by Tom Perrotta
He had no idea what was taking Aimee so long. She was usually gone by four, off to serve the early birds at Applebee’s. He wondered if she was under the weather, or maybe had the night off and had neglected to mention it. If that was the case, then he’d have to rethink his options.
It was ridiculous that he didn’t know, because he’d just talked to her on the phone a few minutes ago. He’d called for Jill, as he often did in the late afternoon, checking to see if they needed anything from the grocery store, but it was Aimee who picked up.
Hey, she said, sounding more serious than usual. How was your day?
Fine. He hesitated. Kinda weird, actually.
Tell me about it.
He ignored the invitation.
Is Jill there?
No, just me.
That was his opening to ask why she hadn’t left for work, but he was too flustered for that, too distracted by the thought of Aimee alone in the house.
No problem, he said. Just tell her I called, okay?
He slumped down in the driver’s seat, hoping to make himself a little less conspicuous to Eileen Carnahan, who was heading down the sidewalk in his direction, taking her geriatric cocker spaniel for his pre-dinner stroll. Eileen craned her head—she was wearing a floppy tan sun hat—and squinted at him with a puzzled expression, trying to figure out if something was wrong. Pressing his phone to his ear, Kevin fended her off with an apologetic smile and a can’t-talk-now wave, doing his best to look like a busy man taking care of important business, and not a creep who was spying on his own house.
Kevin comforted himself with the knowledge that he hadn’t crossed any irrevocable lines, at least not yet. But he’d been thinking about it all day, and no longer trusted himself to be alone with Aimee, not after what had happened that morning. Better to keep his distance for a while, reestablish the proper boundaries, the ones that seemed to have dissolved in the past few weeks. Like the fact that she no longer called him Mr. Garvey, or even Kevin.
Hey Kev, she’d said, wandering sleepy-eyed into the kitchen.
Morning, he’d replied, walking toward the cupboard with a stack of small plates balanced on his palm, still warm from the dishwasher.
He wasn’t aware of anything flirtatious in her voice or manner. She was wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt, pretty tame by her standards. All he registered was his usual feeling of being happy to see her, grateful for the jolt of good energy she always provided. Instead of heading for the coffeemaker, she veered toward the refrigerator, opening the door and looking inside. She stood there for a while, as if lost in thought.
Need something? he asked.
She didn’t reply. Turning away from the cupboard—just trying to help—he drifted up behind her, peering over her head into the familiar jumble of cartons and jars and Tupperware containers, the meats and vegetables in their transparent plastic drawers.
Yogurt, she said, turning and smiling up at him, her face so close that he caught a subtle whiff of her morning breath, which was a little stale but not unpleasant—not at all. I’m going on a diet.
He laughed, as if this were a ridiculous project—which it was—but she insisted she was serious. One of them must have moved—either he leaned forward or she leaned back, or maybe both those things happened at the same time—because suddenly she was right there, pressing up against him, the warmth of her body passing through two layers of fabric so that it felt to him like skin against skin. Without thinking, he placed a hand on her waist, just above the gentle flare of her hipbone. At almost the same moment, she tilted her head back, letting it rest against his chest. It felt completely natural to be standing like that, and also terrifying, as if they were perched on the edge of a cliff. He was intensely aware of the elastic waistband of her pants, an intriguing tautness beneath his palm.
On the door, he told her after a hesitation that was a lot longer than it needed to be.
Oh yeah, she said, abruptly breaking the connection as she turned. Why didn’t I know that?
She grabbed the yogurt and headed for the table, flashing him a sidelong smile as she sat. He finished emptying the dishwasher, his mind buzzing, the memory of her body like a physical sensation, imprinted on his flesh as if he were made of very soft clay. A whole day had gone by and it was still there, right where she’d left it.
“Fuck,” he said, closing his eyes and shaking his head, not quite sure if he was regretting the incident, or trying to remember it a little more clearly.
