I Don’t Have Time for This by Carol Denson
“Jen, will you spray my mouth?”
“Coming.” Jen stopped scrubbing a pot, dried her hands, and walked into the bedroom.
“I need my melanoma,” Margo said.
“Melatonin, Mom. Melanoma is skin cancer,” said Jen.
She pointed the sprayer into her mother’s mouth. Margo gasped when a drop touched her lip.
“Why can’t you spray your own mouth?”
“It hurts my wrist.”
Jen pulled the covers to Margo’s chin and kissed her forehead. “Remember.”
“Don’t forget,” said Margo.
She finished scrubbing the pot, started the dishwasher, checked the stove’s buttons, tapping her fingers against her leg for extra assurance that no lights glowed, and then focused on each burner knob, whispering off, off, off, off. Dammit, she hadn’t set the alarm by the back door. Coming back through the kitchen, she’d have to recheck.
Annie meowed at the top of the stairs, peering through a bottom pane of the French doors. Jen sighed as she dropped a handful of kibble into her bowl.
The next day, Jen pulled up to a junky house at five minutes after noon, and there he was, the blind man who’d called about the duplex apartment. Since he wouldn’t be able to see it, she hoped he might rent it. Handsome, she thought, checking her pocket for her keys.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“No worries.” He pointed toward the corner. “Is that street Algregg?”
“Let me check.” She ran down the sidewalk and back. “Yes, it is.”
“I used to own a house on Algregg,” he said. “I love this neighborhood.”
She unlocked the door to the enclosed porch. “The door to the apartment is on the left side.” Hank used his right hand to tap his thin white cane to find one edge of the doorway and held his left in front of him so he wouldn’t run into the other side. She wanted to help him.
“This is the living room,” she said.
“Can you tell me the dimensions? I need to know if my furniture will fit.”
She walked one wall. “I’d say it’s ten feet along this wall and,” she turned and walked along another wall, “ten feet from that wall to the hallway door.”
“Here, come see.” Jen touched his elbow to guide him around a ladder. Gerardo hadn’t finished painting.
“There’s no closet in the bedroom here, but there’s a hanging rack with curtains in front.”
Hank touched them.
“Here’s the kitchen,” Jen said. “Plenty of room for dancing.”
“Dancing?”
“My folks used to waltz in the kitchen.”
Hank felt around in the cabinets.
“Why are you moving?” she asked.
“My girlfriend and I are breaking up.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s past time. What’s the air conditioner situation?”
“Window units.”
“Can you show me how to work the controls?”
“Sure.” She led him to the A/C, and they both laughed as she guided his finger to the buttons.
Back outside, Jen emailed him the application.
“Have you always been blind?”
“I went blind at thirty-eight. Before that, I was a graphic designer.”
“Must have been hard.”
“Yep. Now I play music. What about you?”
“Manage property, take care of my mom. Also volunteer with Citizens Lobbyists for Climate.”
“What do y’all do?”
“We lobby Congress to put a fee on carbon.”
“Cool.”
“Our Christmas party’s next Saturday. Would you like to come? I could give you a ride.”
“I’d like that.”
*
Margo rolled her walker up to the table, turned it around, and sat on its seat. Jen put salmon and asparagus in front of her.
“May I have a piece of bread?”
“Sure.”
“Would you butter it for me?”
Jen sighed, did it, and then sat down with her own plate.
“I rented the apartment to a blind man.”
“A blind man?”
“Yeah. Lucky for us he couldn’t see it.”
Margo chuckled. It was a good day. Hank rented the apartment, they’d go together to the party, and Mom was laughing.
*
A few days later, Hank came by to sign the lease.
Jen read it to him.
“Commencement Date: December 10, 2019, Monthly rent, $1,000, Late Fee $50 after the first three days. Let me know if you have any questions.”
“So far, so good.”
“Prohibitions: smoking, waterbed, excessive noise.”
“Excessive sex noises?”
