Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [98]
I nod. “I’m sorry about your wife.”
Neil nods, his lips pursed. “Thanks,” he says. “I assume my mother told you? She’s put out an APB among her network of Jewish mothers. I’m sure she’s preparing a feature article for The Jewish Chronicle just in time for the Passover issue extolling my virtues and advertising my availability. I suppose I should give up being embarrassed about it. You can’t stop the machine.” Neil smiles wryly and then leans his head back and rests it against the cinder-block wall of the gym while we watch the kids roll around on the yoga balls in front of us.
“I’m sure Sarah was a wonderful woman.”
“Thank you,” Neil says, looking over at me, his eyes searching my face, startled perhaps, that I’ve said her name. It just slipped out, and the instant I say it, I regret it. It’s too personal, too invasive, but ever since Ruth told me about Sarah, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. “Thanks for saying her name. People don’t like to. I think it makes them uncomfortable, but it’s nice to hear it,” Neil says, giving my hand a brief squeeze.
As soon as “The Bubble Song” begins to play, Eli, Chloe, Neil, and I join the other moms and kids to sit in the parachute circle. Even though Neil apparently didn’t mind, I’m still embarrassed to have intruded on his grief, and I make a point of not sitting next to him. Instead, Chloe and I choose a place on the other side of the circle. It’s warm in the gym, and the wafting of the parachute lends a welcome, cool breeze. The kids take turns crawling in and out while the instructors blow bubbles and the adults move the parachute up and down, its thin silk casting shadows of red, blue, and gold on our faces.
In the coatroom after class, Neil seeks us out. “Eli and I are going to have a latte at the Coffee Tree. I don’t suppose you ladies would care to join us?”
“I, ah, I mean we’d love to—Chloe’s a bear without her morning latte.” Neil’s smile is warm. “But, actually, I’ve promised my friend Ruth that we’d stop over.” At the mention of Ruth’s name, I feel my body deflate with the sudden realization that I’ve just wasted fifty-seven minutes of prime opportunity to help advance Ruth’s agenda.
“I just figured since the kids seemed to have such a nice time playing together, you know?” Neil says.
“You remember Ruth. She was here a couple of weeks ago? She has a little boy, Carlos?” Maybe it’s not too late.
Neil nods, absently. Silently, we gather our things, diaper bags, stray mittens, and boots.
The four of us are on our way out of the coatroom when we are intercepted by Rona Silverman, who’s headed for the ladies’ locker room. She’s wearing a stylish brown and black pareo over her swimsuit and is in the midst of removing her bathing cap and shaking loose her frosted hair.
“Why, Mira, Neil!” Rona says, stopping mid-shake.
“Mrs. Silverman,” we say in unison.
“What I wouldn’t give for those curls,” she says, running her manicured hand through Eli’s thick curls. Eli buries his head in Neil’s neck.
She looks at Chloe’s nearly bald head and gives it a rub. “Don’t worry, dear, it will grow,” she croons. “Besides, Eli’s older, isn’t he, Neil? He’s what, almost two?”
“Yes, in June,” Neil says.
“Although, as I recall, he had a full head of hair from the moment he was born. Isn’t that right, Neil?”
But Rona doesn’t wait for Neil to answer. “I’ve got to run,” she says, glancing at the waterproof watch displayed on her tanned wrist. “I’ve got a bridge game in half an hour.” She’s halfway through the locker room door when she stops and turns back. She looks from Neil to me, surveying us coolly, and says, “Oh, Mira, dear, please tell your friend Ruth that we’re so looking forward to mahj tomorrow.”
“Okay, give it to me one more time. What