Julia Fierro - Cutting Teeth

“Extra pair of clothes?” Grace asked.

He hated that she still made them pack an extra pair of clothes, in case Hank puked on the drive. It had only been that one time that Hank had gotten carsick, and it had been over a year ago. He was about to say no, to explain that he thought it unnecessary, open up what he knew would be a can-of-worms debate about an extra fucking pair of children’s clothes, when Grace said, “Hon? Did you hear me?”

Rip turned from the window. He sat on the twin bed, the springs complaining. He let his head fall into his hands, and the skin of his forehead felt rough, so unlike Hank’s skin, as smooth as the fake satin of the boy’s new dress. When had he grown old? When had he turned into a cliché? It was one thing to be the only dad in a mommy group — his male cousins ribbed him about it every Passover, and Grace’s father barely looked at him, the disgust he felt for his son-in-law plain in the quick handshake that served as Rip’s only interaction with the man. But to fuck one of the moms in a shack at a family event? He had turned into one of those potbellied losers in a cheesy comedy, knee-deep in a midlife crisis, his pants around his ankles, his whining about how he couldn’t have the life he wanted. Boo-hoo-hoo.

Rip pressed his fingers against his eyes, and bouquets of stars bloomed. He had shown Hank this trick not long ago, and they had sat on the couch, Hank a lump of warmth in Rip’s lap, each pressing his own fingers against his own eyelids, whispering wow and cool, until Grace, ranting about ophthalmologists and detached retinas, had made them stop.

The bed dipped with a squeak, and he felt Grace next to him. Then her small hand was on his back, rubbing circles into his sweat-damp shirt.

“You okay?” she asked.

Her hand was on his, and he could feel the cool metal of the ring he had given her years before Hank, before infertility, when he had proposed to her at the Jersey Shore, her head in his lap, sand in her hair. He’d found the ring in a consignment shop in the Village, and he’d been certain it was beautiful. Perfect. It wasn’t until, weeks after Grace had said yes, his sister Melanie had seen the ring, and one afternoon, alone with Rip, had chuckled and asked how Grace liked it.

When he didn’t get the joke, Melanie had said, “It’s like tanzanite or something, Ricky. Not a real diamond.”

He looked at the diamond tennis bracelet that seemed to glow against Grace’s bronzed skin, at the two-carats glimmering in her earlobes. All jewelry she had bought for herself.

But she’d never stopped wearing his fake diamond ring.

“Yes,” he finally answered. “I’m okay.”

They sat on the bed, and the kaleidoscopic shapes he’d seen with his eyes closed slowly faded. They kept holding hands as Hank played on the floor with his plastic animals. It was one of those sets Rip brought on car trips — an emergency tantrum antidote, a plastic tube that held three of each kind of animal. Small, medium, and large. Hank named them Hank, Mama, and Daddy.

The princess dress was too large. One side of the lace-trimmed collar slipped down Hank’s shoulder. The skirt covered everything but the scuffed toes of Hank’s sneakers. He’d have to get it shortened, Rip thought, or do it himself.

“Waah, waah. I sad,” Hank said in a soft voice, as the baby elephant hid its trunk under its mother’s wide belly.

“What’s wrong, baby?” the medium-sized elephant asked the littlest in a mommylike falsetto, tipping its trunk.

Then Hank’s face crumpled so completely, so authentically, it nearly drained Rip’s breath. “I miss my mommy and daddy,” the baby elephant squeaked.

“Don’t worry,” boomed the biggest elephant in a Papa Bear bass. “We are here. We will take care of you.”

“Hug. Hug. Hug,” Hank said in each of the voices, delicately tipping the elephants’ trunks so they touched in three quick kisses.

Rip stood, his hip bumping the night table.

He wanted to turn to Grace, take both her hands in his, imprison her in his desperation, plead, How can we not have more children? How can you not want to freeze this time in life? These oh-so-brief sweet years when we are so adored, so loved, that all sadness relates to one thing — the absence of us!

Rip knew he would have that urge again, and again, that it might never leave him.

Fuck it, he thought. I’m good at this. At being a parent. At unconditional love. Just as Allie had told him the day before on the beach. No one — no daddy, no nanny, no mommy — could squash a tantrum as quickly as Daddy Rip. Tomorrow, he would call Ruth, their couples’ therapist, and make an appointment. There was a lot to discuss, although there were also secrets he knew he would keep from Grace. Forever, if it meant keeping his family, and helping it to multiply.

He was hungry for time to pass, eager to return home, unpack the car, carry the flush-cheeked and sleeping Hank from the car to bed — one of Rip’s favorite rituals. He would set up the kitchen for the next day’s breakfast, two big bowls and one small for cereal, coffee in the filter, timer on, Hank’s clothes unpacked, refolded, and put away, an outfit laid out for Hank to wear to his soccer class tomorrow. He would log onto TryingToConceive.com and consult with his girls. He would start researching the sperm bank Allie had told him about.

He and Allie had really bonded, he thought as he rubbed his phone in his pocket where her contact info was held, like a tiny little present.

That morning, after Susanna had wept over the dew, she continued to behave like a child. Sulking. Whining. Nagging Allie, while not helping her pack. As Allie stuffed clothes at random into their bags, trying to keep the peace between Dash and Levi ( no TV when we get home if you don’t cut that out, no iPad if I see you hit your brother one more time ), Susanna droned on weepily about the stench of Brooklyn, about the inadequate life they were giving their children, alternating her lamenting with her usual trips to the bathroom.

Allie was sure the rest of the house could hear Susanna’s pleading. She wouldn’t let up: Couldn’t Allie just think about leaving the city? Couldn’t she just entertain the idea? Finally, when Susanna asked for what felt like the hundredth time—“Couldn’t you just say maybe ? Not yes. Just maybe?”—Allie had stuffed the rest of the boys’ clothes in the suitcase, pulled her leather boots on over bare feet, and said, without looking at Susanna, “Okay! Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Susanna croaked.

Allie wondered where that firecracker of a girl with her cocky little ponytail had gone.

“Maybe,” Allie repeated, though she knew, and she sure as hell hoped Susanna knew, that maybe, in this case, meant never. She ( they, she corrected) needed to go back home. Because that’s what it was, she thought. Their home. Even the stench of garbage simmering in the late-summer heat, the cockroaches that skittered across the sidewalk on humid nights, the sirens and the exhaust and the dog shit that made every stroll with the boys feel like a booby-trapped obstacle course.

Allie waited until noon to leave, certain the other kids were down for their naps, a few of the parents bound to be indisposed, fallen asleep at their children’s sides. She wanted to suffer as few good-byes as possible, not wanting to go through the whole mommies double-cheek kissing/waving ta-ta to each other’s children routine.

Susanna started the engine and tugged the seat belt over her belly.

“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Allie asked from where she sat in the back between the sleeping boys. The front seat was stuffed with the bags of produce, and the car smelled like damp earth and overripe strawberries.