Every Other Saturday (21 page)

She smirked. “If it helps, I think that would get better with time. I want to shoot you less and less every time I see you.”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“I’m happy to see you being so thoughtful about it, that’s all.”

“So you don’t think I took my child’s earnest desire to see me happy and turned it into something crass and commercial?”

“I don’t always think that.” She burrowed her feet toward him a little so that her toes were under his leg, and leaned forward. “Sometimes I think other things, too.”

He couldn’t help it. Her voice was so playful and alluring, that he leaned closer too, until their faces were just a few inches apart. “Oh yeah? What else do you think?” His voice was husky.
What am I doing, what am I doing, what am I doing?

Julia tossed her head in a playful gesture. “You know, I think about groceries, and pollution, and my bank account, and unicorns…”

She was teasing him. Flirting, but obviously sure it wouldn’t go anywhere. Innocuous. He should feel relieved. And he did, but something about it made him angry, too. They had never talked about that kiss a few weeks ago. She’d been so hammered he was pretty sure she didn’t remember it, which at the time had seemed ideal. Now he had the sudden urge to grab her by the ponytail and give her the kind of kiss she wouldn’t forget so easily.

His thoughts must have been visible on his face, because the smile faded slowly from Julia’s eyes. “You okay? I was just kidding.”

It was just enough to break the spell. Dave sat back a bit. “Of course. Somebody has to bust my balls, right?” He clinked his mug against hers. “To friendship.”

Julia gave him a confused half-smile and sipped her drink. “To friendship.”

He patted her knee, drained his mug, and stood. “I’d better get Dorothy back to Kansas. You have any plans for next weekend?”

“You mean besides working both jobs?” she asked with a smile. “Actually, I was thinking I might paint this room Friday night. That way it can dry all day Saturday when there’s no one here.”

“Cool.” Dave glanced around the dingy white room, and then took his cup to the kitchen. He returned and stood over Lyric for a moment, watching her sleep, not eager to disturb her for the trip to the car.

“I’m just going to warn you,” Julia whispered. “That girl is going to have one hell of a sugar hangover tomorrow. Keep an eye on her or she’ll start mainlining pixie sticks.”

“Pretty sure I can handle it.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out the folded twenties he’d stashed there early in the evening and held them out to Julia.

She didn’t reach for them. “What are you doing?”

“For the grilled cheese.”

“No.” They were still whispering, like an argument in a library.

“Take it.”

“No, Dave.” She said this more loudly, and Brandon stirred and moaned a little in his sleeping bag.

“Julia, please take it. I would’ve paid Elizabeth tonight anyway. I know money is tight for you guys right now—”

“Dammit, Dave,” she hissed. “Put the fucking money back in your fucking pocket or I will rip your balls off right here in my living room.”

She was smiling, but her voice was clipped and her blue eyes were aflame behind the thick-framed glasses. He’d insulted her. He was trying to be kind and, as usual, it had come out wrong. “Fine,” he said. “I will just owe you one.”

“Fine.” Her arms were folded. It was hard to take her seriously in her sweatpants and glitter eye shadow. But Dave still sort of wanted to kiss her.

“Happy Halloween, Julia.”

“Happy Halloween.”

He scooped up Lyric and Hank Aaron from the floor. Julia bent down by the door and handed him a paper grocery bag full of candy. “This was hers—I put the pillowcases in the wash.”

“Thanks,” he said, not meeting her eye.

“You don’t owe me anything. We were happy to have Lyric with us tonight. She’s a great kid.”

“She is.” He turned to go, ignoring the pounding of his stupid, cowardly heart.

Looking around at the living room, Julia decided she’d better have a glass of wine before she got started. It was the first Friday in November, Adam had the kids, and it had been a slow day at the store. Julia had left early, arms full of rollers, pans, drop cloth, and two gallons of sage-colored paint that had been returned earlier in the week. Generally paint was non-returnable, but for one of their few remaining decorator customers, Julia had made an exception. The fact that it was very close to the color she’d been considering for her living room made it easy.