* * *
LAURIE COULDN’T blame the pizza guy for looking surprised, not when she was standing in the doorway in her white clothes, holding up a hand-lettered sign that read: HOW MUCH?
“Uh, twenty-two,” he mumbled, doing his best to sound casual as he withdrew two boxes from an insulated pouch. He was just a kid, about the same age as her own son, broad-shouldered and appealingly scruffy in cargo shorts and flip-flops, as if he’d stopped off at Parker Road on his way to the beach.
They performed the awkward exchange, Laurie taking possession of the pizzas, the kid relieving her of two tens and a five, a huge expenditure of petty cash. She stepped back from the doorway, shaking her head to let him know that no change was necessary.
“Thanks.” He pocketed the bills, tilting his head in an attempt to catch a glimpse of whatever was going on inside the house, losing interest when he realized there was nothing behind her but an empty hallway. “Have a nice night.”
She carried the warm, flimsy boxes into the dining room and set them on the table, registering the anxious but clearly excited looks on the faces of the new guys, Al and Josh. After months of meager rations at the Ginkgo Street compound, takeout pizza from Tonnetti’s must have seemed like an impossible, almost indecent luxury, as if they’d died and gone to a heaven of self-indulgence.
They’d moved in just three days ago and had quickly established themselves as ideal housemates—clean, quiet, and helpful. Al was around Laurie’s age, a short, impish guy with a gray-flecked beard, a former environmental consultant for an architecture firm. Josh was in his early thirties, a good-looking former software salesman, lanky and morose, with a tendency to stare at everyday objects—forks and sponges and pencils—as if encountering them for the first time.
Not too long ago, Laurie thought, she and Meg would have been intrigued by the arrival of two reasonably attractive, age-appropriate men in their lives. They would have stayed up late, whispering in the dark about the newcomers, commenting on Al’s cute smile, wondering if Josh was one of those emotionally stunted guys who would turn out not to be worth the work you’d have to put in to get him to come out of his shell. But it was too late for that sort of entertainment. They’d cut their ties; Al and Josh belonged to a world they’d already left behind.
Guessing correctly, Laurie opened the box that contained the mushroom and black olive pizza—there was also a sausage and onion for the carnivores—that Meg had specifically requested. The aroma that engulfed her was rich and complex, as full of memories as an old song on the car radio. Laurie was unprepared for the tenacity of the melted cheese as she lifted out the first slice, the improbable weight in her hand when it broke free. Moving slowly, trying to invest the act with the sense of ceremony it deserved, she set the slice on a plate and offered the plate to Meg.
I love you, she said, speaking only with her eyes. You’re so brave.
I love you, too, Meg silently replied. You’re my sister.
They ate in silence. Al and Josh tried not to look too greedy, but they couldn’t restrain themselves, reaching for slice after slice, taking way more than their fair share. Laurie didn’t mind. She wasn’t very hungry, and Meg had only taken a single bite of the food she claimed to have been dreaming about for months. Laurie smiled sadly at the ravenous men across the table. They were innocents, just like she and Meg had been when they’d arrived at Outpost 17, blissfully unaware of the beautiful tradition they’d been chosen to uphold.
It’s okay, she thought. Enjoy it while yo
u can.
* * *
CHRISTINE HURRIED off to the restroom, leaving Tom to prepare the bottle in the front seat, heating the water with a handy device that connected to the cigarette lighter. When it was the right temperature, he added a single-serving packet of formula, shaking vigorously to make sure it was all mixed in. He performed these actions in a state of exquisite suspense, checking the mirror every few seconds to make sure the baby was still asleep. He knew from experience how hard it was to properly assemble a bottle when she was squealing with hunger. Something always went wrong: The plastic bag wouldn’t open, or it would slip out of the holder, or it had a tiny pinhole in the bottom, or you didn’t screw the top on right, or whatever. It was amazing how many ways there were to botch such a simple operation.
