Jeanne was twenty-five when it happened. Colette was almost three, and already asleep for the night. Single-rib lamb chops lay marinating in fresh lemon and thyme. They had listened to Daddy A Go Go while Jeanne folded laundry and Colette jumped on the couch. Paul objected to Jeanne letting Colette ruin their furniture—or anyone else’s.
“She won’t ruin other people’s furniture. Colette knows jumping is allowed only at home, and only when I’m in the room with her.”
“Why do you think she can decipher unwritten rules, Jeanne? People shouldn’t assume they can do that.”
“Paul, most people do it perfectly, no assumption involved. They know automatically. It depends on the rules.” From then on, Colette jumped on the couch when her mother was home to watch her and her father was not.
But within a few months, along with everything else, Jeanne and Colette had lost the part of life that required treading lightly, even at home sometimes. Their private behavior mattered less. Odd what you end up missing. Jeanne understood why people imagined that someone imperceptible was watching over them from above.
That night for Colette’s dinner, she cut cold chicken into small pieces and fixed a small bowl of noodles.
Only on weekends did the three of them eat together. Week nights Paul opened the door just in time to read Colette a good-night story. That night, though, he had phoned saying he couldn’t leave his office until eight-thirty
“Apple or pear?” Jeanne asked Colette.
“Pear, please, Mommy.” Eating the juicy pear slices, making a mess her mother hadn’t anticipated. Colette said, “The mean boy didn’t bite me today.”
Jeanne hadn’t known any boy had ever bitten Colette. But when she asked who the boy was, Colette looked away. “He never bited me.”
Jeanne read Colette the book about the mouse and a stone cutter in a cathedral, while Colette turned the pages and pointed at the mouse as if it were hidden, which it wasn’t.
Then Jeanne kissed her daughter, who was still sleeping in a crib, adjusted the night-light, and closed the door.
She added salt and pepper to the meat and fixed a fresh green salad. Between eight-thirty and nine, she drank a beer and read the newspaper. It was mid-June and dusk was only beginning to infiltrate the house. Jeanne had no idea why Paul was working late or why he hadn’t phoned.
In their bedroom she dabbed cologne on her fingertips and ran them through her thick shiny hair. She had dropped her shift and reclined on their bed naked. When the phone rang, she was imagining Paul’s breath in her ear. Languid but eager, she had drawled, “Hello,” in a voice that would never sound as casual and calm again. In the terrible, infinite pause between her “hello,” and an official hesitancy, Jeanne realized Paul had died. The man on the phone cleared his throat and she almost screamed, “Is he alive?”
Jeanne’s husband drove their green hatchback going eighty miles an hour into a concrete barrier flanking Interstate 287. The evening was mild and visibility was excellent.
She closed her eyes and her entire awareness stole one last glance back before her teeth began knocking together.
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