Page 9 of Such a Good Wife

“It’s fine.” I dismiss it and dig for my keys.

“New haircut?” he asks. Even Collin didn’t notice the layers I added. I think I blush a little.

“Oh, sort of.”

“Looks nice,” he says, smiling. Joe Brooks has one of those personalities. He always asks people about themselves. Maybe it’s a police tactic to draw people out, because who doesn’t love to talk about themselves? It makes people feel good and open up. I thought he was an asshole in high school. He was popular, always had something to prove, and girls threw themselves his way. He asked me out a couple times junior and senior year, but I rejected any interest he showed out of principle. I was not going to be another girlfriend of Homecoming King Joe Brooks. I guess that was just a part of being young, his obnoxious arrogance, because here he is now: local cop, volunteer coach for special needs kids, of all things. One of the moms, Julie, says he does it because it attracts women more than if he’d gotten a puppy. He does play a large part in the moms’ fantasy lives, but he smashed all of these rumors by actually just being a stand-up guy over the years.

“Thanks, Joe,” I say, involuntarily smoothing my hair with my fingers.

“I can try getting Ben back in the game if you want me to take five and go and talk with him.”

Not many people would go out of their way to deal with Ben. It’s so kind. I feel bad about all the bias I’ve held against Joe over the years without any real justification.

I might have said yes, but I already know it’s not happening, and maybe if I get Ben to the promised DQ and then home early, I can sneak in a chapter or two before Collin and Rachel get home.

“Thanks, but I think we’ll just try again next week,” I say and he puts his hand up for a high five like I’m part of the team. I reluctantly slap his hand, feeling a bit condescended to, but it’s just his way, I suppose. His hand lingers on mine a moment longer than it should.

“All right,” he says, and hollers over to Ben, “Good job, champ!”

Ben doesn’t look up from his fantasy world. I get him in the car with the promise of ice cream and leave, wondering if I’ve just been flirted with or if the guilt I’m wrestling with is causing delusions.

Collin calls after picking Rachel up from cross-country practice and they decide to meet us for a burger and ice cream. It’s a rare occasion that we veer from our local, organic dietary guidelines. Collin and I both cook and share a love of the farmers market. We bonded over the belief that a child’s palate is largely developed depending on what they’re exposed to early in life, so we have been strict about leans and greens at every meal, but lately, I’ve been a little lax. The news of now ice cream and burgers has Ben in the backseat whooping and singing a song about waffle fries that he’s composed, impromptu. He sees a woman hollering at her kid, blocking the only parking spot as we pull in.

“Fat ass, fat ass, fat ass,” Ben starts to repeat. “Waffle fries. Fat ass thighs!”

“Ben! That’s not very nice to say, is it?” And he is quiet, afraid burgers may be taken from him if he continues.

“Ricky!” the woman calls. She’s carrying a full tray of large Cokes in one hand and three greasy DQ bags in the other. I silently calculate the grams of sugar in a soda that size while I wait for them to clear the way.

“Ricky Jr., you get your skinny, little butt right out of the way, right now.”

The child pays no attention. He just continues mimicking Karate Kid moves, kicking high and creating his own sound effects.

“Whaaa. Kwaaah.”

The woman is stuffed into blue sweatpants and a long, stretched-out, stained T-shirt with Got Milk? scrolled across the front. She’s helpless to catch him. She waddles off the curb and moves closer to her son, giving us an anxious wave of apology.

“Now, Ricky Jr., I mean right this very second, or you will not have this Blizzard. I’ll give it right to your sister, and don’t you think I won’t!” Ricky still doesn’t seem convinced. “And no fries. You’ll eat a salad!” Ricky scurries to his mother’s side and quickly shifts his attention from karate moves to jumping up on her, trying to snatch a Coke from her tray.

After negotiating a spot in the packed parking lot for some time, I stand in line at the walk-up window. There are four red plastic tables with attached benches where Ben sits, on his best behavior, watching the busy patio with delight. There are families—moms and dads bent over dripping cones, children running around them in circles or calling emphatically for them to “watch me, watch me” while they perform some unimpressive activity like jumping off the six-inch curb or dabbing a dot of ice cream on their nose and laughing as if it were a great accomplishment.

A Celine Dion song pipes through the speakers and I feel inexplicably depressed. I treasure family nights like this, unexpected and serendipitous, but I want to be anywhere else right now. I want to be by myself. Just for a little while. I shouldn’t have suggested this.

When we are all finally finishing up and Ben is delighting in crumpling up the oily burger wrappers and making multiple trips to the trash with each of our plastic trays, Rachel is weighing the pros and cons of trying out for cheerleading when school starts. The paper tray liner has two columns she’s written in crayons pilfered from the Kid’s Corner. She’s treating it like the most important decision she’ll make in her life. Collin is ever attentive and indulgent.

“I’ll look like the biggest loser though. I can’t even do the splits. I’d be like the only one on the team who can’t do the splits.” She looks at me sideways for a moment as she goes off on her diatribe, harboring anger that I didn’t put her in dance when she was young. All the other girls started at five years old and she didn’t show interest until twelve, so it’s my fault she “totally sucks.”

“You’re tall,” Collin tells her. “It’s much harder to do the splits when you’re tall. Girls would kill for your height.” He always says the right thing. She softens.

“Really?” she asks, self-consciously.

“You’ll get the splits down. It just takes longer for tall people,” I add. Her dance teacher is Linda Waters who, I happen to know, is looking for extra cash and offering private lessons; it came up at a brunch with Gillian and the girls recently. Linda happens to have the misfortune of being young and very pretty, so naturally, all the women hate her. Why doesn’t she just work the pole at Bottoms Up Gentlemen’s Club across town, Liz had joked.

“Why don’t you take some private lessons to get you ready for tryouts?” I say.

Immediately, I wish I could take it back. Now I am unabashedly buying my child’s adoration because I feel guilty about something she knows nothing about. Three out-of-character moves in a few days. Shit. But it’s already out there.

“Really? Are you serious?” She looks to Collin, who shrugs in agreement. “Oh my God!” She flings her arms around me. “I’m gonna go and call Katie and tell her, can I?” She’s almost across the parking lot before I nod. She leans against the car, gesturing wildly as she talks to her friend.