on his bathrobe. She hunched under the covers, as potent an invisible presence as could be imagined. Her hair bunched on the pillow in a tangled ribbon.
He looked at her form, still and steamy, her early morning smell whispering from the bedclothes to his nostrils. He could have picked her out, blindfolded, in the midst of a hundred sleeping women. On the mornings after they’d made love – not so many mornings now, he’d rather lost interest – the smell was overlain by something sweet and acrid that bore scant resemblance to somatic functioning. Something primal, post-pheromonal, that caught in your throat. He’d once thought it exciting, heady as an exotic perfume left too long in the sun, but now? It didn’t exactly disgust him, but he’d smelled better, fresher, and more exciting.
He crossed the hall, had a quick and not entirely satisfying pee, squeezed out the final reluctant drops, washed his hands and took the few steps from the hallway into the kitchen. Get the coffee going, make something for the kids to eat in the car – Becca would only eat peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwiches, while Jake had been addicted for some months to bologna sandwiches with mustard. At least it was easy. And for the grown-ups? Perhaps some sliced hard-boiled egg sandwiches, with mayonnaise and tomatoes. A few pickles in Saran wrap. And the Thermos of coffee, of course.
No breakfast for the kids, best to lift them from their beds, floppy and warm morning-smelly in their jammies, carry them down to the car however it made his shoulder ache, settle them in the back seat with pillows and blankets. With a bit of luck they might sleep for a couple of hours, kill almost half the journey. A third perhaps. Addie wouldn’t have much to say.
Best be on the road by six, miss the worst of the morning traffic, though they would be going against the flow, away from DC rather than into it, north into Maryland, skirt Philly in a few hours, miss the New York rush hour, get to the bungalow for a late lunch. Maurice would soon be at Wolfie’s buying half a pound of Nova, herring in cream sauce, egg salad, poppy seed bagels and scallion cream cheese, knishes, dark oily maslines and plenty of half-sour pickles. The pantry and freezer would already be loaded in anticipation of their visit. It was a prospect worth hurrying up for, and the weekend at the bungalow would pass quickly enough, until he could return on Sunday evening to the empty apartment, leaving Addie and the kids. He would visit them later, taking the train, but otherwise he was looking forward to the peace, the quiet, no needy noisy children, no needy silent wife – time to spend working and listening to music, more than that certainly, a lot more – with an intensity that rather alarmed him.
She hadn’t been asleep, of course. He rarely noticed whether she was or wasn’t, unless he wanted something, which he was beginning not to want. She rolled onto her right side, pushed the bedclothes off with a hasty gesture and stepped onto the floor. Turned on her bedside lamp, though Ben had opened the curtains and a dispiriting half-light was making its way gingerly into the room.
She wore her nudity with ease, if not grace. When they’d first become lovers she’d tilted her shoulders slightly backwards when she was naked, throwing her breasts into sharper relief. In later years she had none of the hunched self- consciousness of other women he’d known, breasts retracted. Now her walk was simple, upright, all traces of erotic display long gone.
Young lovers are curious children giggling, peering and peeping, naughty, anxious both to show off yet not to be caught, as if behind a bush with the grown-ups only just out of sight. She and her first boyfriend Ira had laughed when they made love, sometimes stopped to still themselves, perfectly aware that the impulse would abide, carried on, laughed and fucked and cried in mutual release. It hadn’t been like that with Ben, not even at first, not so innocent, so pure, so full of wonder. But it had been more powerful, more grown up, and she’d wanted him with an intensity that surprised her. It was gone now, he knew it and seemed hardly to mind.
She pulled the shower curtain carefully, lest the stays on the rail popped again, and shrugged her way into the tub, turning the tap on carefully so as to avoid the downpour onto her hair, not bothering with the ugly rubber shower cap. Not that anything could make it look worse; let it frizz, the hell with it. Poppa Mo had given her a hand hairdryer for her birthday, proud to be up to date on the latest gadgets, but she’d never figured out how to make it work, was certain she’d be electrocuted.
She hated going to the hairdresser’s, head stuck in an ugly helmet blowing hot air, half-listening to more hot air on either side of her, the inconsequential gossip, the babble. It made her hate women, having her hair done. They all loved it, basked and wallowed in the heat like animals. Ugh.
They’d packed the suitcases the night before and put them in the trunk, enough simple clothing and beachwear for the visit, assembled a bag full of puzzles, colouring books and packets of (dangerous) jellybeans, likely to cause discord over who got the oranges, or drew a black. Dr Seuss and Peanuts, as well as Nancy and Sluggo cartoons – but reading in the back seat had to be rationed for the highways, when there wasn’t too much sway and things were as stable as you could get with two fidgety kids – Jake was constantly widening his territory, but the little one always had a reliable response up her sleeve. If he offended her sufficiently, she’d say, ‘You’re Sluggo! That’s what you are!’
The comparison to the ugly, dunderheaded orphan infuriated him.
‘Keep it up,’ he’d warn, ‘and I’ll sluggo you!’
The prospect of the car trip – indeed, the prospect of the coming months – filled Addie with an anxiety bordering on dread, though anything was better, even this, than a summer – their last! – in the heat and humidity of DC.
They deposited the children, still fast asleep, dribbling in the corners of their mouths, in the back seat, propped them against the doors, placed pillows behind their heads. Addie brought Becca’s Teddo, a slight orange bear with eyes beginning to protrude, the strings showing, and placed it gently beside her. She’d be upset without it, had only just been weaned from sucking her thumb. She was an anxious little girl, vigilantly doe-eyed, focusing first on one then another of the family, though quite what she was watching and waiting for was unclear. Some sort of unexpected disaster, like a jug sliding off a table, which if she could only spot it coming might be averted.
Neither child stirred. Addie placed the back-stick between them, dividing the territory exactly in half. They usually woke within a few minutes of each other. Most mornings, Becca would rise abruptly, rubbing her eyes, looking round the room to orient herself, for she had occasional moments when she awoke from a dream feeling displaced and would begin to cry. On normal mornings, though, comfortable in their small shared bedroom, she awoke alert and cheerful.
‘I’m a morning person!’ she’d proclaimed. ‘Like Bugs Bunny!’ She would reach across to Jake’s bed and grab him by the shoulder, fingers digging in.
‘Wake up, sleepyhead,’ she’d say, shaking him until he grudgingly opened his eyes. She loved that moment, it was why she woke first, when she was in charge and he had to do her bidding. In a few minutes things would revert, Jake would rise, enfold his territory, and she would return to her natural place in the scheme of things: on the edges, looking in, vigilant, a solemn freckled owl, unseen, seeing. Darwin would have been proud of her. It was a highly intelligent bit of adaptation.
Her father adored her, held her hand when they were out together, teased her by squeezing her dear little knuckles, gave her little pats and tickles when they were on the couch watching TV, rumpled her hair, could barely suppress a smile when she entered the room, called her freckle-face. It made Addie furious with disapprobation, not jealousy, she wasn’t worried that the little one would supplant her, take the position as number one girl. Why worry about that? It had happened already. No, what she disliked was the fawning. It made her uncomfortable to the point of nausea.
She’d been her father’s