This time, though, the gods were on his side. He got the bottle all set, extricated the baby from her bucket without waking her, and carried her to the picnic area, where they found a shady bench. The baby didn’t open her eyes until the nipple touched her lips. She snuffled around a bit and then pounced, latching on hard, sucking with a ferocity that made Tom laugh out loud, the bottle jerking rhythmically in his hand. It reminded him of fishing, the jolt when you got a bite, the shock of being connected to another life.
“You’re a hungry little thing, aren’t you?”
The baby gazed up at him as she gulped and snorted—not adoringly, Tom thought, or even gratefully, but at least tolerantly, like she was thinking, I have no idea who you are, but I guess I’m okay with that.
“I know I’m not your mother,” he whispered. “But I’m doing the best I can.”
Christine was gone for a long time, long enough for the baby to drain the bottle and Tom to start worrying. He hoisted the baby upright, patting her back until she released a cute little burp that seemed a lot less cute when he felt a familiar, disheartening dampness on his shoulder. He hated the sour smell of spit-up, the way it clung to your clothes and lingered in your nostrils, a far more insidious substance than baby poop.
The baby started fussing, so Tom took her for a walk around the grounds, which she seemed to appreciate. The rest area was a modest one—no restaurant or gas station, just a bland one-story building with bathrooms, vending machines, and shelves of informational brochures about the wonders of Connecticut—but it took up a surprising amount of space. There was a six-table picnic area, a dog walk, and a secondary parking lot for trucks and RVs.
Wandering past the big vehicles, Tom was hailed by a group of Barefoot People in a maroon Dodge Caravan with Michigan plates. There were five of them, three guys and two girls, all of them college-aged. While the girls were cooing at the baby—they seemed especially charmed by the dime-sized bullseye on her forehead—a red-haired guy with a knotted bandana head rag asked Tom if he was heading to Mount Pocono for the monthlong solstice festival.
“It’ll be raucous,” he said, grimacing as he raised one arm and scratched diligently at his rib cage. “Way better than last year.”
“I don’t know,” Tom said with a shrug. “Kinda hard with a baby.”
One of the girls looked up. She had a hot body, a bad complexion, and one missing tooth.
“I’ll babysit,” she said. “I don’t mind.”
“Yeah, right,” laughed one of her friends, a handsome dude with an unpleasant expression. “In between gang bangs.”
“Fuck you,” she told him. “I’m really good with kids.”
“Except when she’s tripping,” the third guy chimed in. He was big and beefy, a football player going to seed. “And she’s tripping all the time.”
“You guys are assholes,” the second girl observed.
* * *
CHRISTINE WAS waiting by the BMW, watching him with a pensive expression, her black hair gleaming in the afternoon sun.
“Where were you?” she asked. “I thought maybe you ditched me.”
“Feeding the baby.” He held up the empty bottle for her inspection. “She took the whole thing.”
“Huh,” she grunted, not even bothering to pretend that she cared.
“I ran into some Barefoot People. A whole van full. They said there’s a big festival in the Poconos.”
Christine said she’d talked to one of the girls in the bathroom. “She was all excited. Said it was the biggest party of the year.”
“We could maybe check it out,” Tom said cautiously. “If you want. I think it’s on the way to Ohio.”
“Whatever,” she said. “You’re the boss.”
Her voice was dull, profoundly uninterested. Tom felt a sudden impulse to slap her across the face—not to hurt her, just to wake her up—and had to restrain himself until it passed.
“Look,” he said. “I know you’re upset. But you shouldn’t take it out on me. I’m not the one who hurt you.”
“I know,” she assured him. “I’m not mad at you.”
Tom glanced at the baby. “What about your daughter? Why are you so mad at her?”
Christine rubbed her stomach, a habit she’d developed during pregnancy. Her voice was barely audible.
“I was supposed to have a son.”
“Yeah,” he said. “But you didn’t.”
