35
Eavesdropping never pays
[Midge]
Hank doesn’t show after Liam’s game, and eventually, I decide we need to leave the ballpark. The plan was to meet us at the field, but it’s getting dark, and Liam hasn’t eaten. Myself, I have no appetite suddenly. Hank promised we’d talk tonight after dinner. Yesterday at work had been difficult at best anticipating what would be said and knowing it might be the last time Hank and I are together as a couple. I’m prepared to end things if we can’t come to terms about Kit. I know I have to be open and honest about my feelings, but that means he does too. He needs to find a way for closure, or he’ll never be able to move on—with me or any other woman. I’d like the future to be me, but I’m feeling strangely hopeless.
As we sit at the pizza parlor, I check my phone. Nothing from Hank but I dismiss it. He must be tied up at the center. I applaud his dedication to helping others. It’s one of the many features proving he has the good soul and generous heart I mentioned the other night. The reminder makes me feel like a miser, the great wanton. Reflecting deeper, I realize wanting another person as part of your life could be a one-way street. Hank of all people knows this, and I do, too. He loved Kit, and when she didn’t return the emotion, it crushed him, crumpling him up and throwing him out like the trash. I am far from feeling like garbage, but I’m also not feeling things from Hank suddenly.
Maybe it was too much, too fast. I’d had a fifteen-year marriage which was pleasant and supportive until the final three years. Even at that, I see the lie I told myself as we moved our family to California for my husband’s lover six years ago. Hank had a destructive and debilitating twenty-year relationship and never reached closure. I could forgive him his wavering feelings, but it doesn’t mean I could reach him on the level I needed. That something more. That somebody’s someone. Dammit, I deserve it. Hank or not, I tell myself, but I recognize the lie. I want it to be Hank.
I focus my attention on Liam as best I can. Talking to preteens can be like plucking eyebrows, difficult to find the fine hairs while struggling to tug out the gray ones. Liam answers my numerous questions in monosyllabic replies.
Do you have homework? What do you think of the call at first base? How do you think you did today?
“What’s wrong?” I finally ask. His shrug says more than his words.
“Why does Dad have to say so much? Why can’t he just watch?” The abrupt question startles me.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s so critical of everything. Telling me to relax in one breath and then winding me up in the next. Why can’t he be like Hank?”
I blink. Hank has attended quite a few games, and the comment stops my breath. Between the science project and a few other nights helping Liam with the new math, which I absolutely do not understand, Liam has formed a special bond with Hank. One, I admit, I hadn’t been paying enough attention to if he is comparing Hank to his father.
“Daddy’s just trying to be supportive.” This shoots Liam’s head upward.
“How is he supportive? He only comes to a few games. He didn’t help me pass the math test or finish the volcano. He didn’t even come to the science fair.” Liam’s right. Hank came instead.
“Liam.” I falter. I don’t know what to say. I work hard at holding back my negative sentiments about their father. What Paul did wrong, he did to me, to us. It hurt our children, but it wasn’t directed at them. I refuse to defend him, though.
“Forget it,” he says, taking a deep sip of his soda. I’m actually relieved. I don’t have the energy to justify my ex-husband’s actions.
“You like Hank?” I ask instead, knowing the gentle prompt might be a huge mistake. I like Hank. I love Hank, but I’d never keep Hank if I thought he couldn’t handle my sons. Although I know the answer from Liam, I still want him to explain to me the depth of his feelings.
“He’s cool.” Liam shrugs again, fiddling with the straw in his glass. Those might be the deepest sentiments I’ll get from him. I’d like to think he’s cool, too, but an hour into his absence with no phone call, I’m no longer thinking: It’s cool.
+ + +
When we get home, Ronin surprises me with stronger feelings about Hank. The boys are in the kitchen, and I stop when I hear Ronin say he hates Hank.
“You need to tell her,” Elston says, his voice concerned, his tone strained. I don’t want to intrude if they’re sharing a brotherly moment. It’s rare for Elston and Ronin to get along.
“Elston,” Ronin warns. “This will really hurt her.” Oh, girl talk. Maybe I’ve misunderstood the Hank hating comment. I nearly giggle. If they can’t be friends, I still want them to respect one another and be confident in their brotherhood, brothership, or whatever to speak to each other about things like girls.
“Better to tell her than let him keep pretending.” Elston sounds exasperated, and I linger, knowing there’s trouble in eavesdropping, so I tell myself, I’m just curious.
“You should have seen him. Draped all over her. Her skirt hiked up. I could see her cooter.”
I cover my mouth, holding in the snort. Cripes, who teaches my boys these things?
“Don’t call it a cooter. That’s just…just not…” I picture Elston shaking his blond head.
“It was disgusting, and I can’t believe he’d choose someone like her over Mom.”
My heart stops. Wait. What?
“What a fucking asshole, and after his whole let’s talk like a man speech. And telling me how he cares about her. Just ew,” Elston rattles. What? Just wait a minute! What is he talking about? What are they saying?
“Hank doesn’t deserve Mom.” Ronin’s voice cracks. My sensitive boy sounds on the verge of tears. “He seemed so cool, but I know his past. He might have played those drums like a master, but he womanized like one as well. He drank, too.” Much to my satisfaction, Ronin isn’t a fan of drinking. Disappointment rings in my middle son’s tone as I flip through emotions. My heart races in two patterns. One bursting with pride at my children’s devotion and one breaking at what they aren’t explicitly saying.
“Think he fucked her after you caught him?”
Oh, my God. Two hands cover my open mouth, holding back the gag of nausea.
“Who knows? Good riddance, drummer boy,” Elston snaps.