Karen Cleveland: Need to Know

I look at the American flag hanging near the front door. Matt hung that flag. Replaced the last one when it faded. He wouldn’t agree to work against our country. I know he wouldn’t. But did he do something ? Did he do enough to make the Russians think he might?

There’s one thing I know for certain. He was targeted because of me. Because of my job. And that’s why I hid the picture, isn’t it? If he’s in trouble, it’s my fault. And I need to do what I can to get him out of it.

I LET ELLA WATCHcartoons on the couch, one after another. Usually we cap it at a single episode, an after-dinner treat, but she’s sick, and I can’t get my mind to focus on anything except the picture. While Chase naps and she’s zoned out in front of the TV, I clean the kitchen. Wipe down the countertops, the blue ones that we’d replace if we had the cash. Scrub stains off the stovetop, around the three burners that still work. Organize the cabinet full of plastic containers, matching lids with containers, stacking the ones that fit together.

In the afternoon, I bundle up the kids and we walk to the bus stop to pick up Luke. His greeting is the same as Ella’s. Where’s Dad?

Dad’s taking Caleb to the doctor .

I make him a snack and help him with his homework. A math worksheet, adding two-digit numbers. I didn’t know they were already up to two digits. Matt’s the one who usually helps.

Ella hears Matt’s key in the lock before I do, and she’s off the couch like a shot, bounding for the front door. “Daddy!” she shouts as he opens the door, Caleb in one arm, groceries in the other. Somehow he still manages to squat down and give her a hug, ask her how she’s feeling, even as he’s wriggling Caleb’s jacket off. Somehow the smile on his face looks genuine, is genuine.

He stands up and ambles over to me, gives me a peck on the lips. “Hi, honey,” he says. He’s in jeans and the sweater I gave him last Christmas, the brown one that zips at the top, a jacket over it. He sets the bag of groceries down on the counter, adjusts Caleb on his hip. Ella’s clinging to one of his legs; he rests his free hand on her head and strokes her hair.

“How’d it go?” I reach for Caleb and I’m almost surprised when he willingly moves into my arms. I squeeze him and kiss his head, inhale the sweet smell of baby shampoo.

“Great, actually,” Matt says, peeling off his jacket, laying it on the counter. He walks over to Luke and musses his hair. “Hey, kiddo.”

Luke looks up, beaming. I can see the gap where he lost his first tooth, the one that went under his pillow before I got home from work. “Hey, Dad. Can we play catch?”

“In a bit. I need to talk to Mom first. Did you already work on your science project?”

There’s a science project?

“Yeah,” Luke says, and then his eyes dart to me, like he forgot I was there.

“Tell the truth,” I say, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. My eyes find Matt’s, and I see his eyebrows rise, just the smallest bit. But he doesn’t say anything.

“I thought about the science project,” I hear Luke murmur.

Matt walks back over, leans against the counter. “Dr. Misrati’s really happy with the progress. The echo and EKG looked good. She wants to see us back in three months.”

I squeeze Caleb again. Finally, some good news. Matt starts unloading the contents of the grocery bag. A gallon of milk. A package of chicken breasts, a bag of frozen vegetables. Cookies from the bakery—the kind I always ask him not to buy, because we can make the same thing for a fraction of the price. He’s humming to himself, some tune I don’t recognize. He’s happy. He hums when he’s happy.

He bends down, pulls out a pot and a pan from the bottom drawer, sets them on the stove. I give Caleb another kiss as I watch him. How is he so good at all this? How can he have so many balls in the air and not drop them?

I turn away from him, toward Ella, who’s back on the couch. “You doing okay in there, sweetie?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

I can hear Matt stop, his movements frozen. “Mom?” he says softly. I turn around, see the concern etched on his face.

I shrug, but I’m sure he can see the hurt in my eyes. “Guess today’s the day.”

He sets down the box of rice he’s holding and wraps me in a hug, and all of a sudden the wall of emotion that’s been building inside me threatens to come crashing down. I hear his heartbeat, feel his warmth. What happened? I want to ask. Why didn’t you tell me?

I swallow, take a breath, pull away. “Can I help with dinner?”

“I got it.” He turns around, adjusts the dial on the stove, then leans over and grabs a bottle of wine from the metal rack on the counter. I watch as he uncorks it, then pulls a glass out of the cabinet. Fills it halfway, carefully. He hands it to me. “Have a drink.”

If only you knew how much I need one . I offer him a small smile and take a sip.

I get the kids’ hands washed, strap the babies into their high chairs, one at either end of the table. Matt scoops stir-fry into bowls, sets them down in front of us at the table. He’s chatting with Luke about something, and I’m making the right expressions, like I’m part of the conversation, but my mind is elsewhere. He looks so happy today. He’s been happier than usual lately, hasn’t he?

In my mind, I see the picture. The folder name. Friends. He wouldn’t have agreed to anything, would he? But this is the Russians we’re talking about. All he had to do was give them the slightest opening, the slightest indication he might consider it, and they’d pounce.

There’s a tingle of adrenaline running through me, a sensation that’s akin to disloyalty. That thought shouldn’t even be crossing my mind. But it is. And sure, we need the money. What if he thought he was doing us a favor, providing another source of income? I try to remember the last time we argued about money. He came home with a Powerball ticket the next day, stuck it to the fridge under the corner of the magnetic dry-erase board. Wrote I’m sorry on the board, a little smiley face beside it.

What if they pitched him, and in his mind it was like winning the lotto? What if he doesn’t even know he was pitched? What if they tricked him, if he thinks he’s lining up some perfectly legitimate side job, something to help us make ends meet?

God, it all comes down to money. How I hate that it all comes down to money.

If I’d known, I’d have told him to be patient. It’ll get better. So we’re in the red right now. But Ella’s almost in kindergarten. The twins will be out of the infant room soon; we’ll save some money in the toddler room. We’ll be in better shape next year. Much better. This is just a rough year. We knew it would be a rough year.

He’s talking with Ella now, and her sweet little voice pierces through the fog in my mind. “I’m the only girl who didn’t go to yoga,” she says, the same thing she told me in the car.

Matt takes a bite of his food, chews carefully, watching her the whole time. I hold my breath, wait for his response. He finally swallows. “And how did that make you feel?”

She cocks her head to the side, just the slightest bit. “Okay, I guess. I got to sit in the front for story time.”

I stare at her, my fork suspended in midair. She didn’t care. She didn’t need an apology. How does Matt always find the right words, always know exactly what to say?

Chase is sweeping the remnants of his dinner onto the floor with chubby, food-stained hands, and Caleb starts laughing, slamming his own hands down on his tray, sending stir-fry sauce flying. Matt and I push back our chairs at the same time, off to get the paper towels, to start wiping faces and hands covered in sauce and globs of food, a well-practiced routine at this point, the tandem cleanup.