I watched his chest rise and fall with a bracing breath—that’s how I knew he knew I was mad—and he leaned forward, saying something to Jack. Jack nodded and leaned back in his chair, placing his hands on his knees.
Greg stood, lifting the mask and pulling the gloves he was wearing from his hands. He gave me a tight and contrite smile as he approached the door.
“Grace,” I said, holding my husband’s gaze while I spoke to my daughter, “go out on the balcony with your brother. And under no circumstances is anyone allowed to weld.”
“Okay, Mommy.”
I took two steps back and Grace walked swiftly by me as soon as Greg opened the balcony door. He waited for her to pass before entering. When the door was firmly shut, we stared at each other for a long moment. I didn’t speak, not yet, because my urge was to place him in a chokehold.
He lifted his hands and said, “I was hoping to be finished before you woke up. It’s taking longer than I expected.”
I still couldn’t speak because I was expecting the first words out of his mouth to be, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have allowed our eight-year-old son or our five-year-old daughter to weld. I realize it’s very dangerous and their wellbeing is important to me. Please forgive me.
Since that’s not what he said, I still wanted to place him in a chokehold.
He scratched the back of his neck and shifted on his feet, watching me cautiously like I might explode. Hesitantly he asked, “Is this about the mess?”
“The mess?” My question was shrill; it reminded me of a police siren.
Was that my voice?
“In the living room. We were in a hurry, but I did clean the kitchen.”
“You cleaned the kitchen?” That can’t be my voice. I don’t sound like that.
“We made muffins this morning. I saved you some, they’re on the counter.”
The resident fire ants in my brain were trying to singe their way out of my brain using a tiny ant-sized blowtorch.
“No, Greg. This isn’t about the mess. It’s about our eight-year-old son and our five-year-old daughter, who are now apparently proficient welders.”
“I wouldn’t call them proficient, at least not at TIG welding. It’s safer in some ways, but it’s more complex on the whole.”
“Greg—”
“And besides, if we don’t teach them about welding at home, they’ll just learn about it on the streets.” He grinned. He was grinning at me.
Fire ants.
In my brain.
With a TIG welder.
Matt opened the door; he, Jack, and Grace filed in. My eyes darted to the trio and I took a calming breath.
“It’s not snowing, but it’s cold outside. I thought I’d make the kids some hot chocolate,” Matt explained, his smile apologetic.
Jack asked, “Are you guys arguing?”
“Yes,” I said.
“No,” Greg said.
We stared at each other, Greg’s grin morphing into a wane grimace.
Grace came to my side and wrapped her small hand around my index finger. I glanced down at her just before her little voice declared, “That sounds like something Hitler would say.”
Matt gasped. Greg barked a laugh. Jack, unfazed, walked over to the piano. And I closed my eyes, reminding myself to keep my voice level and calm.
“Are you angry, Mommy?”
I nodded my head. “Yes, Gracie. I’m angry.”
“I’m sorry.”
I pressed my lips together and lifted my eyelids, issuing my daughter a small smile. “Thank you, Grace. I’m not angry with you, but when we get home I need you to pick up your toys, okay?”
“Okay,” she said, then gave me a kiss on my hand.
“Can I get anyone something to drink? Hot chocolate? Vodka perhaps?” Matt offered.
“No vodka for me,” Jack said, sliding onto the piano bench.
“Come with me, Gracie. Maybe you can find some marshmallows while I boil the water.” Matt disappeared into his kitchen like Al-Qaeda was on his heels, likely relieved to escape, and Grace skipped after him.
“Darling,” Greg closed the distance between us, taking my hand in both of his and kissing my palm. “I’m sorry about the mess in the apartment. I can go back right now and clean it up. But the kids and I wanted to make you something, and the Professor had a TIG welder.”
I felt myself soften. “Are you and Matty best friends now?”
“I’m not going to braid his hair anytime soon.” Greg’s eyes moved to the right and he tilted his head back and forth in a small considering movement. It was funny. I softened a little more.
Seeing my temper disarm, Greg lowered his voice. “Listen, Jack isn’t too young to weld, not when I’m sitting right next to him. I wouldn’t do anything to endanger . . . to endanger . . .” Greg frowned and turned, glancing over his shoulder to where Jack sat at the piano, playing Tchaikovsky.
Playing Tchaikovsky. . . !!!
“What the hell?”
“Oh my gosh!” I squeezed Greg’s hand, bringing his attention back to me. He looked utterly confused. “I forgot to tell you.”
“Forgot to tell me?”
“About Jack. About his piano playing.”
Greg studied me for a long moment, obviously trying to piece everything together on his own. “Has he been taking lessons?”
“No. He’s playing by ear.”
“By ear?”