Back at the apartment, Ruth drank a tall cold glass of water, reheated the coffee and poured another cup, watched Minnie eat for a moment. Then she decided it was time to wake the kids.
Only they were always awake already. She knew before she lifted the hook-and-eye catch each morning and opened the door to their room what she was going to see. If it was winter, they would be snuggled together in one bed under the blue blanket, Frankie’s arm around Cindy as he read to her. His eyes would be fixed on the page, the book balanced on his raised knees, his other hand following the letters. When he reached a word he couldn’t pronounce, he would skip over it or look at the pictures and make it up. Cindy would be holding her doll, her thumb in her mouth, eyes flickering between the book and her brother’s serious face. When he read something funny or did one of his special voices, she would clap her hands and laugh.
But on hot days like that July morning, they were always up, standing on Cindy’s bed, looking out of their first-floor window, waving at everyone who passed by. Even the faces they didn’t know would smile back at those wide toothy grins, those soft baby cheeks. Ruth knew she should be proud of these kids. She should be proud of herself, bringing them up practically alone. They had toys and books, their clothes were neat and clean, they ate vegetables for dinner every night. They were safe here. It was a friendly neighborhood: when they climbed out of their window back in the spring, an old lady brought them home before Ruth even knew they were gone. She had to hide her surprise. The woman looked a little crazy—bright red hair and a shapeless flowered dress—but she hugged and kissed the kids good-bye before they ran inside. She clearly wanted to come in after them, but Ruth held the door and stood in the gap.
“It’s hard, Mrs. Malone. I know. I am alone a lot of the time too. It’s hard.”
Her voice was harsh, heavily accented. German or maybe Polish. She looked at Ruth and there was judgment in her eyes.
Ruth smiled tightly at her and opened her mouth to say good-bye.
“I want to say, Mrs. Malone, if you need help, you must only ask. We are just living over there”—pointing—“number forty-four. Come by any time.”
Ruth stopped smiling and looked her right in the face.
“We don’t need help. We’re fine.”
And she slammed the door and walked into the kitchen where she took down the bottle that was never opened before six at night, and took a long swallow. Then she went into the kids’ bedroom where they were waiting for her and she laid into them both with her tiny hands. Because they’d made her take a drink. Because of the way the old woman had looked at her. Because she was so tired of all this.
On that last day, she heard a faint giggling as she approached their room. She lifted the catch and there was a thud as they jumped down from Cindy’s bed and pattered toward the door. When she opened it, Frankie scooted past her, turned right to go to the bathroom. He wouldn’t use Cindy’s potty any more. He was a big boy, he said, almost six. Cindy was only four—still her baby. Ruth bent and picked her up, buried her face in the soft golden hair, headed left down the hallway. Cindy’s legs circled her waist; one plump arm curled around her neck. She felt her daughter’s eyes on her, stroking her powdered cheeks, her sooty lashes, the sticky cupid’s bow of her lips. Felt those tiny fingers like kisses, patting her skin, tugging and twisting her hair. Sometimes Cindy told her, “You look like a princess-lady,” and she drew pink mouths and round pink cheeks on her dolls, colored their hair red with her finger paints.
Princess Mommy.
Ruth reached the kitchen, let Cindy slide to the floor. Frankie came in, his hands wet, took his seat, frowned at his cereal.
“Can we have eggs?”
Inwardly, she sighed. Nine in the morning and she was already exhausted.
“No. Eat your cereal.”
He pouted. “I want eggs.”
“For Chrissakes, Frankie, we don’t have any fucking eggs! Eat your cereal!”
As she walked out of the room, she saw Cindy’s face crumple, heard the start of a wail. She opened the screen door, let it slam behind her, breathed deeply.
She was aware of the crying behind her, of Minnie barking, of the eyes on her from the surrounding windows. Carla Bonelli up on the third floor. Sally Burke’s nosy bitch of a mother in the next building. Nina Lombardo looking out from next door. Fuck them. They weren’t bringing up two kids single-handed, trying to hold down a job, trying to make a living, dealing with a crazy ex-husband. They didn’t understand what her life was like.
It wasn’t meant to be this way. Everything about Frank that had once made her heart race—his way of saying her name, the way he looked at her—after nine years and two kids together, all of that had become like the throb of a familiar headache.