Josh Roseman - The Clockwork Russian and Other Stories

It doesn’t take that long. “Daddy, why didn’t you and Mom stay together?”

I have a pat answer ready; I’ve had one for each of them since it happened. But it seems stupid now. All my reasons, all my excuses, and none of it feels right. “I wish I knew,” I say. “I love your mom. I still love your mom.” I swallow hard; there’s an unexpected lump in my throat. “And I miss her, and I miss you guys. But we just… it wasn’t working, Cher. It just wasn’t.”

“Did you stop having sex?”

I cough loudly, inadvertently pulling my hand away from Cher’s. “What?”

She makes a face. “Come on, Daddy, it’s just what adults do when they love each other. You and Mom love each other, so if you stopped having sex, maybe you don’t love each other anymore.” Her voice is resolute, but the skin around her eyes is tight and she’s folded her hands in her lap.

I put my arm around Cher’s shoulders and pull her close. “We… didn’t stop having sex.” I can’t believe I’m talking about this with my nine-year-old daughter. “Cher, if there was anything wrong with your mom and me, it wasn’t that.”

“So what was it?” She’s looking up at me now, eyes glistening. A tear is halfway down her left cheek, and I brush it away. “Why can’t you be together?”

I don’t have an answer, and even if I wanted to think of one, Bobby’s bounding back, still full of energy, my card in his hand. Cher pushes away, as if I was hugging her and she didn’t want me to, and gets up. I take my card back from Bobby. “Ice cream?”

“Sure!”

“Great. We can get it when we get off the T.” I hold out my hand to Cher, but she doesn’t take it; I shrug and start to walk, Cher a step ahead and just out of reach, Bobby still zipping back and forth, seeing as much as he can. At the Marketplace, we take the elevator down; both Bobby and Cher look out the transparent windows, but all I can remember is the last time I was in this elevator, Naomi and I bundled in coats and scarves but still pressed together, kissing, not caring who was watching.

As good as tonight is with the kids, that night was so much better.

I miss those nights. I miss her.

I have to carry Bobby into his room; Cher just needs a gentle touch on the shoulder to be woken up and urged to go to hers. I make a halfhearted attempt to clean up the living room — popcorn dropped on the couch and the floor, wet rings of condensation on the coffee table — but stop when I find Cher’s comm sticking out of her jacket pocket. The telltale is glowing purple: a video message. It’s probably an invasion of privacy, even though she’s my daughter, but I play it anyway, just out of curiosity.

Naomi’s face appears on the screen and I suddenly can’t stand up anymore. I half-drop-half-fall onto the couch, holding the little screen in front of me.

“Hi, baby. Just wanted to wish you good night, and sweet dreams, and to tell you I love you.” Her voice is tender, soft and sweet, the way it is whenever she has to put a bandage on a cut or explain why bad things sometimes happen. My chest gets tight again. “I hope you’re having a good time with your dad, and that you’re behaving, and taking care of your little brother.” She’s smiling, but there’s tension around her lips and in her neck. She runs one hand through her thick hair. “I miss you, baby. I can’t wait to see you Monday.” A pause, just this side of too long. “Love you, Cher. Call me if you need anything. Anything,” she repeats.

The video stops on the last frame—Naomi’s face—and the menu comes up. I select “keep as new” and tuck the comm back into Cher’s jacket pocket, but it’s only two minutes later that I’ve got it in my hand and am listening to Naomi say “I miss you, baby.”

This time, I forward the message to my own comm before putting Cher’s away. Then I get up and take my comm into my bedroom, securing the door behind me. I undress and climb into bed—it still smells like sex and Tina’s perfume—and hold the comm in front of my face.

“Hi, baby,” Naomi’s recorded voice says. “Just wanted to wish you a good night…”

After I drop the kids off at school Monday, I call in sick to work and, as I ride the T back to the stop near my apartment, I send a message to Tina. She responds almost immediately and, an hour later, we’re on the couch in my living room, her bare feet in my lap, a news channel running on the screen, the sound off. “I missed this,” I say.

“I imagine so.” She moves her heel a little, but I don’t respond the way I think she expected me to. “What’s the matter, Scott?”

I sigh and lean my head back on the couch cushions, my eyes closing. “I’ve just been lonely, I guess. I mean, I’ve been out a few times, and even had sex, but it’s not the same.”

“Scott,” she says softly, slowly, “what exactly am I doing here?”

My hand closes around her right ankle. “I just…” I find myself sniffing. “I miss you. I want you back with me.”

She yanks her foot away and I open my eyes to see her getting up from the couch. “I think that’s quite enough,” she tells me. She pulls her comm out of her pocket and does something to it. I hear mine ping softly. “There. That’s everything you paid me today.”

“But…”

“No buts,” she says. I stand up, but she’s already almost to my front door. “Scott, I’m not your ex-wife.” Her tone is not ungentle. “I might look a little like her, but I’m not. If you want her back, you have to talk to her, not to me.”

I shake my head slightly. Tina’s right; she doesn’t look like Naomi. Not really. “All right, fine. Go.”

I turn away, but I don’t hear the door open. I feel Tina’s hand touch my shoulder and I turn around. She cups my cheek and smiles. “You’re a good person, Scott. I’m sure the two of you can work things out.”

“I hope so.” It’s more a whisper than anything else.

Tina steps away, her touch lingering long after she’s gone from the apartment. I can still feel it as I pull out my comm and watch the message from Naomi, the message I edited down at midnight, once I had the content memorized. As I listen, it almost feels like Naomi had just said goodbye for the day.

“Hi, baby. Just wanted to tell you I love you.”

“I love you too,” I say. “I really do.”

I watch the message, over and over, for most of the day. On Tuesday, I go in to work, but everyone in the office notices that something’s up. “What about Tina?” Bryan asks as we sit in the break room, nursing coffee. “Wasn’t she great?”

“She was fine,” I say, noncommittal. “Nice girl.”

“Did she do that thing?” His left eyebrow goes up and he makes a gesture that can’t be misinterpreted. “I told her she should, that you really needed it.”

I don’t answer.

“Fine. At least I tried.”

He leaves the break room, mug in hand. I’ve been cupping my own in both palms, ignoring the heat seeping through the ceramic and into my skin. I spend the rest of the day at my desk, skipping lunch, earpiece tuned to my comm, listening to Naomi’s message. Every chance I get, I load up pictures of her and flip through them on my screen. For every harsh word, there’s Naomi, wind whipping her hair into a curly mess, sitting on the seawall at Martha’s Vineyard. For every snide remark, there’s Naomi, smiling longingly at the camera, chin resting on a hammock made of her fingers. For every pointless argument that she insisted on winning, there’s Naomi, nude and beautiful, posing for me in our bed.

For everything she did to hurt me, she did just as much to make me love her.