Fitting Ends by Dan Chaon Page B

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    â€œWhere’s Susan?” I said, and she looked back to the green pepper she was dissecting.
    â€œShe’s in the bedroom with the baby. The J-monster is in there, too.” She had recently started to be a little antagonistic toward Joshua, our oldest. I could tell she thought he was spoiled, but it still surprised me. She’d always seemed so delighted by him before. Not too long ago, she’d told me that she was glad she never had any children of her own. I hoped she wouldn’t keep calling Joshua the J-monster.
    â€œAny major disasters while I was out?” I asked.
    â€œJust the usual,” she said. “Tell Susan dinner will be ready soon.”
    Susan was sitting on our bed, nursing Molly and reading a book to Joshua. He huddled into the crook of her arm, listening grimly. I sat down beside her, with Joshua between us, and I slipped my arm around her waist, encompassing all of them.
    â€œ ‘They passed the restless ocean,’ ” Susan read, “ ‘combing out her hair.’ ” She winked at me. “What took you so long?” she said.
    â€œOh, I got lost,” I said. “It’s the perfect day for the end of my youth.” I put my hand to my brow melodramatically.
    â€œCome on,” she said. “You’re not allowed to brood until you turn thirty.”
    â€œI’m advanced,” I said, and Joshua pushed against us impatiently.
    â€œRead,” he said. “Read.”
    And so Susan continued, and I looked down at Molly. She was nursing intensely, her eyes closed, her brow furrowed. Susan hadn’t breast-fed Joshua, and it was still strange to see her breasts, with their new roundness, almost opaque so I could just barely see her veins beneath her skin. She had always been hearty and athletic looking, and the leftover softness of pregnancy made her seem almost exotic. We hadn’t made love since the baby was born, and I hadn’t pressed her, yet. But sometimes, when her nipple slipped out of the baby’s mouth, erect and red, I would feel a twinge of urgency. And then, almost involuntarily, I thought of Rhonda, the flash of the brown aureoles of her breasts before her pale arms covered them. I cleared my throat.
    â€œJoan says supper’s almost ready,” I said, and Susan nodded.
    At supper, Joan insisted on a chorus of “Happy Birthday” and I sat there, listening to their low, female voices intertwining, echoing hollowly. Joshua watched with amazed horror. Afterwards, Joan went right into one of her heavy conversations. There were several recurring themes when Joan visited: her ex-husband and what happened to her marriage, her dislike for St. Bonaventure, lack of suitable male companionship, et cetera. Tonight, she told us that her boss, a married man, wanted to have an affair with her.
    â€œThe worst part of it,” she said, “is that we’re friends, sort of. At least, I have to work closely with him every day. It’s not like I can just say ‘screw you’ and forget about it. I can see what it is. His wife is this matronly, country-club type, and he’s got—what?—three or four kids. And I think it’s something that all married people go through at some point. Especially men.”
    â€œPlus you’re pretty,” my wife said. “And vulnerable.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, ‘especially men’?” I said.
    â€œOh, shut up,” Joan told me. “Not you.” Joshua got up from the table, and I warned him that the baby was sleeping. He turned his back to me, bitterly, and sat down among his toys. “Anyway,” Joan said. “The truth is, in a lot of ways, I’m really attracted to him, and I would do it, I would. But look at me. I’ve been divorced now for almost as long as I was married, and I’ve passed the point in my life when I could allow that sort of thing to happen to me. I mean, here I am in this tiny