Kiss Mommy Goodbye (12 page)

To her list of likes she added three points: he loved Adam (although she wished he’d spend more time doing the things with Adam he was always telling her to do); he loved her (despite his constant criticism of her, it was, strangely, something she never doubted); and he was still the best lover she’d ever had. She took count. The positives still outweighed the negatives.

“Where are you taking that?” Donna’s voice was sharp, as it often was when she was caught off guard.

“Don’t get excited. I’ll put it back when everybody leaves,” Victor answered, smiling.

“But I liked it where it was. Where are you putting it?”

“In the closet. You know I hate all these little things cluttering up the place.”

“Victor, my mother gave me that doll. It’s from Mexico.”

“I know, honey, and I promise I’ll put it back in the living room tomorrow, but can’t we, for one night, put it in the closet? It won’t break.”

“But I like it.”

“And I don’t.” Impasse. “Donna, we’ve had this discussion a hundred times at least since we’ve been married. I hate a million little doodads all over every room; you like it—”

“They make the place look homey.”

“According to you. According to me, they make it look messy. Now, I know how much a lot of these pieces mean to you and I usually don’t say anything, now be fair, do I?”

“No but—”

“So, I don’t think it’s out of line for me to ask you for one night, just one night, to do things my way.” He walked with the small cloth doll to the hall closet.

“What else have you moved?”

“I’ve just straightened things up a bit.”

Donna walked from the kitchen into the living room. “My, my,” she said, “but you’ve been a busy little boy.”

“The place was a mess, Donna. I noticed you hadn’t gotten around to doing anything about it yet, and there
are
two couples coming over for dinner—”

“I just vacuumed this afternoon.”

“Please don’t raise your voice.”

“Where did you put the dry flowers?”

“They’re in the linen closet. Don’t say it—I know you like them. Just for tonight, Donna. Please?”

Donna bit down on her lip and walked back into the kitchen. Victor followed close behind.

“Now please don’t pull one of your moods,” he cautioned.

“One of my moods?”

“You know what I mean.” He looked around. “Oh, you made the chicken, huh?”

“Yes. Something wrong?” Donna asked.

“No, that’s just fine. I thought I told you I preferred roast.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“I did, I’m sure. Oh well, chicken it is.”

“You
like
my chicken with cumberland sauce!”

“I know. Just that I like your roast better. That’s all, honey. The chicken always comes out a little dry, that’s all.”

“Since when? You never said that before.”

“I always say it. You don’t listen.” Victor smiled and raised his eyebrows. It was something he did often. Every time he did it, she wanted to chop his head off with an axe.

“What else are you serving?”

“Potatoes, green beans with pine nuts—”

“Again?”

“The last time I made green beans with pine nuts was over a year ago and it wasn’t for the same people.”

“You’re sure?”

She turned her back to him and walked to the fridge.

“No soup?” he asked.

“Sorry, I forgot to mention it. Cold cucumber soup. Does that meet with your approval?” She lifted the large tureen of soup out of the fridge.

“That’s fine. What are you getting so defensive about? Can’t I be interested?” She shrugged. “Here, you’re going to drop that.” He rushed over and took it from her hands. “Where do you want it?”

“On the counter,” she said. On your head, she thought.

“Jesus Christ, what’s all over this floor?”

Donna looked at the floor. “Oh,” she said, remembering. “Adam spilled some apple juice this afternoon. I thought I’d cleaned it all up.”

“It’s so sticky. Did you use the mop?”

“No, I got down on my hands and knees and wiped it up.”

“You need the mop. This way it stays sticky and you track it into the carpets. No wonder the rugs are starting to look so dirty.”

“Oh, Victor, lay off, will you?”

“Look, Donna, we really shouldn’t be having company. It’s too much for you. Look at you. You’re a nervous wreck. I can’t say anything to you without your getting all upset. The place is a mess. I’m not angry or anything. I understand you don’t have time to clean the whole house while you’re looking after Adam, but I told you we didn’t have to have anyone over. You’re the one who insisted.”

“I just said I thought it would be nice. And I still do—if you’d stop picking on me—”

“Picking on you—?” They heard Adam crying. “What’s he doing up?”

“I think he’s coming down with something.”

“I told you to wear a mask around him when you have a cold.”

“Victor, the doctor said that wasn’t necessary. I asked him. Besides I don’t have a cold.”

“This week.”

She walked back to the fridge and opened it, taking a small bottle of medicine out.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to give him a few drops of Tylenol.” She started to walk out of the kitchen.

“The kid cries and you’re going to give him medicine?”

“He has a slight fever. I’d like it to break before it gets worse. I called Dr. Wellington. He said to give him Tylenol.”

“You know there have been reports that Tylenol can cause liver damage.”

“God, give me strength,” Donna whispered. “You won’t let me give him baby aspirin—”

“Sure, you want him to start bleeding internally?”

“Oh Christ, Victor, does everything have to be a major debate? Can’t I do anything without taking it to a vote? Can’t I make even one little decision all by myself?”

“You make
all
the decisions around here. When has my word ever counted for anything?”

“Your word always counts.”

“Oh, it does? Are you going to give him the Tylenol?”

“He has a fever, Victor. The doctor—”

“Are you going to give him the Tylenol? Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Of course, we always do everything your way.”

Donna felt her eyes filling with tears.

“Why are you crying, Donna?” he taunted. “We’re doing what you want to do. We’re doing things your way. We’re giving Adam the medicine; we’re having chicken for dinner; we’re having the and the Drakes over tonight. We’re doing everything you wanted. Why are you crying?”