It was nearly seven and time to get to it. She had checked in with the kids at Adam’s, pushed the furniture toward the center of the room, and covered everything with plastic. There was tape on all the trim, molding, and the built-in bookshelves, so that all that remained was the painting itself. The off-white walls—which Adam had insisted they keep in case they decided to sell the house—were showing wear and tear and scuff marks everywhere. There was a spot near the corner where Brandon had tried to draw Spiderman with permanent marker. A scuff on the wall over the couch documented where Mia had thrown her miniature (but real metal) frying pan in a tantrum. Nail holes and faded spots all over the room marked the hanging, adjusting, and removing of various family pictures and pieces of art. Time for a fresh start.

Julia retrieved a bottle of Mount Sepulveda Red—six dollars from Trader Joe’s—and rummaged around until she located a sleeve of plastic wine tumblers. No reason to have to wash a paintbrush
and
a wine glass later. While the wine breathed, she tied a red bandanna over her head, knotting it carelessly under her dark ponytail. She was wearing an ancient Wholesale Tools t-shirt and her old maternity overalls—which were baggy in the belly but still fit embarrassingly well across her butt—because they already had lavender paint splatters from Mia’s bedroom.

She poured the wine and took a long, luxurious sip, staring at the dingy walls. “Out with the old,” she said aloud, and picked up the special sponge for the corners. She added something her dad so often told his customers. “Always start with the hardest part of the job.”

Within twenty minutes, she had the corners done from floor to ceiling and was happy with the crisp light green framing the room. The old color looked even dingier by comparison. As Adam’s critical voice grew smaller in her head and she envisioned the job completed, she hoped the kids would be as excited as she was.

The next tricky spot was the four-inch section of wall behind the front door. After that, she could finish the trim before starting with the rollers. She was just starting the smooth line from the bottom corner when a knock on the door right next to her made her jump and drop the corner pad.

“Shit.” Heart pounding, she looked out the peephole to see Dave Bernstein on her front stoop. He fidgeted, bouncing on the balls of his feet and looking around, as though worried he were being followed, or maybe trying to decide whether he really wanted to be there. “Just a second!” she called.

Julia stooped to pick up the dropped pad, cursing again under her breath as the green paint smeared across her fingers. Shit. There was paint on the tile—the little three feet square of flooring that demarcated the entrance. At least it was on the tile, not the carpet. Where were the paper towels? She looked around and spotted them, on the kitchen table next to the wine.

“If it’s a bad time…” Dave said. “I was just in the neighborhood. I don’t need anything.”

“No, it’s fine.” She wiped her fingers on her overalls. They were ruined anyway. “I’ve just got a little mess. Give me two minutes.”

“What?”

Exasperated, she opened the door the six inches it could go without crossing the paint, and leaned around it, balancing on one foot. “I’m just painting.”

“I know. You told me,” Dave said. “I thought I’d see if you needed help.”

Now she could see he wore a similar outfit to her own, except that his jeans were less baggy and had holes in the knees, and he wore an oversize, ratty Ramones t-shirt with white paint splatters on one sleeve. Again, she noticed the muscle tone in his arms that was prominent on Halloween. He was slim, and not tall or tan, but something about him was sinewy and hard. Solid. His skin had an olive tone that was still ruddy in early November.

To take her mind off staring at his arms, she pointed at his shirt with the green-laden painting pad. “The Ramones? Were they involved with sports in some way I’m not aware of?”

“Hey, I’m more than just a sports guy. I have complexity. I like music.”

“At least for your painting shirt.” Then, feeling she might lose her balance, she added, “Hang on a second. I need to clean up some paint behind the door and I’ll let you in.”

Julia dance-hopped on her toes to the kitchen, retrieved the paper towels and returned. Dave whistled a tune she couldn’t place as she wiped the paint off the floor and let him in.

“Whew,” he said. “Your neighbors were beginning to wonder.”

“If you’re going to make me the talk of the street, you can at least make yourself useful. Grab a brush.”

Dave looked at the paint can. “This your color? Seafoam green?”

“Sage. I think it will look nice.”

“Me too,” he said. “But this is definitely seafoam green.”