She laughed. “Any kind of excessive noise.”
*
On Saturday, Jen picked Hank up from his ex-girlfriend’s house and drove downtown. She loved the feel of his hand on her shoulder as they walked through the chilly air and cheerful lights. Inside the bar, they passed displays labeled K-9 Angels, Bayou Conservancy, and Citizens Lobbying for Climate. She saw Paul and Cynthia sitting at the bar, introduced Hank, and then headed to the ladies room.
“Are you interested in climate change or in Jen?” she heard Paul ask.
“Well . . .” Hank replied.
Nineteen days later, they had sex on the futon that fit perfectly in his living room. For the overture, she read to him from Song of Solomon, and for the finale, he jacked off over her, coming so hard some landed in her eye. The next night, Hank asked her to marry him. She laughed, “That’s so sweet.” Over the next few weeks, Jen had to admit, the sex noises were excessive, and she did her best to avoid the other tenants.
*
“I’m going to stop walking. I can’t stand the pain anymore,” Margo said.
“If you do, I won’t be able to take care of you.” Jen sat down on the sofa and reached for her hand. “You’ll stop being able to transfer and you’ll need help to go to the bathroom.”
Later, Jen overheard Margo talking to Chip, her middle brother, on the phone. “I told her my knees hurt so bad that I don’t want to walk anymore, and she said she would stop taking care of me.”
Jen got Margo’s doctor to prescribe physical therapy, and twice a week they drove to Outpatient Rehab. Jen could leave her for an hour, so she’d buy Margo’s favorite pineapple empanadas or pay bills and respond to tenant requests. Her to-do list seemed to grow like a hydra-headed creature. She chopped off one head, two grew back.
Hank’s presence helped tame the monster. He’d watch Wheel of Fortune with Margo while Jen loaded the dishwasher and threw clothes in the dryer. After she sprayed Margo’s mouth, they’d drink margaritas or go dancing.
“Escape velocity achieved,” she’d say, backing out of the driveway.
*
In February, Jen and Hank attended the CLC regional conference. She felt more energized with each Power Point suggesting a carbon price might be enacted if they just continued looking for common ground.
“Action is the antidote to despair,” she told Hank as they ate a boxed vegan lunch. Their last breakout session was on increasing diversity within the organization. For dinner, they were going to dinner with professors and grad students who’d made the long trek from Texas Tech.
“How’d you like the conference?” Jen asked as she pulled out of the parking garage.
“That woman was full of crap with her white privilege bullshit.”
“You don’t think white privilege exists?”
“No, and listening to her pissed me off.”
Just drive, she thought. Here was her chance to use the CLC techniques of respectful appreciation, but they’d be at the restaurant in 10 minutes.
“Do you still want to go to dinner?” she asked
“Not really. I’ll have to listen to those intellectuals stroking their own egos.”
“Ok.”
“But I’m hungry,” Hank said. “I’ll go, and then you can take me home.”
*
Jen took the paper because Annie was getting old and wouldn’t use the litter box. As she spread open a three-month-old section of the Chronicle, she saw a page 7 article: “China says humans can spread new coronavirus: Deadly disease no longer limited to animal transmission.” Wow. Three crazy months, but at least it’d been a relief to stop disinfecting the groceries. The spring was marvelously quiet and the air felt clean. She and Hank stood in socially distanced lines to buy compost, dirt, and seeds. She and her friend Lizzy went for walks, masked and distanced. In some ways, Jen’s life was almost better than before.
Hank bought a house in East End. He painted his front door blue and hung concert posters. He and Jen saw each other less often. On Thursdays, they drank on newly opened parking lot patios. They danced to a Pandora disco station in Hank’s living room. In September, Chip came into town to stay with Margo, so she and Hank could go to her cousin’s cabin in the Sacramento mountains.
