Julia Fierro - Cutting Teeth

Tenzin led the children in a wide circle around the living room. Nicole was walled in by their laughter. She remembered a lecture by one of her grad-school literature professors — a spinster with a romantic pouf of hair, who had reminded Nicole of the heroines in the turn-of-the-century novels that were the professor’s expertise. She had reveled in the gothic, and also in revealing how it threaded through today’s pop culture.

Nicole itched to stand, to halt the children’s carefree song. Don’t you know, she wanted to tell Tenzin, that the ring — a red ring, a rosy ring — is the first sign of the plague? That pockets full of posies aren’t pretty flowers to wear in your hair, but sachets of herbs, to ward off infection? As for ashes, doesn’t it make you think of the burning of diseased corpses?

She imagined herself saying, We will all fall down, clasping Tenzin’s arm, calling to the other mommies chitchatting on the deck about who knows what insignificant gripes. Death won’t be as fickle as us, Nicole would shout, with our never-ending wants and needs! Death loves all its victims. Rich and poor. Young and old.

Instead, she sipped her Prosecco. She chided herself, calling herself names. Insane, melodramatic, and the worst; the word Josh hurtled at her in arguments. Sick. She snapped the rubber band around her wrist until she wore a red ring of inflamed skin like a bracelet.

Ashes-ashes-we-all-fall-down!

Please, Nicole. Web bots? You don’t even believe in God, how can you believe in prophetic computers?

The children were still on the ground, giggling, Tenzin crouched in the middle of their circle, when Tiffany walked into the living room, an apple in one hand and a butter knife in the other.

“What in the H-E-L–L happened to all the knives?” she asked.

Nicole felt Josh’s eyes fall on her.

“Anyone?” Tiffany said.

Nicole chanted silently . Knock on wood, knock on wood, knock on wood …

“Mama Nicole did it,” Harper said.

The little girl was standing, pointing at Nicole.

Mercifully, this was the moment the Xanax kicked in. Liquid calm.

Tiffany had terrifiedLeigh at first. She was crass. She was a sloppy drunk, and burped and farted, and giggled excuse me in a sweet, childish voice that hinted at sex. Tiffany talked about sex often, which served as a reminder to Leigh that she herself was, as Brad had told her, so “fucking uptight.” Leigh had even considered dropping out of playgroup, making an excuse, like she’d registered for a Tumbling Tots class on Friday afternoons. She hadn’t felt a bond with any of the parents, though she liked Susanna, who was pretty and sweet, especially for a lesbian. Leigh had thought about inviting Susanna to lunch, but she worried she couldn’t relate to someone whose perspective just had to be so different from her own. Susanna was elegant. She looked like Natalie Wood. With an extra twenty pounds on her frame.

Leigh knew Tiffany had grown up white trash. A phrase Leigh had heard Tiffany use to describe herself with obvious pride. She had boasted about her inspired decision to meld her and Michael’s last names (Zelinski and Romano) into a hybrid surname for Harper — Zelano — and if there was stronger proof that Harper’s mommy and daddy came from little, so little that they wouldn’t continue their ancestors’ names, Leigh couldn’t imagine what that might be.

But Tiffany knew how to shop. Her clothes were boutique-quality. At least she was trying, Leigh thought, and began to feel sorry for Tiffany, who painted a childhood of neglect for the rapt parents at playgroup (all the product of privilege), a gritty tale of rural, working-class upbringing. Tiffany’s father was a mechanic, who ran a garage out of their front yard. Her stepbrother had kept a pet raccoon. Her sister was a methamphetamine addict, and Leigh had stopped herself from asking Tiffany if her sister’s teeth were all rotted out.

There was also the near-miraculous way Tiffany engaged Chase. When she crouched at Chase’s eye level and looked straight into his eyes, Chase actually looked back, a marvel that nearly took Leigh’s breath away. So Leigh had not only stayed in the playgroup, she had signed up for one, then two Tiff’s Riffs music classes. Tiffany seemed unbothered by Chase’s behavior during class. The way he whirled his body around with little awareness there were other little bodies nearby. Tiffany gently redirected him when he mouthed the egg shakers and ran around the room in jagged circles instead of sitting and “participating.” Leigh was grateful Tiffany never snapped at Chase in frustration as former babysitters and therapists had. As Leigh herself did.

Almost a year ago, Leigh’s phone began buzzing nightly with Tiffany’s texts. At first they were short and playful, Tiffany’s syntax unmistakably alcohol-mussed. A joke about something stupid Rip had said at playgroup. Or Tiffany might send Leigh a message through Facebook, asking for her opinion on a hand-sewn quilt Tiffany had found on Etsy that she just had to have. Did Leigh like the cobalt or the tangerine color best?

Soon, Leigh, newly pregnant with Charlotte, was sitting at the kitchen table, after Chase had gone to bed, staring across the river at the buildings of lower Manhattan silhouetted against a dusty rose sky. Waiting for Tiffany to text her with intimate complaints about Michael, how he smothered her, how he rejected her true self. Leigh had responded, revealing how Brad constantly criticized her for being impatient with Chase.

He makes me feel like I’m a terrible mother. Though he doesn’t have a drop of patience himself!

Tiffany responded:

U r a great mom! And … my fave new mommy friend

What could Leigh do but text back:

ditto

She had erased her text history, even rebooted her phone, to ensure that Brad never read her silly declaration of love.

Two text-filled weeks later, Tiffany probed Leigh on topics as deep and dark as what’s your greatest fear?

Tiffany shared first:

that I’ll die alone & everyone will forget me

Leigh knew she couldn’t share her greatest fear — that the truth about the money she’d stolen would be revealed — so she texted:

me too:-(

Tiffany’s question the next night was:

have u ever thought about spending ur life w/someone else?

Leigh curled up on the taupe leather chaise in her sitting room, fingers poised over her phone.

Yes I’d leave him. If I had $

With her confession, a blush spread like wildfire up her neck.