Julia Fierro - Cutting Teeth

Her daughter Samten had wept, her chin wrinkling, her nose running, as the police dragged Tenzin and her husband away. Tenzin had smiled at her, shouting again and again, one of the few sayings Samten had taught her, in anticipation of Tenzin’s trip to the U.S., Do not worry, do not worry, do not worry!

She said the same now, to Leigh in the beach-house kitchen, wrapping her arm around the woman’s narrow birdlike shoulders.

“No worries, my good employer. No worries.”

Rip woke to Grace’s tossinga piece of paper on his chest.

“What’s this?” he said, as his eyes came into focus in the sun-filled room.

He felt the empty space next to him and sat up so quickly his head spun.

“Where’s Hank?”

“Oh,” Grace said, feigning surprise. “You’re up. He’s with Harper. Michael’s watching them. He’s definitely Tiffany’s better half.”

She was refolding the clothes he had already folded and stacked on the bedside table.

“Well,” he said, “it’s kind of hard not to wake up. When someone opens every shade in the room.”

No apology from Grace. Which meant, he knew, that she was still pissed, and she was about to introduce a discussion.

“Is this a love note?” he asked, smoothing the paper she’d tossed at him.

There were numbers written in Grace’s precise handwriting, an equation of sorts. How did she get those zeros so perfectly round?

41 hours had been circled twice.

“It’s the number of hours I spend with Hank each week,” she answered casually, turning away to look at herself in the mirror, to adjust her headband and smooth her glossy hair.

“Oh-kay,” he said slowly.

Definitely trouble, he thought.

“Tiffany told me you told the whole playgroup…” Grace said, still looking in the mirror, where he knew she could see him sitting disheveled and puffy-eyed on the bed behind her. “She smells like body odor, you know?”

“ What did I tell her?”

And what else could Tiffany have told Grace? He knew Tiffany was a little wacky, but not crazy. Not mad enough to tell Grace about the kitchen the day before. Or was she? She’d be risking everything. Their children. Their marriages. Their lifestyles, because when it came down to it — and it hurt him to admit this — he was in the same boat as Tiffany and the mommies. They were all dependent on their partners, their breadwinners. Without Grace, he was nothing. He had nothing. Not even a savings account in his name.

“You told all of them,” Grace said, her voice creaking with restrained emotion. “Tiffany, and your mommies, you told them I’m never around. That I’m at work all the time. That I’m not there for Hank.”

“I never said you weren’t there for Hank.”

“Then what did you say, Richard?”

What could he say? She really was gone all day every weekday, and on the weekends she had routine errands. Gym at 9 A.M. on Saturday and Sunday. Lunch with her sister every Saturday at 1 P.M. “Alone time” in her room where she read a book or crocheted little squares she then stitched into blankets for her friends who were expecting babies. And he understood her need for “me time.” Her job was demanding, the stress of managing so many people who were juggling so many millions of dollars had to be exhausting. Frankly, although he would have had his chest hair waxed before admitting this to Grace, or anyone at the playgroup (even Tiffany), it was easier when Grace wasn’t around. When she was home, she was like a shiny object distracting them from their routine, making Hank restless for her attention. Hank didn’t understand why mommy needed her alone time. If Rip didn’t take him to the park (and in winter this was a chore), the boy stood at the closed bedroom door and cried until Grace came out, annoyed with Rip and frustrated with Hank.

“I may have said you worked long hours. Or that there were some days you didn’t see Hank,” he said. “Isn’t it the truth?”

She turned to him, and he saw she was close to tears. The woman his sister had once called The Ice Queen began to sob. A tickling thrill shot from his stomach to his throat. This vulnerability was new, and anything new was better than how things had been — he and Grace arguing in the same dizzying circles until the air in their apartment felt stale and claustrophobic.

“How could you betray me like that? In front of all of…” She paused. “The mommies!”

Then she was kneeling by the side of the bed, her lineless face cracked in tears, her back shuddering with sobs. He hadn’t seen her like this since — he searched his memory — not since she’d given birth to Hank and been struck with what their OB had called the baby blues.

He stroked her hair and tipped her chin so their faces were a few inches apart. She was a teary, snotty mess. But beautiful. Vulnerable, for once.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he said.

“I really try,” she said, then a hiccuping sob escaped. “I try to do my best. Maybe I’m just not meant to be a mother.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Rip said. “Hank adores you.”

She looked up at him, her eyes squinting in suspicion. “Don’t give me that shit. You don’t really think that. I know it. You have to have it this way. It’s like a sickness. Your martyr complex. You’re like some passive-aggressive housewife!”

“Sure,” Rip said, with a bitter laugh. “That’s right. I like your never being home. I like having no help. I can’t take a shit by myself, without you or Hank … You’re both demanding in the same way, you know? Always taking. Sucking the life out of me.”

Grace pitched face-first into the mattress. “I know!” she cried into the comforter. “You’re right. Why is everything I do so un-mommylike?”

He’d won, and it made him feel awful. He lowered himself onto the bed beside her and stroked her back.

“That’s not true, sweetie,” he murmured into her ear. “You make everything possible for our family. Hank and I are so lucky to have you.”

As he stroked her back, he felt her soften beneath him. Respond to his touch. He kissed her neck first, cautiously, and when she didn’t brush him away, he made his way to her mouth. He undressed her, he licked her, he tweaked her nipples while he made her come with his tongue. He pulled down his boxers and spread her legs — his penis is his hand. But then she was on her knees, taking him into her mouth.

He hadn’t brought the condoms she always made him wear. Just in case one of his swimmers picked up speed.

“I want to be inside you,” he moaned.

She ignored him.

When she stopped midsuck to adjust her hair, he could tell she was getting tired. She was growing impatient. Her head bobbed up and down. Too fast. She’ll run out of steam, he thought, she’s got to pace herself, or this would end up like most of the blowjobs she’d given him in the years since Hank was born. Half a blowjob.

“Honey”—he held her head in his hands, stopping her, as painful as it was—“that’s enough.”

She looked up at him, spit glistening on her lips.

“I want to come inside you,” he said.

“No,” she said. A single, flat denial.

Instantly, the mood flattened, too. She put in another five minutes of decent work, tiring out toward the end ( sorry, my neck is sore ), practically handing his penis back to him, then crawling up to nibble on his earlobe while he jerked himself off. As he came closer to climaxing, he thought about the text Tiffany, definitely drunk, had sent him the night before. The text had been a tease because he knew that she knew the answer, especially after she’d felt his hard-on in the kitchen.