Houston was flooding as they left, but Hank needed to pick up meds, so they drove through rising water, detouring around deeper patches. Jen took deep breaths watching the water lap the Brays Bayou bridge from the pharmacy parking lot. She felt relieved when they finally reached I-10 and headed west. Twelve hours later, they pulled into Patsy’s driveway in Las Cruces.
“Come on in.” The open door spilled light into the dark.
“Patsy, this is Hank. Hank, Patsy.”
Patsy fed them ground-beef casserole.
“How are you holding up?” Jen asked.
“I miss my bridge group.”
“How’s Tilly?” Jen was glad she remembered Patsy’s best friend’s name.
“She’s fine. We drink wine in the backyard. Would you like some strawberry rhubarb pie?”
Yes, ma’am,” said Hank.
Patsy warmed it up and added ice cream.
“Delicious,” said Jen, swirling the sweet and tart together on her tongue.
“What’s it like living this close to the border?” Hank asked.
“I’m used to it, so it seems normal, but I can’t believe the ridiculous wall building.”
“It always feels strange to go through the border patrol stops on the way to Cloudcroft,” Jen said. “Has anything changed since Covid?”
“The guards wear masks is all.”
After dinner, Hank played guitar and sang.
Once they got in bed, he said. “I brought some pot. Will that be a problem?”
“I don’t know,” Jen said, “but it makes me nervous.”
They left it under the mattress, which meant they’d have to come back through Las Cruces to pick it up, instead of leaving the cabin key with a neighbor and driving directly home.
“We’d like to come back and visit you on the way home,” Jen said the next morning.
“Sounds great,” said Patsy.
“See you next Saturday,” said Jen.
*
Jen felt excited. On the way, they were going to stop at White Sands National Park.
About a half an hour later, they came to the Missile Range.
Someone passed them on the right. “I shouldn’t be driving in the fast lane,” Jen said.
“That reminds me of a commercial for diamonds,” Hank said. “The man is buying one for his wife to say Honey, when I said women are bad drivers, I didn’t mean you.”
“Statistically, women are better drivers than men,” Jen said.
“It was a commercial,” Hank said.
“A misogynist commercial.”
Hank said nothing, and Jen felt panic rising inside her.
“It’s not a big deal,” she said.
“The damage is done,” said Hank.
Jen considered turning around, driving back to Patsy’s, picking up the pot, and driving the twelve hours back to Houston. Worse than the wasted hours though would be the embarrassment of telling Patsy and then her family. She felt trapped.
She pulled into the White Sands parking lot.
“Can we just let it go?” Jen asked. “This place is cool.”
“I can’t. Could we go another time?”
“It would take up one of the days we could spend on the mountain, and on the way back to Las Cruces, we’ll be coming by when it’s closed.”
“Then let’s get it over with.”
On the top of a sand dune, the white mounds stretching in all directions as if they were on another planet, Jen grabbed his hand, and said, “I’d rather fight with you than fuck somebody else.”
“I guess that’s good,” Hank said, pulling his hand away, though he had to put his hand back on her shoulder to get back to the car.
*
They stopped in Alamogordo for groceries. Hank had done the meal planning, and he handed her his phone so she could see the list. Everything seemed better as they focused on buying the food.
“You heading up the mountain?” asked the cashier.
“Yes,” said Jen.
“It’s nice up there. Have fun.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Hank.
Fifteen minutes later, she took a deep breath as she drove into a tunnel through the mountain and held it until they came out into the sun. The view was stunning. Perhaps they’d gone through their own darkness and now everything between them could relax. At the cabin, they unloaded their bags and took some beers onto the porch. Jen filled the hummingbird feeder and put pecans out on the railing for the Stellar Jays. Hank strummed his guitar figuring out a melody, and then sang, “I’d rather fight with you than fuck somebody else.” Jen laughed.
“That’s a pretty good line if I do say so myself.”
“It is,” said Hank.
Later, they sat on one of the seventies-era couches.
“Tell me some weird sex thing you like,” Hank said.
“I like being told not to come,” Jen said. “It feels naughty.”
