Household Gods (6 page)
Authors: Judith Tarr
On the way home, Victory was slow. Sherman Way would have been slower. The 101 would have been slowest. Nicole had got past White Oak and was heading for Reseda Boulevardâhalfway back, more or lessâbefore Kimberley gulped. “Oh, baby,” Nicole said in despairâshe knew what that sound meant. “Don't be sick. See if you can hold it till we get there.”
“I'll try.” Kimberley gulped again. She wasn't saying she was fine now. Nicole tried, too: tried to go faster. She didn't have much luck.
Just past Reseda, Kimberley threw up. “Corny dogs!” Justin said gleefully. Nicole hadn't wanted to find out quite that way what the kids had had for lunch.
There was a medium-sized shopping center at the corner of Victory and Tampa. Nicole pulled in there among the people stopping for milk and groceries on the way home from work. None of them, she was sure, had to stop to mop up a pool of puke. She fished an old towel out of the trunk and, holding her breath against the acrid reek, cleaned off Kimberley and the car seat and the upholstery under it as best she could, and flung the towel into a trash can. She probably couldn't afford to replace it. “Who gives a damn?” she said to the trash can.
Kimberley had the thousand-yard stare of a sick child. Her forehead was hot. A virus, sure as hell. “It still stinks, Mommy,” she said as Nicole buckled her in again.
“I know it does,” Nicole said, as gently as she could. “I'll put that goop on it after we get home.” Odo-Clean, the stuff people used to get the smell of dog and cat pee out of rugs and chairs, also worked wonders on making cars livable when kids puked in them. Frank had taught her about it; it was an old family trick of his. At the moment, Nicole was not inclined to give him any credit for it.
Home came none too soon. Justin had stopped holding his breath and started making imitation retching noises of his own. Kimberley was mute, which said something worrisome about how sick she was. Nicole got her out of the car and cleaned her up properly and threw her soiled clothes in the washing machine, then settled her in front of the VCR in her pajamas with
Toy Story
and some water to rinse out her mouth, and fed her a little Tylenol liquid to make her feel better. Nicole hoped it would stay down. In case it didn't, she equipped her daughter with a red plastic bucket and a roll of paper towels, and went back outside with rags and the bottle of Odo-Clean.
Fine way to work up an appetite before dinner
, she thought as she held her breath and scrubbed.
Toy Story
and some water to rinse out her mouth, and fed her a little Tylenol liquid to make her feel better. Nicole hoped it would stay down. In case it didn't, she equipped her daughter with a red plastic bucket and a roll of paper towels, and went back outside with rags and the bottle of Odo-Clean.
Fine way to work up an appetite before dinner
, she thought as she held her breath and scrubbed.
It wasn't till she'd made it back into the house again that she noticed the smear of vomit on her suit jacket. She shed it with a muffled curse. The tag inside said
Dry Clean Only.
Of course.
Dry Clean Only.
Of course.
Justin was waiting for her in the kitchen, perched in his high chair with the tray table up. “Hungry,” he announced, patting his tummy.
“Nice to know somebody is,” Nicole said dryly. She wondered if he'd get sick tonight, or if he'd wait till tomorrow or the next day. He'd been massively exposed to whatever bug Kimberley had. But, she conceded to herself, he'd also been good while Nicole took care of his sister and cleaned up the car. She took a package of chicken nuggets and french fries out of the freezer.
When Justin recognized the box, he slid down out of his high chair and hopped with glee. Chicken nuggets and french fries had no nutritional value whatsoever. So, of course, he loved them. So, also of course, his father fed them to him all the time. Frank was a devout believer in the four basic food groups: sugar, fat, salt, and chocolate. Nicole, cast by default in the role of Health-Food Ogre, often wondered why she even tried.
Tonight, just for this once, she stopped trying. One meal of solid fat and sodium wouldn't kill the kid, and he'd earned a little reward for being so good for so long.
Slacker
, her conscience chided her. She shut it down and clamped the lid on it.
, her conscience chided her. She shut it down and clamped the lid on it.
She thrust the tray in the microwave, set the timer, and pushed the button. Nothing happened. The light inside didn't go on, either. She gave the door a push, thinkingâhopingâshe hadn't closed it all the way. It was closed. She opened it and closed it again. Still no light. When she pressed the button, still no action. One dead microwave. “Oh, for God's sake,” she said.
“Hungry,” Justin repeated. He watched Nicole take the chicken nuggets out of the microwave; his eyes went huge with dismay as she shoved them into the regular oven and twisted the temperature knob up as high as she dared. “Hungry!” he screamed, and started to cry.
