course, this was exactly what she’d always told her children to do: Find a trustworthy adult when they needed help.
“I assume this means she’s having sex, or planning to.”
Jana shrugged. “Her dad died. If you believe her, and I’m inclined to, she and Troy never did it until that first night Jobe was gone. She couldn’t stop crying and you were busy making funeral arrangements and talking to the boys. Not that anyone’s blaming you. But Siena went to her boyfriend and he was comforting her and … well, he
comforted
her. Then it happened again the next couple of nights. I think they decided they’d found some amazing new cure for grief.”
“Yeah, I know how that feels,” Carmen said softly.
During the months after Luca’s birth, when Carmen felt sore and frightened and guilty, she and Jobe had made love at least twice a week. It was the only time she could remember wanting him, leeching warmth from his body. The only time he’d acted recklessly, as if he genuinely longed for her. The only time he’d responded automatically, his body rising to meet hers.
Jana looked at Carmen sharply. “Do you know? Because I certainly don’t. I mean, what good am I in a situation like this? I haven’t had sex with a man in fifteen years.”
Carmen shrugged. “You made sure she was alright, not doing anything stupid.” Suddenly the resentment was gone and she was only grateful.
“Yeah. We went to Planned Parenthood.” Jana blushed. “I hope you don’t mind; I said I was her mother. They really don’t care, but it seemed to make it easier for them to prescribe. Oh, and they did a pregnancy test. She’s fine. They also made her promise to use condoms in the meantime. You know, ’til the pills take effect.”
“Thanks for doing that. Really.” Carmen sat for a moment absorbing, drinking her beer and wondering how things might have been different if she’d known this woman earlier in her marriage to Jobe. Surely Jana—three years older, Brooklyn-born, an ethical drifter—would have helped her find a way out, advising her the way she had Siena.
You’re going to live like this, lying, every day for the rest of your life?
Carmen imagined the young Jana saying. But it hadn’t been her whole life, and if she hadn’t stayed, they wouldn’t be sitting here right now, discussing Siena. Carmen and Jana would be, what: lovers themselves? Partners in a French bistro? Estranged after knowing each other only a short time? Who could say?
Just then the bell over the door jangled and a couple came in. The Corona-and-tamale crowd. In a few minutes, Harvey, the blue-grass guy, would set up in a corner of the café and the mood would be festive and a little bit New Orleans. Carmen rose quickly, dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter despite Jana’s protests, and kissed the other woman on the lips.
“You’ll be okay,” Jana mouthed before dashing unsteadily behind the counter. Carmen picked up the bag holding her children’s dinner and left.
At home, things were still too quiet. The main floor was dark and Carmen wandered from room to room, switching on lights, which made various items—Jobe’s stereo, the cedar chest where they kept old photographs, a coat tree—leap out at her all sharp corners and cave colors and spikes.
“Hello? I have dinner,” she called up the back stairs. There was a rustling, then the slow footsteps of Luca, plodding toward her voice. He appeared at the top of the stairs looking newly wakened; it was as if the house had been under a spell. “Where are your sister and brother?” she asked. But he only shrugged.
There was more movement upstairs. A few minutes later, Siena and Troy appeared, entangled in a way that Carmen couldn’t even figure out. Their hands and arms were wrapped together in some sort of strange way—as in a yoga pose. She opened her mouth to say something about their having been upstairs, probably in Siena’s bedroom, alone. Then she realized there was
“I assume this means she’s having sex, or planning to.”
Jana shrugged. “Her dad died. If you believe her, and I’m inclined to, she and Troy never did it until that first night Jobe was gone. She couldn’t stop crying and you were busy making funeral arrangements and talking to the boys. Not that anyone’s blaming you. But Siena went to her boyfriend and he was comforting her and … well, he
comforted
her. Then it happened again the next couple of nights. I think they decided they’d found some amazing new cure for grief.”
“Yeah, I know how that feels,” Carmen said softly.
During the months after Luca’s birth, when Carmen felt sore and frightened and guilty, she and Jobe had made love at least twice a week. It was the only time she could remember wanting him, leeching warmth from his body. The only time he’d acted recklessly, as if he genuinely longed for her. The only time he’d responded automatically, his body rising to meet hers.
Jana looked at Carmen sharply. “Do you know? Because I certainly don’t. I mean, what good am I in a situation like this? I haven’t had sex with a man in fifteen years.”
Carmen shrugged. “You made sure she was alright, not doing anything stupid.” Suddenly the resentment was gone and she was only grateful.
“Yeah. We went to Planned Parenthood.” Jana blushed. “I hope you don’t mind; I said I was her mother. They really don’t care, but it seemed to make it easier for them to prescribe. Oh, and they did a pregnancy test. She’s fine. They also made her promise to use condoms in the meantime. You know, ’til the pills take effect.”
“Thanks for doing that. Really.” Carmen sat for a moment absorbing, drinking her beer and wondering how things might have been different if she’d known this woman earlier in her marriage to Jobe. Surely Jana—three years older, Brooklyn-born, an ethical drifter—would have helped her find a way out, advising her the way she had Siena.
You’re going to live like this, lying, every day for the rest of your life?
Carmen imagined the young Jana saying. But it hadn’t been her whole life, and if she hadn’t stayed, they wouldn’t be sitting here right now, discussing Siena. Carmen and Jana would be, what: lovers themselves? Partners in a French bistro? Estranged after knowing each other only a short time? Who could say?
Just then the bell over the door jangled and a couple came in. The Corona-and-tamale crowd. In a few minutes, Harvey, the blue-grass guy, would set up in a corner of the café and the mood would be festive and a little bit New Orleans. Carmen rose quickly, dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the counter despite Jana’s protests, and kissed the other woman on the lips.
“You’ll be okay,” Jana mouthed before dashing unsteadily behind the counter. Carmen picked up the bag holding her children’s dinner and left.
At home, things were still too quiet. The main floor was dark and Carmen wandered from room to room, switching on lights, which made various items—Jobe’s stereo, the cedar chest where they kept old photographs, a coat tree—leap out at her all sharp corners and cave colors and spikes.
“Hello? I have dinner,” she called up the back stairs. There was a rustling, then the slow footsteps of Luca, plodding toward her voice. He appeared at the top of the stairs looking newly wakened; it was as if the house had been under a spell. “Where are your sister and brother?” she asked. But he only shrugged.
There was more movement upstairs. A few minutes later, Siena and Troy appeared, entangled in a way that Carmen couldn’t even figure out. Their hands and arms were wrapped together in some sort of strange way—as in a yoga pose. She opened her mouth to say something about their having been upstairs, probably in Siena’s bedroom, alone. Then she realized there was
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