This was real life.
“Okay,” she said.
Tate was flexible; she could roll with any plans and be happy. They picked the boys up from Barrett’s parents’ house. Tate received a nice hug from Chuck Lee, who looked like an old man. Because of the stroke, he walked with a cane and his speech was slow and pained, so Tate waited patiently as he labored to ask after Grant, Birdie, India, Chess, Billy, Teddy, and Ethan. (He remembered everyone’s name, which was amazing, and he remembered that Bill Bishop was dead, which was even more amazing.) Tate told Chuck that everyone was well, and that Birdie, India, and Chess were happy in the house on Tuckernuck.
Chuck said, “Your mother was a beautiful woman.”
Tate said, “She still is.”
“And so, for that matter, was your aunt.”
“She still is, too.”
“I’ll bet,” Chuck said.
She could have talked to Chuck Lee all afternoon, but she could tell Barrett was antsy for his beer on the deck, and the kids were whining. Tate backed toward the truck holding Tucker, promising she would see Chuck again soon.
Tucker cried when Tate buckled him into his car seat, and then Cameron started to cry.
Barrett said, “I have a goddamned headache.”
When they reached Barrett’s house, Tate helped unsnap the kids from their car seats and shepherded them toward the outdoor shower. The water made them cry harder.
Barrett said, “I’m going to run in and get them some pajamas.”
Tate said, “Do you want me to wash their hair?”
“Would you?” he said.
She would, of course she would, she would do anything for Barrett and his two little foot soldiers. It felt happy and domestic-Barrett off to fetch the pajamas, Tate lathering the boys’ hair with Suave shampoo for kids, which smelled like cherry pie filling, sweet and artificial. They cried, the shampoo got in their eyes, the water was too hot and then, when Tate turned it down, too cold. Tucker ran out of the shower and stood in the middle of the dry, dusty square of dirt that was the failed garden. His hair was white with soapsuds and now his feet were muddy.
“Tucker, come back here!” Tate called.
He was crying, and Cameron was whimpering, but at least he was clean and rinsed. Tate wrapped him in a towel. Where was Barrett with the pajamas?
“Tucker!” she said. “Come on, sweetie!”
He cried, rooted to his spot.
Tate ran out to the garden and snatched up Tucker, who wriggled and squirmed in her arms like a greased pig. She stuck him under a spray of water and he howled. Tate worried what Barrett would think, she worried about the neighbors, she worried that a woman not his mother forcing him into the shower would be a topic Tucker would revisit years from now, in therapy. She got him rinsed and in the process became soaked herself, but the warm water felt good to Tate, it felt magical, and she was tempted to strip down and shower herself right then and there, but that really would send Tucker into therapy.
She cut the water. There had been only one towel hanging in the shower, not two, so Tucker had no towel.
“Barrett!” Tate said. “Bring a towel, too!”
Barrett didn’t appear. Cameron slunk in the sliding door while Tucker howled, buck naked and wet. Tate picked him up and carried him inside.
Tate called out again for Barrett. There was no answer. She followed Tucker to his room. On her way, she grabbed a towel from the bathroom and dried him off. He stopped crying and wandered over to his train table, naked.
Tate said, “Where do you keep pajamas?”
Tucker pointed to a row of hooks. Pajamas!
Tate got both kids dressed and collected the wet towels. She felt like she had just run an obstacle course. Where was Barrett?
Cameron walked in and said, “I’m hungry.”
Tate said, “We’re getting dinner. Hold on.”
She wandered up to the living room. If Barrett was on the deck with that beer, she was going to strangle him. But the living room was deserted, and the deck was empty. Tate went back outside to the shower, thinking maybe they’d missed each other somehow, but he wasn’t there. She hung the towels from the clothesline like a good wife.
“Barrett?” she called. Nothing.
She wandered back into the house and checked on the boys, who were playing with Tucker’s trains. “Have you seen your dad?”
Cameron said, “I’m hungry.”
Tate moved down the hall to Barrett’s bedroom. If he’d fallen asleep on top of his bed, she was going to strangle him.
The door to his bedroom was closed. She tried the knob; it was locked. She knocked. “Barrett?” She could hear him talking. He was on the phone. She knocked again. He cracked open the door, pointed to the phone at his ear, then closed the door again. She heard him say, “Anita, listen. Listen to me.”
She walked back down the hallway and sat on the bottom step of the stairs. She thought about Chess, mixing up the lime and chili marinade, pouring it over the pearly white swordfish steaks, flipping the fish to make sure both sides were evenly coated. She thought about Chess in her blue crocheted cap, wearing Birdie’s denim apron, moving about the small, campy kitchen with a sense of purpose for the first time in weeks. Was Chess smiling, whistling, ordering Birdie and India around like minions?
Tate tried not to cry.
Barrett stayed on the phone with Anita Fullin for nearly an hour. Tate, in the meantime, made the boys dinner: microwaved hot dogs cut into coins the way they liked them, served with ketchup. Each kid got a handful of pretzel Goldfish and a container of applesauce. They got Hershey’s syrup in their milk because Tate was in charge. They ate dinner hungrily and happily, and Tate tried to conceal her growing anger and anxiety each minute Barrett was on the phone. What could he and Anita be talking about? Their relationship had moved out of bounds. Other caretakers didn’t talk to their clients for an hour or more behind closed and locked doors, of this Tate was certain.
After dinner, Tate presented both kids with a pudding cup topped with a squiggle of whipped cream from the can.
Tucker said, “I like you.”
Cameron said, “Where’s Dad?”
When Barrett got off the phone, it was ten minutes to eight. He clapped his hands and used a cheerful, in-charge voice. Where are my lieutenants? Tate and the kids were on the sofa watching an episode of Go, Diego, Go! Tucker was nodding off in the crook of Tate’s arm. Cameron didn’t move his eyes from the screen.
Barrett touched Tate’s shoulder. She didn’t move her eyes from the screen either. Diego was trying to rescue a baby jaguar. If she looked at Barrett, she would growl. If she opened her mouth, she would bite him.
“I’m sorry that took so long,” he said. He lifted Tucker up. “Let me put him to bed. I’ll be right back.”
Tate said, “When this is over, Cam, we have to go brush our teeth.”
“Okay,” Cameron said.
Tate oversaw the teeth brushing. She said to Cameron, “Did you go to the dentist yesterday?”
“Yes,” he said. “I got a new toothbrush!” He held it up, grinning. So Barrett hadn’t lied about the dentist. Tate felt strangely disappointed.
Cameron climbed into bed and Tate read him three stories. She was a wonderful mother. She kissed Cameron on the forehead, turned on the nightlight, and left the door open six inches, the way he liked it. There was an enormous sense of accomplishment in getting a child to sleep.
Tate poked her head into Tucker’s room. Tucker was asleep, and Barrett was snoring beside him. It was impossible to be mad-the two of them were adorable-but she was mad. She didn’t wake Barrett up.
She walked upstairs, opened a beer for herself, and foraged through the pantry until she found a can of Spanish peanuts. She settled on the sofa and turned on the TV. This was a luxury. She could watch any of her shows on HBO or Showtime; she could get sucked into the dramas of her old life-all fictional-and forget the dramas of her new life. But instead, she found the Red Sox-playing the Yankees!-and she was happy with that.