The Actor and the Housewife (11 page)

He had a point. So Becky let the idea slide away.

Now let’s not give the impression that Becky’s life revolved around Felix’s calls and visits. They were brilliant little distractions; they were the occasional breezy lifts to Becky’s wings (pretend nonchalance as she might, Becky loved
Beaches
). If we were going to examine Becky’s life in earnest, we’d tell the story of how Hyrum broke his arm, and the mini-crisis that created in Becky’s marriage when in a moment of frustration Mike blamed her for negligence. We’d tell about that weekend trip Becky and Mike took to St. George, how their car broke down and the motorist who stopped to “help” stole Becky’s suitcase. What about Polly’s first piano recital, when she was so terrified, she refused to play unless she was sitting on her dad’s lap? And Hyrum’s angry refusal to try to read? The disastrous bake sale when Becky had been distracted by Sam’s rash of diarrhea and forgot to add sugar to the apple pie. Fiona’s birthday party, when Becky nearly threw her bratty little “friend” Cassie out on her rear end. Sam’s first step, first animal noise, word, sentence, leap, joke . . . everything!

Time ticks on and too much happens to tell it all. So let’s focus.

“I miss you,” Becky said.

Felix paused. “You really do?”

“I know it makes no sense.”

“That’s it. How can I put a mother of four through so much torture? By the way, you’re not pregnant again, are you?”

“Nope. We’re going to hold steady at four.”

“Thank the fertility goddess. I feared you might be preparing to form your own colony off in the Rocky Mountains.”

“Well, of course we still plan to do
that
. Won’t you reconsider and join us? I make a lovely fruit punch.”

Felix would have the chance to sample some punch (or a green and chunky substance claiming to be such) very soon.

In which Becky doesn’t lock her front door and
someone walks in

The first week of school had been awesome. In the mornings, she and the two boys ran errands and took trips to the park. In the afternoons, Sam napped as soon as Hyrum left for school, giving Becky time to clean corners of the house previously untouched by human hands and sort drawers cleverly masquerading as temporary holding bins, but actually harboring expired coupons and receipts dated 1989.

When Sam woke from his nap, they read and drew and chased, and she showered on the kind of attention she hadn’t been able to give a child since Fiona was an only. It was great. It really was.

It was just that when she spoke to Sam, the house had a weird echo to it, her voice bouncing off the empty walls. And Sam didn’t have much to say in response. The sunlight seemed to shuffle in unwillingly through the windows, and the floors groaned more than usual, the house apparently aware of its unforgiving bulk.

Sam giggled as she lowered him to her face and pushed him back up again. Her pectorals burned.

“You’re my cute guy, yes you are!”

“Haaaa! Mama-mama. Bababa zooo zoo!”

She glanced at the door to the basement, where the television awaited, offering its own kind of comfort. No, she would not resort to daytime television and that greasy, stomach-sick hangover. But the truth was, Becky thrived on some well-managed chaos. Noise was good. And hullabaloo even better. Heck, cacophony wasn’t out of line. Give her pandemonium and she’d wrestle it into four bathed and pajama’ed children, a clear kitchen counter, and three casseroles—one for dinner, one for freezing, and one for a sick neighbor. She was not the type to invent drama for drama’s sake. Happiness was good, and she’d take it in hearty slices, thank you. But blissful quiet calm also meant . . . nothing for her to do.“

do.“ Yes, you’re a cutie. Yes, you’re clever!”

“Mmmfff,” said Sam. He could only take so much adoring, and puttered away, enchanted by an empty cracker box. Becky stayed prostrate, watching him flick the tabs, breathe into the box, then growl at it menacingly. She was so proud.

Becky sighed at the ceiling. She had precisely twenty-seven items on her to-do list, but the silent house was enervating. Maybe if she called someone, she’d perk up and get productive. She’d already bothered Mike at work that morning, keeping him on the phone for twenty minutes to talk over her grocery list. Melissa was on location in southern Utah. Her neighbor-friend Jessie had started working half days while her own kids were in school. Fridays were her sister Diana’s errand day. Maybe she’d phone her mom; or Laurie, her favorite sister-in-law; or her cousin Tina . . . There was a knock at the front door.

Ooh, she thought, company! And called, “Come in!”

She wasn’t expecting a repairman, she rarely got packages, and her family and neighbors all knew she kept the door unlocked and would walk in without the knock. So, who? The suspense was positively exciting! It never occurred to Becky that it might be some unsavory character who meant harm. That sort of thing didn’t occur in her cleaned and folded life. Besides, if robbery was afoot, then good luck—the most expensive item in the house was her standing mixer.

