The Hole in the Middle (8 page)

“Absolutely,” says Jesse. “It's a very respectable jail. We'll even let you eat your pasta before we make you escape so that we can recapture you.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, and I kiss my little boys on the top of their sweet heads. “Did Jamie practice his cello?”

“I hate cello,” says Jamie.

“We had a cello-related mutiny,” says Jesse. “We're going to let it go for tonight.”

“His teacher—” I begin.

“We're letting it go,” Jesse repeats. “Go up and get changed.”

When I come back down, I find that Jesse has managed to distract my would-be jailers with a video, and I sit on a kitchen stool while I wait for my pasta to heat in the microwave. It's left over from a giant batch that I made over the weekend and it still looks reasonably appealing.

Jesse joins me. “Feeling any better?”

“So-so. I'm holding my own. I'm hoping I can beat it if I get a decent sleep.” I take a bite. “I nearly forgot to tell you, I saw Lil the other day.”

Jesse's face lights up with a huge grin. He adores Lil. “What is Her Majesty up to these days?”

“It's hard to tell, but definitely something nefarious,” I say. “She's plotting something on the search committee. I'll fill you in once I figure it out myself. How are things with the investors?”

“Hard to know. They're going over the plans with a cost consultant and we're meeting again later this week. Anya is cautiously optimistic, and she's been spending more time with them than I have. I feel like it's kind of out of our hands at the moment.”

“Hey, Jess?” I ask. “Do you think we have the kids in enough programs?”

He cocks his head. “Why?”

“Mom came by the office today and was asking about art programs
for Jamie. Reading between the lines, which wasn't hard to do, I'd say she thinks we are squandering his artistic potential.”

“Based on how much he hates cello, I'm not sure we need to worry about his artistic potential,” says Jesse.

I roll my eyes at him. “She's fixated on her Christmas shopping and I was too busy to return her messages so she dropped by in person to make sure I was still alive.”

“What does that have to do with the art program?”

“She wants to give Jamie art lessons. She and Dana have been concocting some charitable initiative that involves carpooling our understimulated son to the art gallery every week to counteract the effects of our negligence and even out the esthetic playing field.”

“Were you nice?”

“Not especially.”

“Sophie,” Jesse says, “haven't you learned by now that you should just give her what she wants? Why rise to the bait? You only make yourself crazy.”

“I know, I know,” I say. “Let's not talk about it. Do you want to hear the best story of the day? Barry was overheard in the elevator saying that it's really unfair that all those poor kids with Down syndrome have to compete for medals with ex-military dudes who've had their limbs blown off in combat. The chief of surgery had to explain the difference between the Special Olympics and the Paralympics. It totally went viral.”

“Sweet,” says Jesse. “I have no idea how you work for that moron.”

We laugh, and I notice that there are a few more lines around his eyes than there used to be, and a few spots at his temples that are now more gray than brown. He still has a drop-dead smile, though, and I'm tempted for a moment to reach out and run a hand through his curly mop of hair, which both our children have inherited. But as I think of the children, I realize that they have been quiet for far, far too long.

“Can you check on the kids, Jess?” I ask.

He pops into the playroom and I hear him say, “Scotty, NO!” and then I hear Scotty start to cry, and when I get to the doorway, I see that
the markers are out, and Scotty has scrawled all over the couch and the carpet and part of the wall.

“What the hell are the markers doing out?” I yell.

“We were doing drawings with Daddy,” says Jamie.

“You can't leave them alone with the markers, Jesse, for God's sake!” I snap. “That's why I keep them on the top shelf! What were you thinking?”

“I was trying to encourage the children to develop their artistic potential,” says Jesse sarcastically. “Wasn't that a big priority for you five minutes ago?”

Jesse takes the boys upstairs for bath and bed while I dig through the cupboard for my collection of largely ineffective, although environmentally friendly, cleaning products. After a futile attempt to remove the ink by spraying and blotting, I eventually resort to squeezing blobs of upholstery shampoo directly on the couch and pouring hot water on top of it and going after the whole mess with a scouring brush—actions which are all firmly discouraged by the product packaging. By the end of the night the playroom looks as though it has been hit by a monsoon, and if the rainbow streaks of marker are slightly less visible, I suspect it is because they are harder to see when the fabric is soaking wet.

I stagger upstairs, dry myself off, and slide into bed next to Jesse, who is already asleep, turned toward his side of the bed. The vigorous scrubbing has taken the edge off my anger, and I curl up against Jesse's back, breathing in the distinctive and oddly intoxicating smell of shaving cream, deodorant with a hint of sweat underneath, and the unfussy white bar of soap that he uses in the shower.

“Are you awake?” I murmur, kissing his shoulder and reaching across to touch his chest.

Jesse rolls toward me, a promising beginning, but as I lean in for a kiss he turns his head and my lips land somewhere around his ear. “Not tonight,” he says. “I need some sleep and so do you.”

