The Burning Side(9)
“Why aren’t you more worried about Jonathan? Or Dom?”
“Who says I’m not?”
“You’re laughing about blue booties and heavy metal.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not worried. But for Jonathan, this isn’t some earth-shattering thing—it’s just another day.” Leo adds, “Besides, what would you rather me do?”
“I’d rather us help.”
“We are.”
“But more.”
Leo turns the radio down. “How?”
I sigh. “I just think Jonathan could do better than pest control.”
“You mean like be a dentist or a teacher?”
His question has a tinge of sarcasm.
“What’s wrong with being a dentist or a teacher?”
“Nothing, except that you have to be able to afford college.” He pauses. “What’s wrong with being an exterminator?”
I shake my head. “I just don’t know what the pay is like.”
He slows to a stop at a red light. “It’s enough. Which is plenty for most people.” He adds, “And it’s not like teachers make bank.”
The light turns green as Leo asks, “Why do you need to help people so badly?”
“You mean the former student who was almost in a knife fight?”
“I mean the former student who was almost in a knife fight—after we’ve already gone to him and eaten together and offered what we can. It’s like it’s not enough for you to maybe just laugh with someone.” He pauses. “Like you want to change people and then you want them to say thank you.” His tone is gentle, but the words cut.
“I only said that about him not being grateful because I wanted you to know I saw your generosity.”
We pull up in front of our house. “I’m not sure that’s why you said it.”
“Why did I say it, then?”
He shrugs. “So we could pat each other on the back.”
The car is idling, and neither of us makes a move to get out.
“Hey,” he says finally. “We okay?”
I retrace the things that seem to be problems for my fiancé: I want to help people and want them to say thanks. My dad and I have jobs that required college educations. None of this should be revelatory.
But Leo is looking at me tenderly, and I think this all boils down to us having such different backgrounds. So of course I can try to be more careful about expecting gratitude.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “We’re fine.”
When we step out into the evening air, a bird chitters in a cottonwood. The sun dips below the horizon. We’re far from road noise, and it’s peaceful here. Our house stands strong, like a witness. The black (or navy) shutters are fresh and inviting as we walk toward this new life.
Despite the warm night, a chill runs through me.
Leo notices, and he pulls me closer.
DEB
The Night Before the Fire
ALL THREE OF MY KIDS give me grief about keeping a landline. Josie calls it the spam-line. But it’s the spam-line she calls when her plane lands.
I’m effervescent. “Dad’s on his way! Can’t wait to squeeze your face.”
Josie has been on the road for months, and I should be happy for her. Many theater professionals didn’t know if they’d ever get back out there after the pandemic. Josie had just gotten cast in The Lion King ensemble when everything shut down. But I’ve missed her.
“My face will tolerate squeezing by the hands that are about to feed me chicken pot pie.”
“Why do you assume it’s chicken pot—”
“It’s always chicken pot pie when you want us to realize how much we miss being home.”
I glance at the peas and shredded chicken on the counter. “Well, I don’t hear you complaining.”
“And you never will. See you soon.”
Half an hour later, the front door creaks open. Wiping my hands on my apron, I hurry toward the entryway and squeal like a woman younger than my fifty-seven years. A new mom again for a flash, I proceed with the aforementioned face squeezing of my middle child.
Josie gives a look of patient annoyance. “Satisfied?”
“My baby with the squishy cheeks.”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
A deep chuckle rises behind us from the man accustomed to this routine. “Anybody want to squeeze my cheeks? Or help me set the table?”
We turn, and Josie scrunches her nose. “Your cheeks are prickly.” She lugs her bag to her room, hollering from the stairs, “I’ll help with dinner in two shakes!”
I reach up to squeeze my husband’s cheeks. Then I reach down to squeeze his other cheeks. Smiling, we set out napkins and plates.
Josie bounds back down the stairs. “Smells amazing.”
I don’t comment on her new piercings. Kids go through all kinds of seasons, and it doesn’t let up when they’re grown. One of our most memorable was Cameron’s Great Deodorant Protest the summer he was fifteen. He had some beef or other with the cosmetic industry. Teen boys, I came to understand, reek. But that autumn he developed a new crush, and the deodorant returned as quickly as it had disappeared. I could never have accomplished that; I simply had to ride it out until the girl with long blond braids and coltish tan legs came along.