30

Harper

We manage to get through our Friday family meeting over pizza in the kitchen and the girls scatter afterward. Leaving Remy and me to do what little cleanup is needed, which is okay because we’ve all been so busy all week that I don’t feel as if we’ve had a moment alone together.

The family meeting, despite the groaning and moaning from all three of them, went pretty well and we had some decent discussions. It’s official, we’re staying home for Mardi Gras. We decided that Remy will take the girls to uptown parades on Sunday and Lundi Gras, which is the Monday before Fat Tuesday. While I hide at home in a dark room, possibly under my bed. Then they’ll make a decision as to whether or not they’ll go to the French Quarter for Mardi Gras. Which would be a logistical nightmare, but I agree to stay out of that conversation, should the three of them choose to have it.

In exchange for parade privileges, they’ve all agreed to go to Mass Ash Wednesday with me. I was surprised Georgina didn’t put up an argument. So far, the only time she’s been in a church is when she’s expected to attend at school. Due to her special circumstances, only her presence there has been required and she’s even been allowed to sit in the back.

I’ve been agreeing to let Georgina go to temple when she wants. Interestingly enough, she skipped twice, and tomorrow morning she has plans with her new friend Em. Which means she’s not going to temple. I’m not sure what’s up with that. I’ve decided not to bring it up for now and see how things unfold. I really want to have her take a confirmation class, at least to educate her on the beliefs she was born into, but I’ve decided to wait on that. I haven’t even brought it up with her yet. Baby steps.

“Wine?” Remy’s already gotten a glass down for himself. His tone suggests it may have been the second time he asked me.

“Sure.” I’m folding up a pizza box to go into the recycling bin. I make a concerted effort to push aside all the things whirling around in my head and be in the moment. “Want to sit out on the porch? It’s a nice evening. You guys might get lucky and have warm weather for Mardi Gras.” Secretly I’m hoping it rains. Hail would be nice. Maybe they’ll cancel the parades if it hails.

“Still more than a week away.” He gets another glass down and opens a drawer. I hear him digging around in it.

“Jojo really wants to do this weekend thing with Olivia,” I say. She’d made yet another plea, at the family meeting, providing written information: a physical address and Web site address to the park; cell number for Olivia, her mother, and her aunt; as well as a projected itinerary. I suspect Georgina was in on the prep work. I can’t decide if I’m tickled she’s siding with her sister or annoyed. Without Georgina, Jojo’s presentation might not have been as impressive.

Remy is still digging through the utensil drawer. “Have you seen my opener? The one I like?” He closes the drawer harder than need be.

I walk over, open the drawer he was just in, spot the bottle opener under a spatula, and hand it to him.

“How do you do that?” he asks, without a thank-you. “How do you always do that? I can look in the pantry for the peanut butter for five minutes and you walk over and pick it up.”

“It was right there.”

“Do you hide things?” he asks, sounding serious.

“I do not hide things so I can find them for you.” I go to the trash can and pull out the bag. I can’t stand the smell of old pizza the next morning. I glance at Remy as I replace the bag. “What do you think about letting her go?”

“What?” He’s peeling away the foil on the bottle, his back to me.

“The weekend with Olivia. What do you think?”

He pops the cork. “You already know what I think.”

He’s been testy with me since he got home. All week. No, it started last week. And I have no idea why. I know he gets frustrated with me, with my anxiety. But I’m trying. I’m trying so hard and I don’t feel as if he’s giving me credit for that.

“You didn’t speak up at dinner. You never said a word about her going camping.”

He cuts his eyes at me, picks up the bottle and the two glasses, and walks out of the kitchen.

I stand there looking at the empty doorway. I’m really tempted to skip the wine and cranky Remy and to go to bed and read my book. I’ve been thinking about the Amish characters all day, trying to figure out who killed the blacksmith. I’m not sure I feel like dealing with Remy tonight. But I know that’s not right. I’m the one who suggested he move back in. I’m the one who initiated this whole “try again” thing with our marriage. If he invites me to sit and have a glass of wine with him, I need to do it.

I take out the garbage, leaving it in one of the cans outside. Back in the kitchen, I wash my hands, dry them, and flip the light off on the way out. At the bottom of the staircase, I holler up to the girls, “We’re on the front porch.”

No one answers. I hear music. Something obnoxious. It has to be Jojo. I’ve seen Georgina wearing earbuds, connected to her phone, but I don’t know what kind of music she’s listening to, if she’s listening to music at all. For all I know, she might be listening to NPR news. Or a podcast. She and Remy were talking about different podcasts at dinner.

I walk out onto the front porch and take a deep breath of the warm, humid air. I’m in jeans, a long-sleeved Life Is Good T-shirt, and my slippers, and I’m comfortable. It’s hard to believe summer is just around the river bend again.