I close my eyes to hide the rejection in them, and I feel his cool lips on my forehead. “Good night,” he says and rolls away to the other side of the bed, and I watch his back expand and contract with each breath, as sleep pulls him further and further away from me.

october 1994

By the time the leaves on the maple tree outside my window start to turn red, I've begun to settle into a comfortable rhythm in the house on Abernathy Road. The smell of oiled wood paneling, lemon furniture polish, and wool carpets feels like home now. A.J. and Will both have much heavier class schedules than I do, but I have mountains of reading in addition to two weekly columns at the student newspaper, and we rarely see each other except in the evenings. The guys are friendly, and conscientious about including me in their dinner routine, which generally involves pizza or, for a special treat, Chinese food.

Everything changes the day I come home with groceries and bright blue hair. A.J. and Will are in the kitchen when I walk in and drop two plastic bags on the island, and they freeze.

“Don't say it,” I tell them. “I know it's awful. I'm making lasagna. I'm too depressed to eat pizza again, possibly ever.” I glare at them, daring them to comment.

“You can cook?” asks A.J. He's trying hard not to laugh.

“Of course I can cook,” I say, happy that we aren't talking about my hair. “My mother's a caterer.”

Will shoots A.J. a look as if to say,
Don't fuck this up
. “I love lasagna,”
he says, flashing me the version of his smile that I now recognize as his warmest and most charming. “Can we help?”

“Can you chop vegetables?” I ask.

“I think we can handle that,” says A.J.

We work together in silence for a little while, until I say, “In case you were going to ask about my hair—”

“We weren't,” says A.J.

“But if you want to tell us, go ahead,” says Will.

“My friend Sara convinced me that I'd have more street cred at the newspaper if I looked more alternative,” I say.

“Friend?” says A.J., at the same time as Will says, “Alternative to what?”

“I realize student politics isn't your scene,” I say. “But I'm embarrassingly mainstream. I'm not even bi-curious.”

“Fine with us,” says Will.

“I look like a Muppet.”

“I always liked Cookie Monster,” says Will.

“Me too,” says A.J. “Although I think the color is more Grover-esque. Not to mention alternative.”

I burst out laughing, giving them permission to do the same. “Your mom's a caterer?” Will asks, once we catch our breath.

“A caterer and a wedding planner,” I say. “The wedding business is mostly in the summer, though.”

“Where do your parents live?” asks A.J. I'm surprised; he's never asked me anything personal before.

“Port Alice,” I say. They both nod. City people always know Port Alice; it's a sleepy little town in the winter but a tourist hub in the summer, at the junction of three lakes whose shorelines are dotted with designer cottages. Port Alice residents are utterly bemused by the fact that fabulously wealthy people who could pay for weddings anywhere would choose to marry on a dock with a view of Port Alice. My mother says that it's just more evidence that romance is totally irrational; she herself is a hopeless romantic, but leans more toward beaches and swaying palm trees.

“Did you grow up there?” A.J. asks.

“Partly,” I say. “I was born here. We had a family place near Port Alice and when my dad inherited it, he decided that he wanted to move there. I was ten.”

My dad practiced law in a big law firm downtown for years and he loved the idea of being a small-town lawyer; my mother referred to it as his Our Town fantasy. She was less enamored with the idea of relocating, but with her city connections, she quickly established her business and made good friends with all the local suppliers. I didn't mind the move at the time, because I'd always loved the family cottage. It wasn't until I hit high school that I began to appreciate what had been taken away, and since my first days of university, I'd been a zealous convert to city living.

“How do you guys know each other?” I ask.

“We went to summer camp together,” says Will. “And then we ran into each other at a bar the summer before university and started hanging out again.”

“I know that you went to Duke and came back here for law school,” I say. “What about you, A.J.? Have you been living here the whole time?”

“Since second year,” he says. “Will introduced me to Lil when I said I was looking for an apartment. I lived here with Alex and Simon for two years.” I'd met his engineering friends at a couple of parties, and in fact suspected that Zoe had a fling with Alex before leaving for Paris. “I had to take some time off in third year, so they graduated a year ahead of me,” he says, and doesn't elaborate further.

When the lasagna is ready, I serve up generous portions, and A.J. and Will help carry the dishes to the dining room. Will has set one place at the head of the table and one on either side, and he pulls the head chair out for me. A.J. rolls his eyes heavenward and snorts.

I leap to Will's defense. “Women like men with beautiful manners,” I tell him. At least I do, but I read a lot of Jane Austen.

“I've noticed,” says A.J., and now it's Will's turn to snort.

The guys make short work of the lasagna and insist on doing the
dishes. I sit up at the counter and watch them, feeling like an anthropologist. They fascinate me, and I want to know more. I feel that if I could somehow come to understand the underlying meaning of their habits, their interaction with each other, their clothes, their language and customs, then I might also unlock more general principles of attraction between men and women in the modern age. It doesn't seem to work the way it did in Jane Austen's day. I've had boyfriends, even serious ones, but I've always felt off-balance in relationships. It's unsettling to be vulnerable to someone when you have no idea what they're thinking—not just about you and the relationship, but about the movie you saw or the meal you ate. I want to see inside a boy's soul. That's what true love is about, isn't it? But I need more data, and I think that Will and A.J. might have it.