The door squeaked as it opened. Becky craned her head to see around the corner. Felix peeked back.

“No way,” she said in a slightly garbled voice, forgetting until that moment that she was sucking on a pacifier.

An explanation: From infancy Sam was a very giving sort of fellow, and having two pacifiers, liked to share. Whenever he had one in his mouth, he was determined his mother should have the same luxury, and was continually trying to shove the spare “paci” between her lips. She’d long ago given up resisting, habitually holding the paci with her teeth while she spoke or unconsciously sucking away. So it was that as Felix peered around the door, he happened to catch her lying on the floor and nursing a bright blue teddy bear pacifier.

She blew it out of her mouth, sending it arcing into the air, and careful not glance at it plop on the carpet, she said again (this time the words less muffled), “No way.”

He shut the door and in seconds was on his back beside her, staring at the ceiling. He looked boyish and seventeen, and yet still debonair. His mere scent (no cologne today, but even his laundry soap smelled swanky) wafted ideas of faraway places and lavish things, a home full of shelves with precious objects that gleamed in the chandelier light.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hey there.”

“Were you . . . I could have sworn . . . did you spit a dummy out of your mouth?”

“How could I? You were all the way over there by the door.”

He blinked at her. “I’m not following.”

She blinked back. “Neither am I. Dummy?”

“Oh,” he said slowly, “you were making a joke, implying that I am a dummy. Yes, exquisitely clever.”

“And you were being British, and since I don’t speak British, I can pretend I don’t know what you’re talking about and never admit to what you think you saw.” She squinted as she examined his face. “You look pale. Have you been checked for anemia?”

Sam crawled over his mother to land smack on Felix’s stomach.

“Oof. He’s bigger than I expected.”

“Hundred and tenth percentile,” she said proudly. “So, you were in the neighborhood?”

“I just don’t get to Utah enough.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. I mean, who does?”

“Sometimes you need the mountain air and a few million Mormons to perk up your spirits.”

“As I’ve always said.”

“Precisely.” He turned his face to her. She adjusted onto her side to see him better. His voice became a little uncertain. “Can I stay a few days?”

She smiled. “Please do.”

“You cut a fringe,” he said, indicating her bangs. “You shouldn’t have a fringe, not with your face. You really need to consult me before doing anything semipermanent to yourself—hairstyles, plastic surgery, tattoos, shoes . . .”

“What percent gay are you, do you think?”

He considered. “I max out at fifteen.”

“I’m going to go with thirty.”

“You’ve never seen me bench-press Marlon Brando.”

She patted his hand. “You are a shining specimen of raw masculinity. But while you’re here, I’m going to set you up a blood test. Really, you look awful.”

“I feel awful, frankly, my red blood cell count aside. Early reviews for
A Boy Called Skeeter
aren’t promising. Celeste is in Milan for a couple of months, and I’m filming next week, so there isn’t enough time to join her. The house was so empty.”

“I’m afraid you’ve exchanged one cavernous wasteland for another, but just wait until the kids get home from school—blessed bedlam. And in the meantime . . .” She grinned. “I have the makings for zucchini bread.”

“Zucchini bread? Shall we top it off with turnip muffins and asparagus cake?”

Becky sat up. “You’ve never had zucchini bread? Criminal. Get Sam and come to the family room. You can entertain him while I bake.”

“Er . . .”

She started toward the family room without looking back. “It’s about time you learned to like children.”

“Er . . .”

“You’re such a wuss. Come on.”

He followed, holding Sam away from his body so the boy dangled from his hands like something dirty. She rolled her eyes, set him up with some books on the couch, and plopped Sam on his lap. As she forced zucchini through her food processor in the kitchen, she could hear Felix’s stiff, forced voice.

“ ‘Once upon a time there were’—why are you squirming? Don’t you like this book?
Ahem
, ‘there were three pigs: a big pig named Pig, a bigger pig named Pigger, and the biggest of the three named Piggest’ . . . you’re squirming again. Becky! This book is boring him!”

“It’s not the book’s fault,” she muttered.

“Pardon?”

“An actor, paid ridiculously huge sums to speak lines on camera, and he can’t even read a child a picture book.”

“He isn’t my ideal demographic.”