But suddenly the evidence is everywhere. The azaleas in the flowerbeds are beginning to bloom in bright pinks and white. Our neighbor’s Chinese fringe tree is popping with blossoms, too. I inhale again, trying to be in the moment and enjoy the last rays of the sun as it sets. Trying to enjoy the pleasure of having my two daughters safe upstairs doing their homework and having wine with my husband.

I had a good day today. I worked in the morning, then came home to do some housecleaning and went for coffee at Ann’s. I resisted the urge to walk to Ursuline so I could walk Georgina home. Okay, Ann was the one who suggested I stay put. But then Georgina texted me when she left school and we met on the sidewalk between Ann’s and home. We walked together and we talked about her driving my car. Luckily she can’t drive alone yet. I’m not sure how we’re going to deal with the fact that Lilla Kohen had an intermediate license and already passed the written and driver’s exam, but Georgina Broussard was actually not old enough to do so at the time. I may have to have Remy’s sister look into that one.

I glance at him. He’s taken a seat in one of the rocking chairs. He hasn’t poured the wine yet; he’s letting it breathe. I gave up years ago telling him I couldn’t tell the difference between the taste of wine that has breathed and the wine that hasn’t.

I sit in the chair beside him. We both rock and look out at the park. I could sit here for hours and stare at the lush grass that’s already turning a brighter green, and the huge grandfather oaks that serve as our front yard. I watch a girl, a college student probably, with her dalmatian, cut between the trees. She’s talking on her phone. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but whomever she’s talking to, he or she is getting an earful.

I glance at Remy. “I’ve missed you this week,” I say.

He runs his hand over his face. His hair is looking a little shaggy; he needs a haircut. Which isn’t like him. He’s always been very attentive to personal hygiene. His beard is always neatly trimmed and he gets his hair cut regularly.

“The job still hasn’t posted and Richard hasn’t said a word,” Remy says. “Maybe he isn’t retiring.”

He’s talking about the comptroller’s position at Tulane. He’s been eyeing it for years and I think his boss, Richard, has been dangling it like a carrot in front of him. Remy has worked a lot of late nights and Saturdays in the hopes of getting that job someday. “But he mentioned it Fourth of July,” I say. “I heard him telling someone. And you said his wife told you they were thinking about moving back to Alabama. When was that? The Christmas party?”

He shrugs.

“So ask Richard if he’s planning on retiring.”

“I’m not asking him,” he grumbles.

I sit there for a moment trying to decide if I should let him just be in a bad mood or if I should try to get him to talk about it. The thing is, Remy has insisted, in the past, that talking things out isn’t always the best option. Not for everyone. He prefers to mope in his own funk until he’s ready to climb out of it. And in the past, both before and after the divorce, I’ve usually been willing to go along with that. But this is a new chapter in our lives. And I don’t want Remy to be unhappy.

“What’s up with you?” I reach over and cover his hand with mine.

He takes it, but not with much enthusiasm.

“Nothing.”

“Remy.” I exhale. “You worked late three nights this week and even when you were here, you weren’t really here. And we haven’t had sex in”—I think back—“more than a week.”

He picks up the bottle of wine and pours two glasses. I accept the one he offers. Give him a minute. Then another. He sits there silently and watches his cabernet swirl in his glass.

Now he’s beginning to tick me off. He says nothing is wrong, yet clearly there is. When he’s acting like this, he usually has something to tell me that he doesn’t want to tell me. “Did you find your gym bag?” I ask. I’ve been wanting to ask for days.

“I’m sorry?” He sips his wine.

“Last week, you couldn’t find your gym bag. You thought it might be at your apartment.” I try to keep my mind from going there, but it goes there anyway. “What made you think your bag might be there?”

He’s staring straight ahead. Shadows are falling. I wonder if it’s the sun setting or it’s only happening on this porch.

“What were you doing at the apartment?” I ask. Then I voice what I really want to know. I know I shouldn’t say it, but it comes out as ugliness sometimes does. “Were you there alone, Remy?” I take a sip of the wine, but don’t really taste it.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Remy, I know we’re not married anymore, but if you think you’re going to live in this house with our girls . . .” I turn in my chair to face him. “If you think you’re going to sleep in my bed and bang some—”

“That was ten years ago,” he says quietly, still staring straight ahead. “A mistake. I told you that. I apologized. I confessed, I did all the things I was supposed to do, Harper.” He strokes his beard with his thumb and index finger. “I was there alone.”

And now I feel guilty for saying it. For thinking it. For suspecting him for even a moment. I love Remy. And I forgave him a long time ago for his infidelity. We went to marriage counseling and we talked with our priest. Forgiveness is essential to a marriage. I know that. And so is trust. And I do trust him. I do. I don’t know what made me say it. Think it.

Fear?