“You know,” I say, dragging my eyes away from the sight of Will's strong forearms drying dishes, “I could cook more often, if you like.”

Will and A.J. exchange a sideways glance. “We'd like it,” says Will, “but we can't ask you to cook for us all the time. That wouldn't be right.”

“How often were you thinking?” asks A.J.

“If you put some money in for groceries, I could cook three times a week—say Mondays, Wednesdays, and Sundays?”

A.J. nods slowly. “I could do Tuesdays,” he says.

Will looks stunned. “You cook?” he says.

A.J. shrugs. “A bit.”

“Wonders never cease,” says Will. “I totally can't cook. But if you are going to give me home-cooked meals the rest of the week, I'll spring for takeout on Thursdays.”

“No pizza,” I say quickly.

Will laughs. “Deal,” he says. He stretches a hand out across the table, palm down, grabs one of my hands, and places it on top of his; A.J. dries his hands on a towel and lays one of them on mine. “Operation Family Dinner,” says Will, drawing our hands down and then pushing them up in the air in a move I vaguely recognize from televised sports.

“Woo-hoo,” I say, feeling immediately idiotic.

And so our family dinner routine begins. A.J. has a solid if limited repertoire of chili, macaroni and cheese, and chicken fajitas. Will, as advertised, is hopeless in the kitchen, but I agree to take responsibility for reheating and plating his offerings, and in return he produces meals that are several cuts above takeout; he makes some arrangement with his mother's caterer and seems to enjoy ordering screamingly domestic dishes like chicken pot pie, beef bourguignon, and salmon en croûte. I wonder sometimes if he is making fun of me, but I prefer to think that he is hearkening back to the meals he remembers eating at his family table. As the weeks stretch on and the arrangement remains in place, I conclude that Will and A.J. like a home-cooked meal and some quasi-domestic companionship at the end of the day as much as I do.

Lil returns late in October. Will says that she's been on the European festival circuit, which apparently includes a film festival in Venice and an antiques fair in Paris. We have a special Friday-night dinner in her honor. I roast a chicken and vegetables, and make a green salad and an apple crisp. Lil regales us with tales of shocking celebrity behavior in the grand hotels of Venice. At the end of the meal, she sits back and surveys us with satisfaction.

“I knew a girl would add a civilizing influence,” she says. “I do so enjoy being right.” We all shift awkwardly and say nothing. She laughs. “You don't have to acknowledge that I'm right. Just knowing is enough for me. Now, what are you all doing tomorrow night? I'd like to take you out for dinner.”

“Whatever plans you have, you should cancel,” says Will to A.J. and me. “You won't want to miss it.”

“Quite so,” says Lil. “I thought we'd go to Tableau. They have a tasting menu that I've been wanting to try, but tasting menus are always more fun with a group. Are you all in?” There is a chorus of assent. “Excellent,” says Lil. “No jeans, boys. Ties and jackets required. And, Sophie, you are going to come with me in the afternoon for some girl time.”

Girl time turns out to be a visit to Lil's salon. I know immediately that I can't afford it here and I wonder, anxiously, if they have student rates.

“Lillian,” says a tall, graceful man, stooping to kiss her on both cheeks. He looks at my blue hair with distaste. “What have we here?”

“Hello, Hugo,” she says. “This is my friend Sophie.” Hugo shakes my hand.

“The blue was a mistake,” I say.

“It certainly was,” says Lil, and addresses herself to Hugo. “Sophie is having a makeover today.” She waves off my objections. “It's my treat, Sophie,” she says. “All I ask in return is that you put yourself in Hugo's talented hands.”

Hugo regards me with a diagnostician's clinical gaze. “Whoever did this should be reported,” he mutters. “And stripped of their license to do hair.”

“It's nothing you can't fix, Hugo dear,” says Lil. “Back to a golden blond, I think. And a much shorter cut. Her hair is too fine to be so long.” I reach up to clutch the loose bun at the back of my neck. It's taken two years to grow it this long. “Hand over the—what do you call that thing you wear in your hair?”

“A scrunchie,” I say.

“Hand over the scrunchie,” she says, and I do. She hands it to the girl behind the cash desk. “Would you mind throwing that in the trash for me? Thank you, dear.” A grin tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Don't look so horrified, Sophie. Trust me, it's for the best.”

For the next hour or so, I let Hugo repair my hair with chemical mud, until he finally covers my head with plastic and sits me under a giant domed dryer while I read magazines. Then Hugo's comely assistant washes the dye out and returns me to his chair. “And now we cut,” he says. “Courage!” He pronounces it
cour-ahj
. His scissors start flying and soon the floor is littered with chunks of my hard-won hair. I feel tears prickle in my throat, and I close my eyes. Hugo massages product into my hair and turns on the dryer, and his brush scoops the hair up
and pulls it out and under. Finally, the noise stops. “There,” he says with satisfaction. “What do you think?”