Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [33]
We sit down at the kitchen table and sip our espresso. It is good, strong and hot. Neither of us says anything for a minute or so.
“Chloe’s beautiful,” Richard says finally. “Your father must be over the moon.”
“He thinks she’s great. Not that we’ve seen much of him. He came out when she was first born, and I was hoping that he’d be here for Thanksgiving, but . . .” I let this last bit hang in the air, trying to keep the resentment out of my voice.
“What about Jake? Does he see her?”
This is a dangerous question, one most people I know avoid. Probably the reason most people don’t ask is they assume that when a marriage breaks up so soon after the birth of a child, that somehow the child is at the heart of it. But Richard isn’t most people. And, because it’s Richard, I tell him everything—about Jake’s doomed visit, how he had to feign food poisoning the next day, how Nicola showed up sniffing around for clues, and how Jake has been avoiding me ever since.
One of the great things about Richard is that you could tell him you just ax murdered your best friend, chopped her up, and fed her to the dog, and he would flick a piece of lint from his lapel and raise an eyebrow as if to say, “And then?” This is why I know I can tell him the truth. What actually happened matters less than what I know lurked menacingly beneath the surface. Seduction was in my heart, and I know that had Jake shown even the slightest interest, I would have taken him back. Not just back into my bed, but back into my life, and for that I hate myself. For being weak and needy and for being ready to resign Chloe to a father who doesn’t want her.
Up until now I haven’t verbalized any of this. I’ve told no one about Jake’s visit. I can feel the tightness behind my eyes, and I know that I’m going to cry. Richard knows it, too, because he leans across the table and covers my folded hands with both of his and squeezes, hard.
“Come on now. Enough about Jake.” Kind of him to say so when we really hadn’t been talking about Jake. “It’s definitely over and better for Chloe, if you ask me, that she doesn’t see him.” He leans in conspiratorially. “Now, what I really want are the gory details. Spare nothing!” he whispers, his voice husky with anticipation. “Did you really claw her eyes out?” This is Richard’s modus operandi. When the going gets tough, distract them. Make ’em laugh. It’s a pretty good strategy.
“No, of course not,” I say, my sniffling turning quickly into a giggle. “It was her hair. I pulled some out.” It is still a satisfying memory. Richard lifts the corner of his mouth in a half smile, but doesn’t say anything.
“I know, I know,” I tell him. “I went nuts.”
“No, you didn’t,” he finally says, waving his hand dismissively and walking back over to the stove for more coffee. “You did what any sane jilted wife with an infant daughter would have done. He’s the nut. An asshole, really. Never liked him. And her, the worst kind of slut.”
I know Richard is not just saying this to make me feel good. He’d never liked Jake, and the feeling had been quite mutual. In the early days of our marriage, Richard had come to New York fairly frequently to visit us, me really. Although Richard was always perfectly pleasant, he’d made Jake uncomfortable. After the first couple of visits, Jake usually found some excuse to make himself scarce when Richard was here.
By the time the last of the biscotti are out of the oven, we have established that just about every single base impulse I’ve acted upon over the last several months has been completely justified, including the debacle at the anger-management class, that particular anecdote nearly causing Richard to choke on his espresso.
Richard is still asleep on the pullout couch in the living room when the doorbell rings early the next morning. It’s Hope, bearing a large Tupperware container and a plastic plate covered with a paper napkin decorated with a cartoon turkey.
“Good morning!” she chirps. She’s wearing