“That’s not the kind of thing I meant.”
“I thought that’s what you were asking for.”
“I’m going to go hang out in the bedroom.”
Jen closed the front door softly and walked up toward the condos by the golf course. In spite of porch lights and patches of clouds, she could see so many stars. She kept an eye out for bears and elk. Lizzy answered on the fourth ring.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Hank’s angry.”
“What happened?”
“On the drive up, I told him something was misogynist, and we kind of got over that, but we just had another misunderstanding.”
“Do you feel scared?” Lizzy said.
“A little,” Jen said, “but mostly unhappy.”
“Remember that time Clay was driving me back from the beach, and he made me yell ‘I’m a horrible person’ out the window?”
“It felt like Hank was that angry. I’m glad I was driving. I’m glad he’s blind.”
“That’s not a good sign,” said Lizzy.
“I always date men I think I could get away from.”
“That’s something to look at.”
Jen sighed. “I should go back. He might be wondering where I am.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
She walked down the hill. Maybe the altitude was giving them anxiety. It was a little hard to breathe at 9,000 feet.
The rest of the week, they went for hikes, ate pizza at the new brewery, and spent a lot of time on the porch, Hank playing guitar, Jen taking videos of him and the birds. One night, they put blankets in front of the fireplace and lit a fire, but the chimney must have been blocked, because smoke filled the house.
*
All of her oldest brother Brad’s children and grandchildren came over for their brunch on Christmas Eve. Hank pleaded holiday depression and stayed home. Because of the pandemic, they gathered outside in coats and masks, Margo bundled in blankets. It was cold for a Houston Christmas. Jen pulled a croquet set out of the garage. They took a group photo on the porch steps, unmasked just for a minute. Her niece-in-law posted it on Facebook, and the next day while sitting with Hank on the couch, she got a text from her niece Amelie, Chip’s daughter.
“I saw Dena’s post. Are you TRYING to kill Grandmother?”
“We were outside,” Jen texted back.
“I can’t believe that you all got together unmasked. I haven’t seen anyone or done anything in months to do my part to keep the pandemic under control, and you all gathered for Christmas?”
“We were outside and wore masks the whole time except for the photo.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Ok, thanks for sharing your thoughts.”
“I follow the science.”
“There’s been one confirmed case of outdoor transmission.”
“It’s so irresponsible to post that photo on social media.”
“I didn’t post it.”
“I love you in spite of your misguidedness.”
“Love you too,” texted Jen.
“She’s intense,” said Hank, as she read him the thread. “I hope I never meet her.”
“She’s my favorite niece.”
*
In February, an arctic blast roared into Texas. Jen told the tenants to collect water, and then Gerardo turned it off so the pipes wouldn’t freeze. Margo huddled under two sleeping bags. Jen and Hank checked in by phone. When it finally warmed up days later, all the pipes had frozen anyway, and neither they nor their tenants had water.
Gerardo worked every day, and Jen found handymen she’d never hired before. There was no chance of getting an actual plumber. Brad lived on the same block in a house with updated plumbing, so all the tenants and Jen walked back and forth a couple of times a day to get water from his hose. She stood in lines for hours every day at plumbing supply stores. Chip overnighted some pipe connections from Missouri. “I’ve never seen connectors like these before,” said Gerardo.
One night, Annie didn’t move away from the door, and as Jen pushed slowly, Annie slid across the floor. A few minutes later, Jen found her with one paw in her water bowl. Jen wondered if she’d suddenly gone blind. When Jen came out of the bathroom, Annie’s head was against a wall as if she were trying to walk through it. Jen picked up her rigid body and took her to bed. As Jen held her, she softened a little. Jen read a historical novel with treachery enough to distract her from the small tragedy cradled across her belly. After midnight, she lay Annie down on a towel to protect the bed and fell asleep. At four, the keening began, and Jen stroked her until her body stiffened and water gushed from her nose. Jen sat alone in the lamp light with a dead cat. At dawn, she called Hank.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I love you. She had a good old life.”
