leftovers. We used to have very high-caliber leftovers. What I had now, of course, was orange juice, old pizza still in the box, jars of baby food. The fridge was mostly empty.

  Dean pulled out the pizza box, looking ready to reheat the slices.

  “I wouldn’t eat those,” I said. “They’re from last week.”

  “Where is all the food?” he said.

  “I’ve got nuts, seeds, and crackers in the cupboard. I’m having cereal.”

  “I’ve never seen your fridge like this.”

  “You’ve never seen me as a single mother.”

  “You’re not eating?”

  “I’m not doing anything.” He had no idea. And why should he? His life had barely changed at all. “If I say it slowly, will you get it? All I do is the baby.”

  “You don’t cook?”

  He was standing in the kitchen in just his boxers. As if he lived here. As if we were on those terms. I closed my eyes and pointed back toward the living room. “Go put some clothes on,” I said.

  And he went. And I was alone in the kitchen. I should kick him out, I thought. Any sane person would kick him out. But I was waiting for his apology. I was sure it was coming. Every time he opened his mouth, I expected to hear him beg for forgiveness. And I just simply had to hear it. It was like watching a horror movie on TV through your fingers. You should just turn it off, you know—but you just have to see what’s going to happen.

  When he returned, he had on a T-shirt and ripped jeans. “Had to go out to the car to get these,” he said, as if that had been some kind of accomplishment.

  I was almost done with my cereal by then. I took a last bite, clanked the bowl down in the sink, and said, “Okay. Why are you here?”

  He was standing across the table from me, a place he had stood a hundred times before. We had lived in this house for a year before we’d gotten engaged, then for another year after that. I’d bought the house myself, but I’d never lived here without him until he left me. Now he was back, and as wrong as it felt, it looked kind of right. Since he’d been gone, the house had felt like a photograph with a person cut out of it.