Butterfly Soup. Nancy Pinard
push them like buttons, but then she’d know he can see them. Even at night she wants the lights out. Can she really be so modest after all this time? Or does she just think she’s supposed to be?
“Were you awake when Valley came in last night?” she asks.
He tells her he got up at one.
“Her mascara’s streaked all down her face. I knew that boy was no good.”
There she goes again, jumping to conclusions. Everett tries to distract her, reaching under her arm to knead her breast, but she’s not falling for it. When he won’t jump on her worry wagon, she flounces off. Everett imagines himself slipping her robe down off her shoulders, watching it fall to the floor as she dances in the morning light. He rocks the bed to the slinky music in his head, tightening and loosening his hips.
It will never happen. The bed settles.
Until Thursday he’d told himself her modesty was fine. It brought back the feeling of the first time, kept her always new. Maybe she knows that. Maybe her shyness is just an act. His groin stirs. Nah. Rosie isn’t clever. She is Rosie of the White Sheets. A goddamn Catholic saint. She doesn’t know that time is running out. By next week she may not want him at all, even in the darkness. He’s got to tell her.
Everett rolls back onto his side and pushes himself up. So far so good. Nothing is numb, though so far he hasn’t wakened to numbness. Reading a pamphlet shouldn’t make symptoms appear, but since reading it, he’s tracking every twinge. His legs hold when he hoists himself onto them—not like last Tuesday, when his right leg buckled suddenly and he fell from the fourth rung of the ladder. He’d chalked up his bruises to the hazards of work when Rosie had asked. But it wasn’t the first time he’d fallen without cause.
He listens to the water run through the pipes as she turns the taps on and off. The silence means she’s dressing. “Rosie?” No answer. He raises his voice. “Rosie?” Silence. His speech may go someday. He’ll blabber, and people will think he’s retarded and avert their eyes. No one will hire a retarded electrical contractor. “Rooo-ssieee!”
“I have to run to the store, Everett,” Rosie says, emerging from the bathroom fully clothed and wriggling her bare feet into heeled pumps. “We’re out of cream.”
“Wait.” She’s halfway down the stairs before he formulates what it is he really wants. “I thought we might go somewhere today. You know, take a little day trip. Spend some time together.” Her shoes tap on the kitchen tile and the door shuts behind her.
Okay, he thinks. If that’s the way you want it. See if I’m here when you need me. He pulls on boxers, shorts and a polo and ties his sneakers, plotting to exit before she returns.
In the bathroom Everett pushes the clutter of Valley’s makeup aside. He wipes her blond hairs from the vanity with a damp sponge and wonders at the irritation he feels. Maybe Rosie is right. Maybe feeding, clothing and sheltering a daughter isn’t all there is to fathering. But Rose doesn’t know what it’s like to be him. He’s never admitted it to anyone, but from day one he and Valley were off-kilter. In the hospital he had looked at the wrinkled, slimy infant Rosie held, seen the adoration in her eyes, the protective curve of her shoulders, and felt like a stranger. He’d chalked it up to Valley’s early arrival. He and Rosie hardly knew one another when Valley turned up. Rosie’s growing belly had seemed a pleasant pacifier that compensated for her disappearing figure. The pregnancy slowed Rosie down after the agitation of their courtship. She’d laid quietly on the couch many evenings with her head in his lap, loaning his hands her nightgowned breasts and belly, a drowsy smile on her face. He’d led her off to bed easily after that, and she’d folded herself around him, accepting his attentions to the end. Then Valley arrived and he got lost in the chaos of feedings and diapers and crying in the night. Rosie’s breasts weren’t his after that. None of her was.
Now that Valley is grown, Rosie is paranoid. He can’t make a living and still worry over every little thing. When Rosie harps about the things he doesn’t do for Valley, he wants to withhold what affection he does feel. He rinses the sponge under the tap, squeezes the water out and scrutinizes its intricate structure of cell walls. Outnumbered by women, he feels like one of its holes—surrounded but not connected. When his walls break down, he won’t exist at all.
He hurries through his shave, musing on places he might like to go. With Rosie at the store, he doesn’t have much time to make his getaway. He’s combing the hair over his thinning crown when he sees the copy of the AAA magazine on the floor next to the john. The Miami Valley insert features adventures on Lake Erie. A sportsman’s paradise waits three hours north, and he hasn’t sampled any of it. A photo of a man harnessed to a yellow-and-orange parachute particularly fascinates him. Parasailing, the caption calls it. The chute is pulled by a speedboat, but the man is flying high in the air. One step short of skydiving, it looks to him. He’s always wanted to know how it feels—that moment of free fall after leaving the plane, before the chute opens. A lot like an orgasm, he suspects, a gigantic orgasm. He’ll do it while he’s still able. And if part of his body gives out while he’s doing it…well, he’ll go down enjoying himself. It will serve Rosie right.
Everett grabs his duffel from the closet and stuffs it with underwear, another shirt and swim trunks. He stops at Valley’s door on his way by and looks in. On the other side of her latest caterpillar and the phone he added when her friends began tying up his business line, her feline form curls toward the wall. He watches the quilt rise and fall with her breathing. The distance between them grew when puberty hit. Valley became sullen then. Setting foot in her room felt like trespassing.
Maybe he’ll wait to tell Rosie. There will be plenty of time later. Years. If he tells her now, she’ll strap him to a wheelchair the way she wants to chain Valley to the bedpost. She’ll insist on driving everywhere, and he’ll just sit there watching life pass by as if it’s television. If he doesn’t hold tight to the checkbook, he’ll lose control of everything. Thank God he’s invested their money. Hasn’t let her spend it.
He scribbles a note before he leaves.
Rosie,
I’ve gone out to make a bid. There’s a big one on the line. I may be late.
Love,
Everett
He chuckles to himself. He hasn’t lied exactly, considering what he has in mind. His sense of humor is one thing he won’t lose. Not if he holds on tight.
As Everett backs out of the garage, he glances at the garden. Small shoots are pushing through the soil, but from a distance he can’t tell if they’re plants or weeds. At the end of the driveway he glances up the road nervously. Just his luck, Rosie will pull into sight before he can make his escape.
The air’s heavy this morning, laying a haze over the horizon. He’s grateful for his air-conditioning as he speeds out of Eden. He plays with the radio dial. An announcer’s voice tunes in midsentence.
“…the British in their ongoing countersiege of the Falklands. Port Stanley is defended by some seven thousand Argentine troops.
“Israeli land, sea and air forces invaded southern Lebanon in retaliation for the assassination attempt on Ambassador Shlomo Argov in London on June third. Ground troops occupy the territory from Tyre on the coast to the foothills of Mount Hermon following Israel’s June fourth air strikes on Palestinian targets near Beirut.”
Everett turns it off. Air strikes are everywhere.
Ten miles north, he stops to tank up in Union City—first at the McDonald’s drive-through where he orders two sausage-egg-and-cheese biscuits with a large coffee, then at a Sunoco. Everett eats one of the biscuits, then gets out to pump his gas. It’s hot. Dr. Burns said heat and humidity aggravate his condition, and this June has been a doozy, with all the rain. He checks his oil and tire pressure, though before the diagnosis he wouldn’t have bothered. Now his car has to be dependable in case he has an episode.
“Find everything you need?” the attendant calls, stepping from behind the raised hood of a Thunderbird. He’s just