She wrapped Annie in an old sheet, placed her body on the balcony, stripped the bed, and carried the sheets and towel downstairs though there was still no way to wash them.
She texted her close friends and family, and responses arrived: “You must miss her so much,” and “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Only Chip got it right. “You stayed with her to the bitter end.”
*
In April, for the first time ever, Margo felt chest pain. Jen called Dr. Violet Hopkins who scheduled an EKG.
“Your heart is in perfect shape,” said Dr. Hopkins.
“That’s too bad,” said Margo.
The next afternoon, she said, “I’m not walking anymore. It hurts too much.”
“Mom, everything will change.”
“If I have to go in a nursing home, so be it. Please bring my wheelchair in from the car.”
Dr. Hopkins suggested Magnolia Home Care, and Jen called the insurance to enact Margo’s long-term care policy. Tuesdays through Fridays, Rocio came in the mornings and Hazel in the afternoons. Jen still handled Margo’s care Saturday through Monday, but she started to catch up on paperwork, finances, and everything else.
By June, Margo couldn’t transfer, and it was hard to leave the house when the caregivers weren’t there.
One afternoon the phone rang.
“Could you use some help?” Amelie said. “What if I came to spend Grandmother’s last months with her?’
“Yes!” said Jen.
She told Hank that evening at Bohemio’s.
“Amelie is going to move here to help me with Mom.”
“I guess I’m never coming over then.”
“Why not?”
“She attacked you for the Christmas gathering. She’s loud.”
“I was excited that we’d have more time to spend together.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll be uncomfortable at your house.”
“But I’ll be free to come to your house.”
Hank was right. They saw each other less. “There’s nothing fun to do in my neighborhood,” he said. “The only place we like over here is Bohemio’s.”
One Sunday in early August, as she drove him back to his house, they stopped there for lunch.
“Now that I have Amelie and the caregivers, we could go out of town sometime,” Jen said.
“Let’s do it,” said Hank. “Pull up the Airbnb app on my phone and see what we could get next weekend in Galveston.”
“Really?” Jen asked, feeling anxious.
“Sure, why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s stay in the old part of town.”
Jen’s body was vibrating as she tried to navigate the app. The cafe felt smaller and darker. It felt important to finish as quickly as possible. She found a place that looked cute and wasn’t too expensive and booked it for three nights. She looked around the cafe, but didn’t feel the relief she was expecting.
“Now look under activities,” Hank said. “First, book a surfing lesson for me.”
“Done.”
“Okay,” said Hank, “How about a tour?”
Jen read him the choices.
“How about the red-light district tour?” he suggested.
“Sure,” she said, though she didn’t like the idea.
“How about you?” Hank said. “Is there something else on there you would like?”
She scrolled through. “Not really. I like the beach. Maybe we can go for sunrise one morning.”
“We could do that,” said Hank.
A few minutes later, Jen realized she was choking down her salad.
“I’m crying,” she said.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I feel like I’ve never been on a vacation like this before.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know what I’m saying. I’ve gone to see friends, traveled overseas, but I’ve never had a romantic weekend away before.” She was speaking too fast. Or was it too slowly? “No, I have. Maybe it’s that I’ve never done Airbnb before.” She paused. “The thought that occurs to me is this is what it’s like to be married.”
“And that makes you cry?”
“Tears of joy?”
*
When she got home, Amelie was sitting at the table. Jen opened the fridge. It was full of boxes. She opened one full of Chana Masala.
“Where did all this Indian food come from?”
“Aarav sent it,” said Amelie.
“Who’s Aarav?”
“A guy I met on Tinder.”
“This is a lot of food for someone who’s never met us to send.”
“He wants you guys to like him.”
“Do you like him?”
“I hadn’t thought about whether I like him.”