God,
Nicole thought, prayed, maybe cursed,
give me patience. Give Justin some, too, please, while you're at it.
“You can still have them,” she said. “They have to cook longer in
this oven, that's all.” Half an hour longer. Getting the idea of a half-hour delay across to a hungry two-year-old who was already feeling betrayed made everything she'd gone through at the office seem like a walk in the park.
Nicole thought, prayed, maybe cursed,
give me patience. Give Justin some, too, please, while you're at it.
“You can still have them,” she said. “They have to cook longer in
this oven, that's all.” Half an hour longer. Getting the idea of a half-hour delay across to a hungry two-year-old who was already feeling betrayed made everything she'd gone through at the office seem like a walk in the park.
In the end, she broke her own rule. She gave him some chocolate Teddy Grahams and milk to shut him up. That killed any chance he'd have of eating a good dinner, but chicken nuggets and fries weren't a good dinner to begin with, so who cared?
Absently, Nicole slid a frozen dinner in the oven for herself, too. It was healthier than the one she'd pulled out for Justin, that much she could say for it. Frozen food was all she had time for, all she ever had time for. Sometimes she dreamt of cooking lavish gourmet meals full of vitamins and minerals, fresh vegetables and quality ingredients, then freezing portions and heating them up for all those nights when she had neither time nor energy to spare for feeding herself once the kids were fed and bathed and tucked away in bed. But who had time to cook anything, even on weekends? Who had the ambition to even start? So she lived on Lean Cuisine and Healthy Choice and Thrifty Gourmet, and pitched fits when Frank fed the kids hot dogs and frozen chicken nuggets.
“It's a wonderful life,” she said to Justin, who ignored her. He was playing happily on the kitchen floor with his cup of milk and his Teddy Grahams.
In the front room, Kimberley stared through Woody and Buzz, not at them, but she hadn't thrown up again. That was something. Not much, but something. Patting her daughter on the head, Nicole went into the bedroom to call Frank at his place. She liked that even less than calling him at UCLA, but didn't see that she had a choice. She'd have to replace the microwave, and for that she needed moneyâmoney he owed her.
Someday, she swore to herself, she'd be in a position to pay for everything without the humiliation of calling Frank. Until that day came, she'd just have to bite the bullet and do what she had to do.
The phone sat on the nightstand. As she reached for it, the plaque with Liber and Libera caught her eye. There they stood, god and goddess together, equal, as they were supposed to be. She'd never known any Latin that wasn't strictly legaleseâshe'd been a business administration major before she got into law schoolâbut what their names meant was clear enough. Liberty, liberalism, liberality. She didn't have enough of any of those things.
She dialed the number to Frank's condo so seldom, she had to look it up. The phone rang once, twice, three times, four. Then, with a faint but distinct click, a sweetâgooey-sweet, Nicole thoughtâvoice came on the line. “Hi, this is Dawn. Frank and I can't come to the phone right now, but if you'll leave your name and number, we'll get back to you as soon as we can. Remember to wait for the beep. 'Bye.”
“Frank, this is Nicole,” Nicole said, ignoring Dawn even in recorded form. “I just want to let you know Kimberley is sick, the microwave is dead, and I need the child support you're late with. Pay up, dammit. Good-bye.”
It wouldn't do much good. She knew that too well. Frank would take his own sweet time answering a message like that, but she'd been too frazzled to come up with anything kinder or gentler. She had a sudden, horridly vivid picture of him and Dawn screwing when she called, and laughing like a couple of loons when they heard who it was.
The front of the house was quiet when she emerged from the bedroom. Kimberley hadn't moved since she left. Nicole bent to feel her forehead, then to kiss it. Kimberley was still warm, but maybe a touch less. The longer the Tylenol stayed down, the better. “How's your tummy feel?” Nicole asked. Kimberley shrugged and subsided back into immobility.
Loud stomping noises sent her running to the kitchen. Justin had scarfed down most of the Teddy Grahams, then dumped the rest of them on the floor and spritzed them with milk from the three little holes in the Tommee Tippee cup. Now he was having a high old time smashing them up. “Mud!” he told Nicole, delighted.
“No, not mud,” she barely managed not to scream at him.
“Mess. Naughty. No-no!” Her hand itched to give him a good solid spanking.
“Mess. Naughty. No-no!” Her hand itched to give him a good solid spanking.
No. She wouldn't do it. She didn't believe in it. A good parent had no need to strike a child to make it behave.
