started to walk. This was really the woods. There were things flying and whining in his ears. He was that prince cutting his way through the vines to get at Sleeping Beauty. He walked for miles without hearing anything but those insects and the wind flapping around in the leaves.
The cheater won the prize. A little goody-bag. The only thing Tony Harmon knew for sure was in that goody-bag was a whistle, because the cheater started running in circles blowing it so loudly he finally had to put his fingers in his ears.
“Cake!” Melody shouted loudly enough to be heard over it all as she stepped off the deck into the backyard bearing it, in flames. She placed the cake in front of their daughter, and Tony had to hold himself back from blowing out the candles, which seemed like an absurdly dangerous thing to put in front of a little girl with long hair. But his daughter blew them out faster than he could have, and then screamed, over and over again in triumph, clearly trying to over-shadow the game winner with her whistle.
The cake itself was like some sort of surrealist representation of a vagina—all pink at the center surrounded by pinker roses made of frosting but looking a lot like damp flesh, and a miniature Barbie doll doing a go-go dance in a bathing suit at the center. “Can you please go in and get the soda and the ice bucket?” Melody asked him wearily as he stared at it.
“Of course,” Tony said, and turned toward the house. There was certainly no reason for her to have said it as though she expected him to refuse, or to explode. He was only too happy to go inside and get whatever she wanted him to get.
Stepping through the sliding glass doors, the cold of the air-conditioned interior came again as a shock. He hadn’t realized, until it began to evaporate on his skin in the kitchen, that he was drenched in sweat. Tony stood in the kitchen and looked around until he located three big plastic bottles of soda waiting for him onthe counter, and the ice bucket, which was also sweating and had left a ring of water on the kitchen table.
Jesus.
That would take the finish right off the cherry, and Melody would probably blame him, but Tony couldn’t have cared less. There was no way he was going to wipe off that ring. Fuck the ring. Fuck the table. He grabbed the three warm bottles in one arm and the ice bucket in the other, and stomped through the kitchen. He was about to put everything down again to free himself up to open the glass doors when he thought about the water working away on the finish of the table:
No, it wasn’t his table anymore, but his daughter was going to be sitting at that table for the next ten years, he supposed. That little blotchy baby covered with blood and goop squirming under a heat-lamp would soon be a sullen teenager eating a lettuce leaf and a scoop of cottage cheese for dinner some night at that table, and she’d look at the water ring on what might once have been the family’s lovely kitchen table (her father and mother had bought it together at Handcrafters the year they’d moved into the house on Periwinkle Lane) and see how stained and shabby and ugly it had become in only a decade, and she’d think, God, I hate this life. Tony vividly remembered thinking similar things about his own life when he was a kid while looking at the plaid couch in the living room or his mother’s ratty slippers on the bathroom rug. So, he put the soda bottles and ice bucket down and went back inside, grabbed the rag Melody always kept tucked into the handle of the refrigerator door (“Don’t wipe your hands on that; it’s just for the counters”), and wiped the ring.
There.
He felt good about it.
He’d spared them something.
He was tucking the towel back into its spot, and then Melody was tapping on the sliding glass doors. “We, need, soda,” she said, mouthing on the other side exaggeratedly in case he couldn’t hear her through the window, although he could hear her perfectly, and
The cheater won the prize. A little goody-bag. The only thing Tony Harmon knew for sure was in that goody-bag was a whistle, because the cheater started running in circles blowing it so loudly he finally had to put his fingers in his ears.
“Cake!” Melody shouted loudly enough to be heard over it all as she stepped off the deck into the backyard bearing it, in flames. She placed the cake in front of their daughter, and Tony had to hold himself back from blowing out the candles, which seemed like an absurdly dangerous thing to put in front of a little girl with long hair. But his daughter blew them out faster than he could have, and then screamed, over and over again in triumph, clearly trying to over-shadow the game winner with her whistle.
The cake itself was like some sort of surrealist representation of a vagina—all pink at the center surrounded by pinker roses made of frosting but looking a lot like damp flesh, and a miniature Barbie doll doing a go-go dance in a bathing suit at the center. “Can you please go in and get the soda and the ice bucket?” Melody asked him wearily as he stared at it.
“Of course,” Tony said, and turned toward the house. There was certainly no reason for her to have said it as though she expected him to refuse, or to explode. He was only too happy to go inside and get whatever she wanted him to get.
Stepping through the sliding glass doors, the cold of the air-conditioned interior came again as a shock. He hadn’t realized, until it began to evaporate on his skin in the kitchen, that he was drenched in sweat. Tony stood in the kitchen and looked around until he located three big plastic bottles of soda waiting for him onthe counter, and the ice bucket, which was also sweating and had left a ring of water on the kitchen table.
Jesus.
That would take the finish right off the cherry, and Melody would probably blame him, but Tony couldn’t have cared less. There was no way he was going to wipe off that ring. Fuck the ring. Fuck the table. He grabbed the three warm bottles in one arm and the ice bucket in the other, and stomped through the kitchen. He was about to put everything down again to free himself up to open the glass doors when he thought about the water working away on the finish of the table:
No, it wasn’t his table anymore, but his daughter was going to be sitting at that table for the next ten years, he supposed. That little blotchy baby covered with blood and goop squirming under a heat-lamp would soon be a sullen teenager eating a lettuce leaf and a scoop of cottage cheese for dinner some night at that table, and she’d look at the water ring on what might once have been the family’s lovely kitchen table (her father and mother had bought it together at Handcrafters the year they’d moved into the house on Periwinkle Lane) and see how stained and shabby and ugly it had become in only a decade, and she’d think, God, I hate this life. Tony vividly remembered thinking similar things about his own life when he was a kid while looking at the plaid couch in the living room or his mother’s ratty slippers on the bathroom rug. So, he put the soda bottles and ice bucket down and went back inside, grabbed the rag Melody always kept tucked into the handle of the refrigerator door (“Don’t wipe your hands on that; it’s just for the counters”), and wiped the ring.
There.
He felt good about it.
He’d spared them something.
He was tucking the towel back into its spot, and then Melody was tapping on the sliding glass doors. “We, need, soda,” she said, mouthing on the other side exaggeratedly in case he couldn’t hear her through the window, although he could hear her perfectly, and
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