*
Jen and Hank walked from the Airbnb to The Strand, where they ate gumbo at a sidewalk cafe, and then sat on an uncomfortable outdoor sofa on a rooftop where they ordered pomegranate mojitos with muddled mint.
“We should use the mint in our garden to make mojitos,” Hank said.
“Sounds fun.”
They sipped their drinks. It was dark and hot. Jen’s lower back was starting to hurt.
“Do you think you’d want to visit Nadine in Nashville this fall?” Nadine was Hank’s youngest daughter and she was transferring to Belmont as a Sophomore.
“That’s funny,” said Hank, “we’re on a vacation and you want to talk about the next one. How about being here now?”
“What else are we going to talk about?”
“Well, okay,” said Hank. “I’d like to take her and her friends to dinner and then go to RCA Studio and Country Music Hall of Fame.”
“How about we camp for a couple of days in Smoky Mountain National Park?” Jen suggested.
“No,” said Hank, “that doesn’t sound good.”
“It seems like it’s all about what you want.”
“Yes, it’s my trip to see my daughter.”
“Ok,” said Jen, “So maybe you want to pay me to come along as your companion.”
“Is that how you think of it?”
“It seems like that is how you are thinking of it.”
“Would you two like another mojito?” asked the waiter.
“Yes,” said Hank, “but just a regular one.”
Jen thought how uncomfortable it would be to wait on arguing couples.
“I can see how you thought it was all about what I want,” said Hank after a while.
“Thank you,” said Jen.
They finished their mojitos and walked home, Hank’s hand on her shoulder. After a while, she reached up and put her hand on top of his.
*
The next morning they got up before dawn and drove to the beach. At sunrise, a ray gleamed through the clouds .
“I can sort of see it,” he said.
A woman walked past them with her black standard poodle. Jen thought it was Heather, a high school friend she’d betrayed senior year. Trying to talk Heather out of her crush on the quarterback, Jen had said, “Fuck Jason” too loudly in the cafeteria. Later that day, Jason invited her to an apartment where everyone got high, and then, leaning over the leather console in his Jaguar, she’d given him a blow job. That Saturday, she’d gotten drunk at another party and shouted fuck you at Heather’s very surprised face.
She thought of running after the woman on the beach, but if by incredible coincidence it was Heather, what would she say? She sat there watching the woman become smaller and smaller against the gray sky.
“You’re awfully quiet,” said Hank.
“Lost in thought,” she shook her head. “Want to go get breakfast?”
That evening, they met the surfing coach at the 45th Street pier. Hank impressed Eddie by how quickly he got up on the board. Jen tried to learn to read the waves to tell him when to start paddling. “It’ll take practice,” Eddie said. He handed her the waterproof camera to film Hank surfing toward the shore.
*
“What’s on the agenda for today?” Jen asked as they drank coffee on the back porch.
“I’m tired from surfing yesterday. Why don’t you go check out some stores?”
“I saw a used bookstore near the Tremont.”
She bought a copy of My Ántonia and a thick collection of stories by a woman she’d never heard of. When she got back, they went out to lunch.
Afterwards, she read her book for a while, and then said, “I’m bored. Let’s do something.”
“Why didn’t you stay out longer this morning?”
“I don’t like going to stores.”
“Ok. Let’s go to the surf shop. I need a leash for my board.”
“Sure, then let’s stop at an office supply store so I can buy a notebook.” It wasn’t fun, but at least it was her idea.
They drove down the seawall. “God, I hope we get a carbon fee soon,” Jen said.
“I don’t believe in climate change.”
“The climate doesn’t care if you believe it or not.”
She drove past the surf shop, and by the time she turned around and got back through the light, the clerk was locking the door. He opened back up for them. They told him they’d almost missed him because they were having a fight.
“My girlfriend and I call it wasted energy before make-up sex,” he said.
“That’s great,” said Hank, laughing. Jen wanted to want to laugh.
As they drove back along the seawall, Jen said, “I know what I’d like to do. Go to the beach.”