She squinted past Tom, watching a family of blond people emerge from an Explorer across the way—two tall parents, three little kids, and a yellow Lab.
“You think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
“No,” he said. “That’s not the problem at all.”
She laughed softly. It was a bitter, helpless sound.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want you to hold your daughter,” he said, stepping forward and pressing the baby into her arms before she had time to resist. “Just for a couple minutes, while I go to the men’s room. You think you can manage that?”
Christine didn’t answer the question. She just glared at him, holding the baby as far away from her body as she could manage, as if it were the source of a troubling odor. He gave her an encouraging pat on the arm.
“And think about those names,” he told her.
* * *
THE GAME calmed Kevin’s nerves, as he knew it would. He loved the way time slowed down on the baseball diamond, the way your focus narrowed down to the facts at hand: two down, bottom of the third, runners on first and second, a count of two balls and one strike.
“All you, Gonzo!” he called from the outfield, not sure if his voice was loud enough to reach the ears of Bob Gonzalves, the Carpe Diem’s ace pitcher, or if Gonzo was even listening. He was one of those guys who got into the zone when he pitched, disappeared deep into his own head. He probably wouldn’t have noticed if the handful of women in the bleachers took off their shirts and started screaming out their phone numbers.
Call me, Gonzo! Don’t make me beg!
That was another thing Kevin loved about softball: the fact that you could be a middle-aged, beer-bellied construction estimator like Gonzo—a guy who could barely jog to first base without risking a heart attack—and still be a star, a slow-pitch wizard whose deceptive underhand tosses seemed to float like cream puffs toward the batter, only to plummet over the strike zone like a shot duck.
“You da man!” Kevin chanted, pounding his mitt for emphasis. “Nothing to worry about!”
He was standing out in left center with huge expanses of grass on either side of him. Only eight Carpe Diem guys had shown up, and the team had decided to play with one less outfielder than usual, rather than leave a gaping hole in the infield. That meant a lot of extra ground for Kevin to cover, with the coppery, low-hanging sun shining directly into his eyes.
He didn’t mind; he was just happy to be there, doing the best possible thing a man could be doing on a beautiful evening like this. He’d made it to the field with just a few minutes to spare, saved by Jill’s timely appearance at twenty after five. With his daughter running interference, Kevin was able to pop inside and change into his uniform—white stretch pants and a pale blue T-shirt with Carpe Diem written in old-
fashioned script above the image of a beer mug—then grab an apple and a bottle of water, all without even catching a glimpse of Aimee, let alone having to navigate any potentially awkward situations.
The next pitch was way outside, bringing the count to three and one on Rick Sansome, a mediocre hitter at best. The last thing Gonzo wanted to do was walk Sansome and have to face Larry Tallerico with the bases loaded. Tallerico was a beast, a scowling, sunburned bruiser who’d once hit a ball so far it had never been found.
“Easy does it!” Kevin shouted. “Make him swing!”
He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, trying to ignore the lingering sense of shame that had dogged him all day. He knew just how close he and Aimee had come to making a terrible mistake, and he was determined not to let it happen again. He was a grown man, a supposedly responsible adult. It was up to him to take charge of the situation, to lay out the ground rules in an honest and forthright manner. All he had to do was sit down with her first thing in the morning, acknowledge what was going on between them, and tell her that it needed to stop.
You’re a very attractive girl, he would say. I’m sure you know that. And we’ve gotten pretty close in the past few weeks—a lot closer than we should have.
And then he would explain, as bluntly as he needed to, that there could never be anything romantic or sexual between them. It’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to Jill, and I’m not the kind of man who would put either of you in that position. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. It would be uncomfortable, there was no question about that, but not nearly as uncomfortable as doing nothing, allowing themselves to feign innocence as they continued down the dangerous path they were on. What would be next? A chance encounter in the hallway outside his bedroom? Aimee in nothing but a towel, mumbling an apology as she squeezed by, their shoulders brushing as she passed?
