Bird in Hand - Christina Baker Kline [76]
Alison was in the kitchen, washing lettuce for a salad. She had roasted a chicken and boiled new potatoes and set the table for four. Maybe a normal family dinner—as abnormal as that was—would cure what ailed them: Chicken Soup for the Dysfunctional Marriage. She turned off the faucet and dried her hands on a dish towel.
“Hey, little guy!” she heard Charlie say as he came in the front door.
“I’m not little. I’m big,” Noah shouted.
“Yes, you are! Hi, Princess,” he said to Annie.
“Hi, Dad. Did you bring me anything?”
Alison winced. She went out into the hall. “Annie, that’s not very polite. Give your dad some time to get settled.”
Charlie looked relieved. He might have anticipated Annie’s question, rude as it was, since he usually came home with trinkets or candy from an airport vendor (a model plane with the Continental logo for Noah, a bracelet or Beanie Baby for Annie). But clearly this time he had forgotten.
“Hey, honey,” he said, leaning over and kissing Alison. Not on the lips, exactly, but somewhere close.
“Hey,” she said. Her hands were shaking. She clasped them behind her back. “How did the hand-holding go?”
He looked at her quizzically.
“The client.”
“Oh, right, right.” He emitted an odd little grunt. “It went fine, I think,” he said, nodding his head.
“Did you get everything worked out?”
“Yep,” he said. “I think so.” He was jumpy, as if he’d had too much caffeine.
“Well, that’s good.”
There might have been an awkward silence then, but Annie was holding up a drawing of a unicorn she’d done in school for Charlie to see, and Noah was tugging on his hand, pulling him toward the playroom and his Thomas the Tank Engine railroad track, saying, “You be Percy and I’ll be James.” Charlie shrugged and held his free hand up to Alison, as if to say, What can I do?
“I made dinner,” she called after him. “A family dinner, for a change.”
“Gosh, I wish you’d told me,” Charlie said with an exaggerated grimace as he headed toward the playroom. “I had a late lunch—and I’m wiped. When I’m done here I thought I might go lie down for a few minutes. If that’s okay with you.” He disappeared around the corner.
Alison felt as if she’d been slapped. Charlie didn’t want to have dinner with his family. He didn’t even feel compelled to play along. She took a deep breath and followed him into the playroom. “Actually, it’s not okay. I made dinner for the family. The least you can do is sit with us.”
Charlie looked aggrieved, as if she had misinterpreted his motives. “Sure,” he said. “Whatever you want.”
“Meaning … ”
“Be Percy, Daddy!” Noah demanded, placing the little green engine in Charlie’s hand.
“Meaning ‘whatever you want.’ ” Charlie opened his eyes wide in benign agreeableness.
“Meaning it’s not what you want.”
“Daddy, come on,” Noah said.
“Just a second,” Charlie said. “Alison, for Christ’s sake.”
“Fuck you,” Alison said. She turned on her heels and went to the kitchen. She’d folded yellow-checked napkins on four woven yellow place mats set for dinner. Three floating candles in the center of the table, an impulse purchase from Crate and Barrel, bobbed, lit and glowing, in their glass holders. Alison leaned against the counter and closed her eyes. Two, three, four. She opened her eyes. Charlie hadn’t followed her. She went over to the table and blew out the candles, then covered the top of the salad bowl with plastic wrap and put it in the fridge—she was really the only one who ate salad, anyway—along with the open bottle of sauvignon blanc. She left the roast chicken and potatoes where they were, on trivets on the counter.
Standing in the doorway to the playroom, she announced, “Dinner for the kids is in the kitchen. I’m going upstairs.”
“Wait a minute,” Charlie said.
She waited.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m not hungry now.