“We have to be at the tour at 7:30,” said Hank.
“It’s 5:30 now, we can hang out for thirty minutes, get home by 6:15, and have an hour before we have to start walking over.”
“Okay,” Hank said.
They lugged their chairs down the steps and sat.
“Would you like to go for a walk?” Jen asked.
“No.”
Jen walked to a jetty. She called Margo, but the wind made it hard to hear.
“I’m glad you’re having fun,” Margo said. “Amelie is taking good care of me.”
“Great,” Jen said. “See you tomorrow!”
She shoved her phone in her pocket, remembering other times in her life when her mom had said, “I’m glad you’re doing well,” when she hadn’t been doing well at all.
When she got back, Hank had the hard look.
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.”
Back in the kitchen of the apartment, Jen talked a furious Hank into going on the Red Light District tour she’d never wanted to go on. She did this by apologizing repeatedly for saying she was bored and telling him how much she appreciated him.
They were waiting with one other couple on the corner across from Daiquiri Time Out when the guide arrived. He led them past the houses where the whores had worked, telling them about famous madams and the mafia that took over. He paused for his jokes to land before the next wave of facts. The tour ended on the same corner.
“Want to have a drink?” said Hank.
“Um” said Jen. She didn’t want to go to the bar, but she didn’t want to go home either. Hank’s mood seemed to have improved, thank god, but she couldn’t decide. She didn’t notice time passing, but it must have been too much, because Hank said, “Well, should we go home?”
She had to make a decision. “Let’s have a drink.”
She sat there looking at the tiny umbrella and answered Hank’s attempts at conversation mechanically. She couldn’t bear to look at him, so she started scrolling through Facebook.
“Are you looking at your phone?” Hank said.
“I’m sorry. I’ll put it away.”
“That’s incredibly rude.”
“I don’t know why I’m doing it.”
“Why are you doing it?”
“I just said I don’t know.”
She noticed people going out a back door.
“I’ll bet there’s a patio. Let’s get another drink and move out there.”
There was a brick wall with trailing bougainvillea. If he wanted to have a conversation, she would have a conversation.
“Do you think you’ll come here with your next girlfriend?”
“Uhh, maybe,” he said, and after a pause, “How about you? Will you bring your next boyfriend here?”
“Probably not.”
“Men come and go, but Lizzy is forever,” he said, quoting her from early in their relationship.
“Pretty much.”
It was tense on the way home, but once they got back to the apartment, the air cemented itself. Jen tried to get in bed with him, but when she reached over, he said, “Don’t touch me.” She slept on the couch.
“Shall we talk about it?” Jen said the next morning. “Set the timer so we won’t interrupt each other?”
“Fuck the timer,” Hank said, his face twisted. “I feel like strangling you.”
Jen picked up the phone to video whatever happened next because she could never remember these occasions after the fact, and it dinged as she pressed the red circle.
“Are you fucking recording me?”
“No.” She turned it off and put it down. “I don’t know why it made that sound.”
“I’m going to shove that phone down your throat.”
“All this because I said I was bored yesterday.”
“I’ll give you something to complain about.” Hank’s own voice sounded strangled.
“I’m going to pack now,” said Jen.
They drove home without speaking. She helped carry his things into his house. When she got home, she called him.
“You can’t threaten me ever again or it’s over.”
“I didn’t threaten you. How did I threaten you?”
“’I feel like strangling you, I’ll shove the phone down your throat, and I’ll give you something to complain about.’” Her voice trembled. Why was it scarier to tell someone not to threaten you than it was when they threatened you?
“I would never do those things.”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
*
At 2:17 a.m. her phone rang, dragging her out of a dream of watching prison guards transfer a prisoner.
“I can’t get off this potty chair,” Margo said.
Jen went downstairs.
“Push up on the arms of the chair,” said Jen, “so I can pull up your diaper.”
“You’ll have to help me,” said Margo.