Not that she was a perfect parent, either. She'd smacked Justin and Kimberley once or twice, more because she was at the end of her rope than because they had done anything extraordinarily hideous. Each time she'd felt horrible, and each time she'd thanked heaven she hadn't seemed to do them any lasting harm.
She pried Justin's Reeboks off him and carried them over to the sink. Their soles, though formed in miniature, had as many gripping cups and ridges and grooves as those on the shoes she wore on weekends. Milk-smeared chocolate crackers had got into all of them, and refused stubbornly to be scrubbed out. Finally, she found an old toothbrush that did the jobâbristle by bristle, crumb by crumb, and ridge by ridge.
The floor was just as delightful. Paper towels and Formula 409 disposed of most of the mess, but, sure as hell, some of the sodden Teddy Graham crumbs had slithered down between the tiles. She had to rout them out with the toothbrush, too. She couldn't just let them go. Teddy Grahams were worse than mud. A lot worse, all things considered. If she didn't scour out every speck, by morning the kitchen would be swarming with ants.
By the time she was through cleaning, the chicken nuggets and french fries and her own Lean Cuisine shrimp-and-boring-vegetables were ready. She carefully cut the chicken and potatoes into bite-sized bits for her son and let him practice impaling them with a fork. After four or five bites, he was picking, not eating: the Teddy Grahams had taken their toll on him along with his shoes and the floor.
She'd managed two bites from the tray in front of her (too much sodium, and low-fat only by comparison to some of the other frozen food out there) when the telephone rang. She got up so fast, she almost overturned her bottle of Evian.
Maybe Frank would come through after all. Stranger things had happened.
Maybe Frank would come through after all. Stranger things had happened.
“Hello?” she panted, breathless from the dash to the bedroom.
“Hello, is this Nicole?” asked a friendly and completely unfamiliar male voice.
“Yes,” Nicole said warily. “Who is this, please?”
“My name's Bob Broadman, Nicole.” Too friendly. “Now, I know that a busy homemaker like yourself doesn't have a lot of time, so I'll make this quick for you, all right, Nicole?”
Way
too friendly. “Would you be interested in trying in your own homeâ”
Way
too friendly. “Would you be interested in trying in your own homeâ”
Nicole slammed the receiver into its cradle. She hated telemarketers. She particularly hated telemarketers who, hearing a female voice, assumed the person who owned it was a housewife. She most particularly hated telemarketers who did all that andâinsult on top of injuryâcalled at dinnertime.
Her gaze fell again on Liber and Libera. She could have sworn they looked back at her with sympathy in their stony eyes. The thought wasn't so absurd as it might have seemed before she went through this day from hell. Nobody in their time could have had to put up with what she'd just put up with. Just look at them, god and goddess side by side, equal and anything but separate. No repressive patriarchy. No fat plaid-jacketed lawyers leering up an employee's skirt. “And, by God,” she said, “no telemarketers.”
Times were simpler then. They had to have been better. How could they possibly have been worse?
She trudged back to the kitchen. Justin, gymnast extraordinaire, had succeeded in standing up on the seat of his high chair. Just as she caught sight of him, he set himself up for a swan dive to the floor. Nicole caught him with a grab that would have made a big-league center fielder jealous.
“I think you're done,” she said. Amazing how calm she soundedâshe had to be numb. “Go play quietly in your room and let me finish eating my dinner.” Maybe that would buy her the five minutes' peace she'd prayed for in the morning.
She hadn't got it then. She didn't honestly expect to get it now.
She hadn't got it then. She didn't honestly expect to get it now.
No more than a minute and a half later, Justin was in the front room pestering Kimberley. Most of the time, Kimberley could take care of herself, but not when she was laid flat with a virus. Nicole charged to the rescue, to find her daughter halfway toward falling asleep, and Justin trying to wake her up by shoving a toy truck in her face. Nicole laid down the law to him, which wasn't easy when she was trying to be quiet and not disturb Kimberley. She doubted it was sinking in. Two-year-olds paid even less attention to the laying down of the law than some juries did.
Other books
Beyond Famous (Famous #3) by Kahlen Aymes
The Choice by Lorhainne Eckhart
The Shadow of the Sun by Ryszard Kapuscinski
The Novice’s Tale by Margaret Frazer
Evolution of Fear by Paul E. Hardisty
The Ladybug Jinx by Tonya Kappes
Kiss of the Highlander by Karen Marie Moning
Wilt by Tom Sharpe
Mr. Write (Sweetwater) by O'Neill, Lisa Clark
Daddy's Game by Alleman, Normandie