“Remy, I’m sorry,” I say. “I just—” I look down at the floorboards. “I don’t have a good excuse.”

“I had to let somebody in to fix the hot water heater.”

“You don’t have to tell me that, Remy.” I look at him, feeling guilty as hell. “You really don’t have to—”

“And one night, I just went there for a couple of hours to eat a Hot Pocket and read.”

Under different circumstances, I would have laughed about the Hot Pocket. I think they’re gross, but he likes them. A couple of weeks ago he asked me if I would buy him some and I told him they were bad for his cholesterol. But this isn’t about me not buying the snack foods he likes. “You needed to be alone?”

He glances at me and I realize he doesn’t just look shaggy, he looks tired. “I needed some down time,” he says. “Without anyone needing anything from me. Okay?”

I shift in the chair and sit back. I rock and think that over. I sip my wine. I’ve always thought of Remy as being so together. A superman. Maybe because so much of my life has been a mess over the years. Maybe because he’s been my superman time and time again. “What can I do to help?”

“For one thing, you can make some decisions on your own,” he says, surprising me with his eagerness to tell me what I’m doing wrong. “I don’t care what kind of pizza we order. I don’t care if you wash my shirts today or tomorrow. And you could stop going over and over things. Dissecting Lilla’s every sentence. Her every move. Always trying to analyze her motivation.” He presses his thumb and index finger to his temples as if he has a migraine. As if I’m causing his migraine. “Harper, if you could stop talking things to death, that would help. Seriously, how many times do we have to talk about Jojo going for a sleepover? It’s just one damned night.”

He raises his voice. Remy never raises his voice. I want to remind him that it’s for two nights, but I don’t.

“And this whole religion thing, with Georgina?” He gets to his feet and points toward the front door. “She thinks she’s Jewish. She was raised Jewish. You can’t take her from the person in her life who loved her most, bring her into a house full of strangers, and then try to introduce her to a man who supposedly died, nailed to a cross for her, two thousand years ago!”

I’m taken aback by the anger in his voice. And hurt by his smart-ass summation of my beliefs. His. “I just wanted to go to Mass as a family.” I throw up my hand. “I don’t think that’s too much to ask, Remy. Do you think that’s too much to ask?”

He turns his back to me and rests his hands on the porch railing. He’s quiet. “No,” he says finally. But he doesn’t turn around to look at me. “It’s not too much to ask, Harper.” He’s quiet for a moment and then goes on. “Look, as far as this thing about religion. I don’t think this is something we’re going to solve overnight, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you asking Lilla to sit in the pew with us once in a while.”

I set down my wine and get out of the rocker to go stand beside him. “Remy, what’s going on with you?” I reach up to stroke his cheek. “Really?”

He presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. “It’s me, it’s not you.” He says it in an exhalation. “You’re doing so well, Harper. With the girls. With Lilla. I just—” He halts midsentence, either unable to express himself or unable to tell me what he wants to tell me.

I meet his gaze. “You just what?” I ask softly. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m afraid this isn’t working.” He scrapes at a chip of paint on the railing with his thumbnail. Something always needs painting on an old house in New Orleans. “I wonder if I should move out.”

I stare at him, feeling the tiniest crack in my heart. “What isn’t working?” I whisper. “We have our family again. We have our girls and we have each other.” I search his handsome face, the face I’ve loved since I was old enough to love a man. “Is it me? Don’t you . . . Remy, don’t you love me anymore?”

He puts his arm around me and pulls me against him and I exhale with relief.

“Of course I love you. You’re the mother of my children.”

Not exactly what I was hoping for.

“It’s just that . . .” He looks down at me and then out at the park that is now suddenly heavy in shadows. “Harper . . . this is harder than I thought it was going to be. With Georgina. With being here. With trying to do my job, and be a husband, and be a father, and . . .” He sighs loudly.

I press my lips together, willing myself not to start crying because he used Georgina’s name. Her real name. “But you’re so good with Georgina. She adores you, she . . . I think she already loves you, Remy. It would break her heart not to have you here.” I hesitate. “She doesn’t even know we’re divorced.”

“Not one of our better parenting decisions,” he says, still holding me against his side.

“Maybe not,” I agree. “I know we need to tell her. I think she has a lot to deal with right now, though.”

“Right,” he says.

I slide my arm around his waist and rest my head against his chest. I say a silent prayer and then I feel a little better. “We’re going to be okay, Remy,” I say softly, thinking about what Ann had said. About knowing I was going to be okay. “Life isn’t supposed to be easy.”

“I know.” He kisses the top of my head. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” I look up at him.

“I don’t know. For not . . . for not being who you need me to be.”

“You’re my husband. You’re the father of my children. That’s all I need from you.”

He looks out into the darkness that’s slowly enveloping the park, the house, our porch. “That’s all you need, is it?”