Over the next few days, the marital gods shine upon our house and things start to feel good again. Nick is a model husband—calling from work just to say hello, coming home in time to put the kids to bed, even making me dinner one night. And yet, his effort doesn’t feel valiant or forced. Instead, he simply seems engaged, as if he’s part of our family’s biorhythms, absorbing the small moments that I sometimes feel I’m navigating alone. He’s so attentive, in fact, that I start to blame myself for our fight—which is always something of a relief, if only because it puts you back in control of your own life. Rachel and Cate, both of whom I confide in, agree that I was at least partially to blame for our rough patch, pointing to hormones, boredom, and general paranoia—the hallmarks of motherhood, Rachel jokes.
Our only setback comes on Halloween, mid-afternoon, when Nick calls from the hospital to tell me he likely won’t be able to make it back for trickor-treating—and will definitely miss the neighborhood gathering at April’s beforehand. I refrain from reminding him that to children, Halloween is the second most sacred night of the year (perhaps the most sacred to Ruby, who has an epic sweet tooth), and that although I try not to subscribe to gender-role parenting, I believe trickor-treating falls squarely in a father’s domain. Instead, I focus on the fact that he took Ruby to school this morning, staying to videotape her costume parade through the preschool hallways, then coming home to spend time with Frank before he left for work.
“Are you all right?” I ask calmly, supportively.
“Yeah, yeah. Just a lot going on here,” he says, sounding stressed and distracted but also disappointed, which has a way of mitigating my own disappointment. Then he asks if we’ll be okay without him, as far as handing-out-candy logistics go.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll just leave a bowl on the porch. We won’t be out very long. No big deal.”
***
And it really isn’t a big deal, I tell myself as Ruby, Frank, and I walk up the hill to April’s house just before dark and arrive to find her tying a cluster of orange and black balloons to her mailbox. I can tell at one glance that she’s already had several glasses of wine, and I suddenly feel in the mood for one myself. She blows me a kiss and then raves about how adorable Sharpay and Elmo are, her voice and gestures boisterous.
“Thanks,” I say, thinking that although they do look cute, her compliments are often over the top and that there’s nothing that cute about two store-bought costumes—one utterly predictable, the other slightly tacky.
“Where’s Nick?” she says, peering around, as if expecting him to jump out of the bushes and surprise her.
“He had to work,” I report with my usual mix of pride and regret that comes with being married to a surgeon.
“Bummer,” she says sympathetically.
“Yeah. What can you do?” I shrug, then glance up at her house, admiring her extensive decorations—the scarecrows lining the driveway, the little ghosts strung from trees, and the elaborately carved jack-o’-lanterns clustered on her front porch. I tell her everything looks beautiful, hoping to change the subject, if only for Ruby and Frank’s sake, seeing no point in drawing attention to their father’s absence.
“Thanks!” she says. “There’s a face painter in the backyard . . . And I’m on the fence about bobbing for apples. Do you think it’s too cold? Too much trouble?”
“Yeah. Keep it simple,” I say, recognizing that this advice is rather like telling Madonna to keep a low profile or Britney Spears to make good relationship decisions.
I tell her this and she laughs, linking her arm through mine and announcing that she’s missed me—when what I think she means is that she’s missed talking about something other than the Romy drama.
“I’ve missed you, too,” I say, feeling content as we walk up the driveway. We watch Ruby and Frank greet Olivia with exuberant hugs, feeling a rush of satisfaction that comes from successfully engineering your children’s friendships.
My good mood continues over the next hour, as I mingle with friends and catch up with neighbors, discussing the usual topics—how quickly the year is flying by, how much the kids are liking school, how we really should get together for a playdate soon. All the while, I do my best not to think of Nick’s conspicuous absence from the group of fathers huddled with their red wagons filled with trickor-treat bags for their kids and bottled beer for themselves, even when I’m asked, no fewer than a dozen times, where he is tonight. I can tell many are thinking of Romy, but only Carly Brewster has the nerve to directly raise the subject. Ironically, Carly is one of the most talked-about and least liked women in the neighborhood. A former consultant with an M.B.A. from Wharton, she seems utterly bored in her role as stay-at-home mother of four boys, compensating by inserting her nose in everyone’s business and starting unnecessary battles in PTA and neighborhood association meetings. Last spring, she actually suggested that a leash law be enacted for cats.
In any event, she begins her inquiry nonchalantly while expertly bouncing her youngest in a Bjorn carrier. “How’s that little boy doing?” she asks as if the story is vague in her mind. “The one who was burned at the Crofts’?”
“He’s fine,” I say, my eyes resting on the line of demarcation between her ash-blond hair and dark roots.
“Is your husband with him tonight?”