Something Might Happen by Julie Myerson

I know what he’s thinking. He’s thinking: yes and some dads even work.
    He looks too young to have kids, I tell them, but he might do. We should ask him maybe.
    * * *
    At the clinic, I tear a hole in the rough blue paper on the bed so that June Sedgely can put her face in the gap.
    Are you cold? I ask June, who says she’s sixty but I guess is closer to seventy-five.
    Not really, says June in her thin, polite voice. I pull the string to turn on the electric wall heater. My fingers are freezing.
    I’m sorry, I tell June, my hands are awfully cold.
    June laughs agreement as I touch her.
    I work my fingers up and down June’s spine.
    There’s a little inflammation, I tell her. The connective tissue doesn’t feel right—
    You can tell all that, June says, just by feeling?
    I smile.
    Not always, I tell her. I can’t always feel it. But I can today.
    How’s that baby of yours? June asks me. She has kids of her own but none of them have produced a grandchild for her. It’s
     a sore point. We’ve discussed it.
    Big and heavy, I tell her. She’s growing fat.
    She’s a good feeder?
    I’ll say.
    June tries to nod her head and I feel the movement up and down her spine. A spring, a tremor.
    And that poor man, June says. How’s he coping?
    Alex? He’s doing OK.
    Not what I’ve heard, June says, her voice muffled by the blue paper. I’ve heard he’s gone a bit crazy. Insisting on making
     her coffin all by himself.
    My fingers stop.
    Really?
    It’s what I’ve heard. Jan Curdell told me. She heard it from the woman at the farm shop. I don’t know how she knows—
    I’m sure it’s not true, I tell her.
    You haven’t heard it?
    No, I say firmly.
    Oh well, says June, and you’d know.
    She sighs.
    Those poor kids, she says. It’s unthinkable.
    Yes, I tell her, it is.
    Lacey’s already there when I get home, sitting in the kitchen with Mick while he peels potatoes for supper. Each of them has
     a glass of red wine and on the table is an open bag of crisps. Mick has on his thickest jersey with the zip front and no socks.
     Lacey has loosened his tie and taken his jacket off—the first time I’ve seen him without it. His hair sticks up as if he’s
     been running his hands through it. I don’t know what they’re talking about but when I come in they stop. From upstairs you
     can hear the kids—pounding of feet, the frequent shrieks of complaint.
    Livvy’s lying on her mat on the floor, gazing at the back of the sofa. I kick off my shoes, pull her onto my lap. Kiss her
     four times on the soft, wide moon of her forehead—four fast kisses to make her laugh.
    She does. She squeaks.
    In the quick pocket of silence that follows, I can feelLacey watching her, the way people watch babies when they’re embarrassed or tired or don’t know what to say. I don’t look
     at him. I hold her away from me, hold her up under her sweet, fat arms, and then zoom her back for another four kisses. Up
     and in, up and back. She does her cartoon giggle. He watches her, watches me.
    Mick grabs a handful of crisps.
    So, he goes, how was work?
    Oh, I reply, OK.
    You sound fed up.
    No, I say, I don’t think so. Not fed up. Just tired.
    I look at Lacey and he smiles at me. I think what a nice smile he has—expectant, careful, kind. And then the kids come down.
    What’s for tea? asks Jordan, sniffing the air.
    Rosa eyes the crisps while holding her kitten nuzzled against her shoulder.
    Maria peed on the beanbag, she says. It wasn’t her fault.
    Get everyone to wash their hands, Mick says.
    Can I have a crisp? says Rosa.
    No, says Mick. Wash your hands.
    From now on, Nat says, the little ones are banned from PlayStation. I mean it.
    I wish he wouldn’t say that! We’re not little! screams Rosa.
    The kitten wriggles away and jumps to the floor. The cat flap bangs and before anyone can grab his collar, Fletcher rushes
     at it with a great long skid across the floor, barking loudly.
    Why can’t I? says Rosa, back on the crisps. Can’t