While Margo hung from her neck, Jen pulled up on the disposable underwear, feeling it rip a little, then put her arms around her and swiveled her onto the bed.
“I don’t have time for this,” Jen said.
*
CLC asked for volunteers to phone bank. Because of budget reconciliation, carbon fee legislation only needed fifty votes to pass instead of sixty. Jen signed up for a shift every evening that week.
“I’d leave my husband if I could afford it,” a New Hampshire woman told her after agreeing to email her representative. “Even though he’s a nice guy and does all the cooking.”
Thunder rolled, the Internet flickered, and Jen, calling through a website, didn’t have a chance to respond.
*
Jen was squeezing the formoterol fumarate into the nebulizer, when Margo looked up and said, “I need to tell you something.”
“What is it?
“You hurt my feelings when you said you didn’t have time to help me.”
“I’m sorry.” Jen knelt down in front of her. “I shouldn’t have said that. ”
“I’m sorry I’m a burden.”
“I love you, Mom. I’m glad you are here, and I’m glad I am here with you.”
“Can I have a hug?”
Jen gave her a hug, waited until Margo put the mouthpiece in her mouth, and flipped on the switch. She loaded dishes Amelie had left in the sink into the dishwasher. Amelie was sitting in the living room looking at her phone.
“How’s it going with Aarav?” Jen asked.
“Great! He wants to bring us lunch tomorrow.”
*
Aarav was patting Margo on the head. “You are so adorable,” he said, laughing.
Amelie introduced Jen.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, you look extremely hot in that dress,” Aarav said.
Jen walked into the kitchen to check that none of the stove buttons glowed green.
Brad came in the front door. “Just stopping by to check on y’all.”
“Aarav brought lunch,” Amelie said. “Would you like to join us?” “
“Want a Shiner?” Aarav asked.
“I’m not a day drinker,” said Brad.
Aarav’s loudness made Amelie seem quiet, and even Brad, who could quietly command a room, seemed abashed as Aarav interrupted him constantly, at one point reaching across him to fist-bump Margo.
“He wants you to put your fist against his,” Jen said.
“Oh,” said Margo lifting her arm above the tabletop and slowly stretching her fist towards Aarav, who laughed again and walked into the kitchen. “Anyone want another Shiner?” he called.
“I’m not a day drinker either,” said Jen when he came back. “I’ll get Mom’s ice cream.”
Brad picked up some plates and followed her into the kitchen.
“Aarav seems a little brash,” he said.
“Amelie has only been seeing him about a week.”
“Oh,” said Brad, “I thought he was a caregiver.”
*
Now that she wasn’t so worn out, Jen visited with Margo after Hazel put her to bed. One night, Jen pulled a wool blanket over the comforter and snuggled in behind Margo.
“I want to turn over,” said Margo and began the difficult process.
They held hands and looked at each other.
“I don’t know if I should tell you this,” Margo said.
“Whatever it is is fine, Mom.”
“After your dad and I got married, it took me a long time to get warmed up for sex. He tried foreplay for a while, but it took a long time, and one day he said, I don’t have time for this.”
“Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry. When did this happen?”
“Before we had Brad, and so I never enjoyed it.”
“You’ve never had an orgasm?”
“I just pretended.”
Jen took a breath. “That must have been disappointing.”
“It was.”
“Did you ever tell him?”
“No, I should have.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“It’s okay,” said Margo, closing her eyes.
The air felt clammy. The lingering Lysol overlaid the smell of wipes. But her mom still smelled like her mom, warm and safe. Jen waited until Margo fell deeply asleep to disengage their hands, knowing for once what she wanted. Go upstairs, get in bed, call Hank, speak her truth into the dark.
***
Carol Denson’s poems have appeared in The Adirondack Review, Gulf Coast, Literary Mama, and other journals, and she has a chapbook called Across the Antique Surface. An essay about poetry and parenting “Transfertle the Plum” was published in Rattle’s Single Poets issue.