She shook her head. The truth was, however, that she was famished. She had lied about the soup. And she had eaten nothing for breakfast. She was haunted by dual images: the sight she had seen when she had studied herself in the mirror and the fantasy she had created in her mind of the prostitute who had led her husband upstairs. Quickly she drank the entire glass of water before her, hoping she could trick her brain’s hunger center.
“I thought this afternoon I might research wallpaper designs for the front hallway,” he said.
“Are you kidding?” She couldn’t imagine him taking the time to find wallpaper designs. But then again, just yesterday he had come home from a furniture store with iPhone photos of possible couches to replace the one they were getting rid of on Saturday, as well as a stack of catalogs from the showroom. She was shocked, a little awed, by his initiative.
“Yeah, why not? Maybe find some paper with that great CBGB’s bathroom feel,” he said.
She smiled. The bathrooms there had always been appalling. But she and Richard had danced at the club and listened to music at the club and—one memorable evening—made out at the club. “Retro graffiti? Spray paint chic?”
“Absolutely. Did you have a chance to look at the catalogs I brought home? Think about what sort of new couch you’d like?”
She had carried the catalogs upstairs, but after reading with Melissa and then grading papers, she had turned out the light and gone to sleep—though first she had stared for a moment at Richard’s side of the bed. At her daughter, asleep there instead of her husband. “I didn’t. Sorry,” she answered. She felt a little sheepish.
“It’s okay. No need to apologize.” He looked once more at his menu. Then: “Remember that old joke about men and quiche?”
“I do. Are you thinking of ordering the quiche?”
“I am.”
“I never thought a man was less of a man because he liked quiche.”
He smiled. “Thank you.”
She sat back, wondering how this had all become so awkward. They had been married for nearly a decade and a half. They had been in love even longer. How was it they were struggling to make conversation? How was it their relationship had become an uncomfortable first date? She hated this. She loathed this. It was pathetic and…awful. Hadn’t they once been at least a little feral? A little less tamed? What the hell had happened to their nights at places like CBGB’s? What the hell had happened to the ease with which they would go to dinner and a movie and make love while Melissa was at a friend’s house for the night? She watched him look around for the waiter and made a decision. It was a snap decision, but at the moment she wanted nothing more than to find their way back to where they had been—to who they had been. To who they once were.
“Don’t order,” she commanded him.
He looked confused.
“We’ve got almost an hour,” she told him. “We’re going to go home and go upstairs. And there you are going to fuck me silly.”
…
The next morning, Friday, Melissa was finding it easier not to be mad at her father. A little, anyway. After all, her mother seemed now to have forgiven him. Last night her parents had slept in their bedroom together for the first time since before her uncle’s bachelor party. She had even seen her mom kiss her dad on the cheek when she had come into the kitchen for breakfast, as her dad was making her lunch for school. (She tried to recall if her father had ever made her lunch before. She had to restrain herself from making suggestions; she had to trust that Mom had told him what she liked.)
But she still found herself unsettled by what he may have done at that party and a little adrift in his presence. The expression sex slave kept coming back to her. Moreover, her father still wasn’t allowed to go back to work: he was still being punished by his bosses. Their house was still awash in unsettling vestiges from the party last Friday night, such as that awful couch.
And her uncle’s wedding was off. She was no longer going to get to be a flower girl, and she had been looking forward to that; she had been looking forward to that a lot. She loved the dress, and she had no idea now if she would ever have the chance to show it off. It was red velvet; it had a white collar and pearl buttons. When else would she have the opportunity to wear it? She’d probably outgrow it before she was asked again to be a flower girl.
When the phone on the kitchen wall rang, both of her parents turned toward it as if it were the smoke alarm. Then she noticed that they both looked at each other. Her father answered it; her mother leaned against a counter, holding her coffee mug with both hands. Melissa finished chewing the bite of toast in her mouth and swallowed. She planned to listen carefully. But then her father took the phone with him and wandered through the dining room and into the living room, and she couldn’t hear a word of what he was saying.
“Who is it?” she asked her mother.
“I don’t know, sweetie.”
“You look worried.”
“No.”
She didn’t believe that—her mother was worried—but Melissa could only sit against the back of her kitchen chair and wait. Both she and her mother waited.
A minute or two later, her father returned. “I’m…I’m going into the city today, after all,” he said.
“Really? Was that someone from Franklin McCoy?” her mother asked. “Was it that lawyer you despise?”
“Nope.”