“You’re twisting everything all around!”

“You’re crying all over your makeup.” He checked his watch. “They’ll be here in ten minutes. You timed that beautifully. Sure, answer the door with your eyes all teary. Make me the heavy.”

Donna tried to wipe her eyes.

“You’re smearing your mascara,” he said.

“Damn you,” she muttered. “Why do you always have to spoil everything?”

“That’s good, Donna. Keep it up. Let’s really start something here.”

Adam began to shriek. Donna turned and walked out of the room.

Dinner started out a strained affair. Donna was very tense. Aside from the odd phrase, she said little for much of the first part of the evening, trying to busy herself in the kitchen, smiling instead of talking, feeling her muscles tightening with the strain. Victor seemed perfectly normal; to his company, he was friendly and talkative. He told several very amusing anecdotes, one of which Donna was loath to discover, as the evening progressed, she was tempted to laugh at, and would have had she not been so angry. In fact, she had to bite down hard on her lip to keep from laughing and Victor, who noticed everything, took note and smiled. He had obviously decided not to stay angry—why was it always up to him? Perhaps the dinner was better than he’d expected, although she’d burned the pine nuts and the green beans were a touch overdone. After he smiled, Donna felt lighter, less hostile. She realized how much she didn’t want to be angry, how pleasant it
was when they were nice to each other. Besides, if she didn’t signal an appropriate response, she would only be accused of prolonging the fight, of being the one who insisted on war when he had indicated a willingness for peace. And he would, of course, be right. She smiled directly at Victor. The air was starting to clear.

“I love you,” she said in the kitchen, because she needed to feel love.

“I love you,” he answered, because it was the expected response.

The rest of the evening was a dramatic change. Donna was gregarious, chatty, even overly friendly. She was pushing, she knew, but it just felt so good not to have someone mad at her. When the evening was over and the Vogels and the Drakes had gone home, Victor checked Adam and found him sleeping like the baby he was. Even at fifteen months, they still almost always referred to him as a baby.

“Sound asleep,” Victor said, crawling into bed beside Donna, his arm encircling her immediately. “I checked his head. It feels cool.”

“That’s good,” Donna said. She was so tired. He leaned over her. “Please, Victor, can we just go to sleep tonight? I’m really tired.”

He looked hurt but moved back to his side of the bed. “Turn over,” he said simply. “I’ll hold you.”

Donna turned over, moving into the warmth of his curved body.

“I love you,” he said, because he needed to feel love.

“I love you,” she answered, because it was the expected response.

Several minutes went by and then she spoke again. “Last
night I dreamed you had an affair,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Except you were really big and fat.”

“Oh, well, that explains it.”

“What?”

“I always get big and fat when I have an affair.”

She laughed, and the tensions which had remained despite the truce finally disappeared. She turned toward him, feeling suddenly not tired at all, and his arms moved quickly around her. She desperately wanted everything to be all right between them. So, she suspected, did he.

“I love you,” he said, because he meant it.

“I love you,” she answered, because she wanted to mean it.

“H
ow long until you’re ready?” he called from the living room.

“Just another couple of minutes. Why don’t you have a drink in the meantime?”

“I’m already having my second. Do you want me drunk before we even get there?”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

Donna checked her appearance in the mirror, liked what she saw, put a final brush of color on her cheeks, fluffed out her hair and walked into the living room. Tonight was going to be different, she had resolved earlier. They would not fight. She would not bait him or otherwise goad him; she would be agreeable and charming. She would support him, compliment him, often and sincerely in front of the other guests at Danny Vogel’s party, and she would try desperately hard not to cough, sneeze or otherwise indicate to anyone that she had a cold, despite a deepening case of laryngitis. She would also not discuss Adam unless absolutely
pressed because Victor always hated when other people talked about their children. In short, she would be the perfect wife; she would give the one hundred percent Victor was always lecturing her about—no, that was wrong. Definitely getting off to a bad start if she kept that attitude up. He didn’t lecture her; he only made conversation, and eminent sense at that. Whatever happened, whatever was said or done, they would not fight. Their fight of the other evening (she really couldn’t remember how it started or what it was about although she suspected sexual tension was the ultimate culprit) had been enough to convince her that these endless battles had to stop. They simply couldn’t keep screaming at each other the way they did, not just because of themselves, for their own sakes, but for Adam who was now past two years old and beginning to be affected by the things he saw and heard around him. After the other night, when Adam had been begging them to stop yelling at each other and they had merely ignored his pleas and kept on, it had been somehow frightening to watch him turn his little back and start playing right alongside them, ignoring them entirely, blocking them out as if they really weren’t there. She had decided that night that there would be no more fights. Maybe she couldn’t control Victor’s temper, but she could control her own, and it took two to make a fight. She would not allow herself to be drawn into one again. She would not be responsible for creating a scene; she would not contribute to its survival.

And they had to start making love again on a regular basis. Their sex life had always been wonderful; now it was becoming nonexistent. This was her fault more than his, she knew. But increasingly, she couldn’t bring her mind or
body to make love when the only emotions she was feeling were resentment and even hatred. Worse than hate—despair. She couldn’t play the whore—a two-cent whore, at that, because lately that was all she felt she was worth. If she allowed him to make love to her, to crawl over her, to enter her, she feared she would disappear altogether, lost under his crushing weight, bruised beyond recognition, if she was ever found at all.

She stopped herself. If she was going to make tonight work, she had to stop thinking like that. All other nights were in the past. Today was the first day of the rest of her life and all that malarkey.

She walked up behind Victor. “Hi. I’m ready.”