“I own a hardware store. I know paint colors. This is ‘Spring Sage.’”

“I was a kid once. I know crayons. This is Seafoam Green.”

Julia had to turn her head so he wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing her smile. She knew exactly which crayon he was talking about, and he had a point. But nothing would make her admit it out loud.

She handed him a brush and a cup of wine, and he got immediately to work on the trim around the windows. She thought of how many times she had tried to convince Adam to help her paint this room—all the excuses, the complaints, insisting his time was too valuable for manual labor, promising one day he’d hire a decorator for the whole house. It was refreshing to be around a guy who would just do something when it needed to be done.

After a few minutes of small talk, they eventually made their way to the more serious topics of divorce and child-rearing. Dave surprised her by talking about Debbie and Aaron. “Logically, I know I shouldn’t feel betrayed. It’s not like anyone was cheating or anything.”

“Why not? I would.” Julia shot him a look as she headed back to the paint can in the center of the room. “Maybe I’m just bitter because there
was
cheating in my situation.”

Dave shrugged. “I guess I just keep having to remind myself that I love them both, and they’re obviously fond of each other. The conflict is only going to hurt Lyric if I let it.”

“You
did
break his nose.”

He almost smiled. “Thankfully, she didn’t witness that. And, honestly? It didn’t feel as good as you’d think.”

Julia poured more paint into the pan and moved the roller back and forth through it, thinking how many violent fantasies she’d entertained involving Christy over the past year. She wouldn’t want Brandon and Mia to know about those, either.

“It’s funny,” she said. “When they are first born, you think you can protect them from anything.”

“That’s the job, right?”

“But isn’t it odd,” she looked at the wall in front of her, “how you get this false sense of control over everything when they are babies? You control every moment, every detail of their lives. BPA-free cups, cloth diapers, child-proof locks. There are all these choices and everyone tells you how critical every single one of them is. Breastfeeding versus formula, babywearing, rear-facing car seat, day care or home care. You obsess over those choices.”

“Yeah, I do remember that.” Dave paused in his painting the lower trim near the door. He seemed to be somewhere else, maybe lost in memory like she was.

“And then, just when you think it’s up to you to get everything right, something comes along that you can’t control, something so much worse than if you’d given them formula or taken them to daycare one month sooner, or whatever.”

“Like what?”

“Like their father leaves his family for a skank in his office. Like this crazy childhood illness comes along, and you don’t even know they have it, but they develop OCD and you don’t know how to help them.”

“Is that what happened to Brandon?” He was looking at her now.

She nodded. “Funny. I agonized about sending Brandon to daycare. But it was kindergarten where he got strep. That’s what caused it for him; it’s called PANDAS. It started as little nervous tics. Not quite normal, but not quite…wrong. You want your kid to be an individual, obviously; you get that they’re all different. But never want to see your kid as
not normal
. It’s so hard to watch them suffer, not fit in; maybe you don’t see it as quickly as you should. And then…”

“Julia,” Dave said softly. “You don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to.”

She shook him off without looking at him. “And his little rituals. They seemed harmless at first. Normal. He wouldn’t step on cracks, didn’t want his food to touch. He needed the same prayers and songs every night in the same order. Stuff that could be any kid at some point.”

“Sure. They all go through phases like that.”

“But I
knew
something was not right. It was the severity of his reaction. How anxious he got about all of it, asking three times on the way home if I had the right kind of granola bar for his snack. I knew, but I was so caught up in my own stupid life, I…”

“Julia.” Dave crossed to her, paintbrush in hand. “You’re an amazing mom. I may not know everything about you, but you’re doing everything you can for him. You didn’t screw up.”

Julia was embarrassed, but there was relief there, too. She trembled with trying to hold back all the emotions she’d just dredged up, and nervous that she was alienating the man who’d been so kind. He put a hand on her arm and she felt her skin prickle in response.

She forced herself to take a deep breath. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For listening. For letting me vent.”

He dabbed the brush lightly on the end of her nose and flashed her his Dave from the Cave smile. “What are friends for?”

# # #