“Guess that makes me a corrections officer,” said Libby. “Maybe I should get my kids little striped suits for the dress-up box. Men seem to think relationships are so much work, when really it’s the baby that’s the real ball and chain, not the wife.”
“See, Bibs, a wife wouldn’t be so bad,” said Gwen.
“We’re talking about babies,” said Libby, “not wives. I’ve got fifteen kids every year. I don’t need a wife too.” Libby distributed each item around the kitchen, the berries to the sink, the lemons on the table, the butter beside the stove.
“Maybe just a wedding, then, for the presents and the dancing and the champagne,” said Gwen. She stacked sticks of butter into a mini pyramid.
“I doubt her parents would want to foot the bill for a wedding when I won’t even let her move in.” Libby rinsed the berries in the soapstone sink.
“Who says she gets to be the bride?” said Gwen.
“Why won’t you let her move in?” said Melissa, tilting her head a bit to one side.
“I look crappy in white.”
“Does Patricia want kids?” said Melissa. Her glass had grown frosted from the chill of the wine.
“She wants cats.”
“Well, you definitely can’t let her move in, then,” said Gwen as she went to get the butter dishes from the china closet. “Just make her live in her car, in your driveway, with the cats.”
“Gwen, are kids on your agenda?” said Melissa. Libby snorted.
Gwen was happy to be standing in the china closet, to have her back to the door so Melissa couldn’t see her face. She didn’t keep her own secrets because she was a terrible liar. She had embraced that quality by being brutally honest; if the truth is all over your face, why not say it.
“It’s just not my idea of a good time,” she called over her shoulder, trying to sound distracted and nonchalant. “Maybe all those years of babysitting poisoned me against the idea. It seems like a two-man job.” It’s hard enough when you get paid to do it. What happens when it costs you?
At seventeen she had spent two weeks in Hawaii with their neighbors, the Sheldons, and their three kids. For weeks leading up to the trip, she’d had stress dreams. A school of sharks would be waiting under the crest of a coming wave as the three Sheldon children frolicked in its shadow. She liked the kids, but with each wipe of a wet cloth digging between tight fingers, with every curled ear she massaged with suntan lotion, she had thought, motherhood is horrible. At night, she would find the waiter who had served her deflowered drinks at dinner. In his room between the ice machine and the transformer she would collapse on his single bed and ask how we had all managed to survive past infancy. He massaged her pruned hands that had held the youngest Sheldon afloat for most of the day.
“In Hawaii children are raised by the sea,” he had told her. She wondered if that wasn’t true of herself and Tom and Libby. Danny had had parents, had her. Gwen thought of her father holding Danny as they rode the ferry, her mother pointing out porpoises.
She rummaged through the closet, rattling stacks of plates, even though the butter dishes were right in front of her, hoping the subject would change. Then Gwen went to the stove, unwrapped the frozen sticks of butter, and let them thud into a saucepan, then she slid the cleaned mussels into the steamer pot.
“The best kids are other people’s kids,” said Libby. “The ones you can just give back at the end of the day.”
“Is that true of other people’s boyfriends, too?” whispered Gwen with a smirk. She’d almost said “other people’s wives” but stopped herself. She could tease Libby about Tim but never about Riley. Even so, Libby looked shocked.
“Tim Sherman was real cute,” said Gwen.
The three of them hung out for a few weeks one summer, going sailing on the Charles, drinking forties on their back porch. After a party one night she had stayed behind to hold the hair of the hostess and asked Tim to drive Libby home. Gwen knew exactly what would happen; she figured she didn’t like Tim enough and maybe Libby did. In fact, Libby had never liked a guy before or since. Tim had broken up with Gwen the next day. Neither of them had said anything, but Gwen knew. He was a good kid, a safe guy for her sister’s first hetero time.
At this point, Libby, red from the collarbone to the hairline, was intently rinsing berries, again. It had never occurred to Gwen that Libby might have thought she didn’t know. Hadn’t they joked about this before? Libby left the berries dripping in a colander in the dish drainer.
“And he was the love of my life.” Gwen sighed, fluttering her eyelashes. Libby twisted up a dishtowel and snapped it in Gwen’s direction. Gwen moved next to her for a moment and kicked her foot up and smacked Libby’s butt and then went back to the stove.
“Anyway, I agree with Libby. Other people’s kids are the best. I’m madly in love with Kerry and Buster,” said Gwen. She filled the butter dishes with hot water from the electric kettle to warm them. No one wanted congealed melted butter.
“Really? I hate other people’s kids,” said Melissa. “My kids are amazing.”
“Bibs, I forgot to add—”
With a wet hand Libby passed Gwen the white wine from the counter, the redness now receding down her neck, just a speckling, like she had hastily applied sunscreen. Gwen splashed wine into the pot, then pointed the neck of the bottle at the lemons scattered by the edge of the sink.
“Since Tom is anti-lemon, I’m going to leave it out,” said Gwen.
“We can just give everyone their own wedge. Melissa?” said Libby, pointing to the lemons on the table. Melissa stood up, eager for a job. She went to the counter, stared at the magnetic knife strip for a bit.
“Check the block to the left,” said Gwen from the stove. Libby pulled a cutting board from the shelf and put it on the table.
“Just berries for dessert?” said Libby.
“Naked berries? Please.” Gwen went to the pantry and produced cream from the fridge, a stainless-steel bowl from the freezer.
“So smart,” said Libby. They had made strawberry shortcake last summer and ended up with soupy butter instead of whipped cream because the heat in the kitchen kept the cream too warm, too watery to whip.