ordered.
On the way home, I decided.
I was going to tell Mike about the rape.
10
“H e’s a rookie.” Mike kicked a box out of the way as he sat down to the night’s pitiful dinner offering: a Spa Lean Cuisine with an apple. Mike would compensate by downing a whole bag of chips later in front of the Yankees game. “He’s a kid. Cody doesn’t know how to handle himself yet. He also happens to be the son of a city councilman who has the ability to make my life very easy or very difficult.”
He took an aggressive bite out of the apple. “Did you have to shut the door in his face?”
“Is that what he told you?” I fired back. “You should be supporting me. He’s a walking sexual harassment case for the city. Not to mention his racial remarks and the little underlying threat about not stirring things up. He bears watching. He’s a redneck tattletale.”
“Oh, come on, Em. Did you really just say
redneck tattletale
? He said he brought the whole thing up to me because he was worried that he upset you … in your condition.”
I rolled my eyes, feeling a sudden kinship with Gretchen Liesel. Good old boys.
“You seem a little on edge, Mrs. Page,”
I mimicked, pitching my voice lower, drawling it out. But my anger at the young cop had started to dissipate, one of the benefits of riding the roller coaster of second-trimester emotions. He wasn’t worth the energy.
“I’ll stop egging you on,” Mike said. “I know there are some issues there. God, it still creeps me out that you can manipulate your voice to do whatever you want, even sound like a guy. Although I’d be happy if you want to bring a little Scarlett O’Hara into the bedroom tonight.”
“Hey,” I said lightly. “Those voice-over gigs paid for my master’s degree.”
All at once, I missed Lucy. She had been fond of me rummaging around my bag of accents. Pulling one out as a party trick. I once convinced one of her new boyfriends that I was a princess from Bulgaria seeking asylum.
“
Redneck tattletale
is going on the list.” Mike spit an apple seed into his empty microwave dinner plate, which once held the meal he’d eaten in five bites. He nodded toward the piece of paper on the refrigerator held up crookedly with a magnet the shape of New York State.
It was titled “Pregnant Thoughts,” in Mike’s barely decipherable scrawl. He’d introduced the list in the second month of my pregnancy, to record my hormonal pearls of wisdom. Currently at the top:
Just because I’m crying doesn’t mean I don’t have a point!
The list of pregnant thoughts was one of the first things he dug out of a box when we moved. They were always funny the morning after, and it kept the other list company—the one scribbled with possible baby names. Over the years, that list got shorter. Mike didn’t know, but I had named each baby we lost.
“So where do things stand with Caroline’s case?”
“I’m wondering whether I overreacted. Wondering whether I’m reacting enough. Feeling my way through small-town politics. By the way, Harry and his wife would like to meet for dinner tomorrow night. At Ruggieri’s. About seven.”
“Harry …?”
“Mayor Harry Dunn. As in the mayor. My boss. You met his wife at Caroline’s.”
Letty
. I didn’t want to think about two hours of spaghetti twirling with a former pageant queen who was probably on board with the Confederate flag license plate. I swiftly changed the subject. “I saw Dr. Liesel today. You know, the woman at the party who was recommended as a good local OBGYN.”
“Why? I thought you just had a checkup in Dallas. Did she look at the baby?”
“Yes, we heard the heartbeat. I’m fine. The baby’s fine. I was having a little intestinal distress. I’m trying to tell you something else.”
Mike eyed me carefully. He knew about more than a few paranoid trips to the doctor, some that made me feel embarrassed and neurotic and others that painfully assured me I wasn’t. He tossed
On the way home, I decided.
I was going to tell Mike about the rape.
10
“H e’s a rookie.” Mike kicked a box out of the way as he sat down to the night’s pitiful dinner offering: a Spa Lean Cuisine with an apple. Mike would compensate by downing a whole bag of chips later in front of the Yankees game. “He’s a kid. Cody doesn’t know how to handle himself yet. He also happens to be the son of a city councilman who has the ability to make my life very easy or very difficult.”
He took an aggressive bite out of the apple. “Did you have to shut the door in his face?”
“Is that what he told you?” I fired back. “You should be supporting me. He’s a walking sexual harassment case for the city. Not to mention his racial remarks and the little underlying threat about not stirring things up. He bears watching. He’s a redneck tattletale.”
“Oh, come on, Em. Did you really just say
redneck tattletale
? He said he brought the whole thing up to me because he was worried that he upset you … in your condition.”
I rolled my eyes, feeling a sudden kinship with Gretchen Liesel. Good old boys.
“You seem a little on edge, Mrs. Page,”
I mimicked, pitching my voice lower, drawling it out. But my anger at the young cop had started to dissipate, one of the benefits of riding the roller coaster of second-trimester emotions. He wasn’t worth the energy.
“I’ll stop egging you on,” Mike said. “I know there are some issues there. God, it still creeps me out that you can manipulate your voice to do whatever you want, even sound like a guy. Although I’d be happy if you want to bring a little Scarlett O’Hara into the bedroom tonight.”
“Hey,” I said lightly. “Those voice-over gigs paid for my master’s degree.”
All at once, I missed Lucy. She had been fond of me rummaging around my bag of accents. Pulling one out as a party trick. I once convinced one of her new boyfriends that I was a princess from Bulgaria seeking asylum.
“
Redneck tattletale
is going on the list.” Mike spit an apple seed into his empty microwave dinner plate, which once held the meal he’d eaten in five bites. He nodded toward the piece of paper on the refrigerator held up crookedly with a magnet the shape of New York State.
It was titled “Pregnant Thoughts,” in Mike’s barely decipherable scrawl. He’d introduced the list in the second month of my pregnancy, to record my hormonal pearls of wisdom. Currently at the top:
Just because I’m crying doesn’t mean I don’t have a point!
The list of pregnant thoughts was one of the first things he dug out of a box when we moved. They were always funny the morning after, and it kept the other list company—the one scribbled with possible baby names. Over the years, that list got shorter. Mike didn’t know, but I had named each baby we lost.
“So where do things stand with Caroline’s case?”
“I’m wondering whether I overreacted. Wondering whether I’m reacting enough. Feeling my way through small-town politics. By the way, Harry and his wife would like to meet for dinner tomorrow night. At Ruggieri’s. About seven.”
“Harry …?”
“Mayor Harry Dunn. As in the mayor. My boss. You met his wife at Caroline’s.”
Letty
. I didn’t want to think about two hours of spaghetti twirling with a former pageant queen who was probably on board with the Confederate flag license plate. I swiftly changed the subject. “I saw Dr. Liesel today. You know, the woman at the party who was recommended as a good local OBGYN.”
“Why? I thought you just had a checkup in Dallas. Did she look at the baby?”
“Yes, we heard the heartbeat. I’m fine. The baby’s fine. I was having a little intestinal distress. I’m trying to tell you something else.”
Mike eyed me carefully. He knew about more than a few paranoid trips to the doctor, some that made me feel embarrassed and neurotic and others that painfully assured me I wasn’t. He tossed
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