“Try using some
inflection
. At this age, a kid doesn’t understand all the words. But if
you
don’t sound interested in the story, he won’t be.”

“If he doesn’t understand, then what is the point?”

“I’m not even going to answer that,” she sang back.

By the time she’d dumped the canned pineapple into her standing mixer (that’s right, the most valuable item in the house, so thank goodness Felix hadn’t been a robber), Felix was employing nasal voices for the pigs, and Sam was enthralled.

With the first couple of loaves baking, Becky joined them, sitting on the floor. Sam hopped onto her lap, and Felix wiped his brow.

“It’s not that I don’t like children; I just don’t comprehend them. What’s their purpose? Why can’t they just say what they want? Why are they always touching things and knocking things over and whining?”

She dumped a basket of socks on the floor and began to sort and match. “Here’s the thing: Given your profession, you should have that skill of observing people and getting inside them and understanding them, blah blah blah. Why can’t you just do that with children? I mean, you were a child once.”

“I hatched from an egg at age twenty-three.”

“I almost believe you.” She squinted at him. “What
were
you like younger?”

“Same but smaller, with slightly less facial hair.”

“Stop. You don’t have any siblings?”

“No, it was just me and Mum. When I was five, the father figure left us for Spain and had the good grace to die a few years after that.”

“I bet your mother loved you half to death.”

“Yes, that would describe it.”

The conversation had turned a little chilly, and Becky backed away from the pit of unsaid things. This was not the fodder of their friendship, and Becky was feeling waterlogged with the awkwardness drowning the room. She cleared her throat.

“Even more reason for you to catch a sniff of normal family life and learn to fall in love with the wee ones. Here, let me get out of your way . . .”

. . .”

“No, don’t leave us alone!”

“Just have fun with him. He’s a happy kid, it won’t take much. And if you’re capable of multitasking, go ahead and sort the socks while you’re at it.”

She showered for the first time that day, blew her hair dry super-quick, and put on jeans and an almost clean shirt. (She was back into prepregnancy clothes by now—huzzah!) The jeans were freshly washed, and made her feel prettyish—they came out of the dryer a little tighter and held everything in, sort of pants and girdle in one. Her butt alone felt ten years younger.

It wasn’t until she was rubbing lotion over her face before running back into the kitchen that the whole man-in-my-house complication occurred to her. From the moment he’d walked in, it had felt as normal as having Melissa drop by or her brother Ryan come over to play.

But he’s not my brother, she reminded herself. And he’s a man. And I’m married, and alone with him in my house.

Usually she was so strict about those things. As soon as she and Mike married, she’d become conscious of a layer between her and other men. She no longer reached over to touch their knees when making a point, as she would with her women friends. Her brothers she could still hug, tousle their heads in passing, rub their backs to say hello. Cousins and uncles were different too—any relative. So in one way, she reasoned, it wasn’t so unusual to have a man in her life she treated differently from the rest. If only Felix were family, then their relationship wouldn’t be strange.

Because it didn’t feel strange. It should, said the logical part of her brain. But it doesn’t, said her heart part, where that soft little tug encouraged her to keep him close. Boundaries were getting fuzzy. She’d have to talk this over with Mike.

She rushed back to check the loaves just as the timer was ringing. Then she heard it—little-boy laughter.

She peeked around the corner and spied Felix on the floor with Sam, singing the lyrics to “Short People.” He shook the little boy’s legs as he sang about the bitty feet and tickled his hands for the line about grimy fingers. Becky glanced at the unmatched socks—nope, apparently Felix wasn’t a multitasker.

“ ’Gain, ’gain,” Sam said, enjoying the humiliation tremendously.

So Felix sang it again, shaking body parts and tickling along with the song. Becky leaned against the doorway, soaking it in. The sound of her little boy’s laugh made her heart feel so light it might float away, and seeing that Felix caused the joy about burst her through. She remembered Celeste’s face as she gazed at baby Sam, and had a wild hope that she might send Felix back to his wife converted to having children.

Felix noticed her and let go of Sam’s toes, looking highly embarrassed to have been caught playing with the child.

“You have a singing voice,” she said. “I didn’t know that. Do you do musicals?”

“Not since university.”

“You should sing in a movie. You’d knock them dead.”

Felix shivered. “Musical movies are nasty business.”

“I know—a film version of
Anything Goes
. You’d be hysterical as the uptight Englishman who falls for the nightclub singer.”

Sam, bored with the talking and the lack of tickling, began to hike up Felix’s back.

Felix shrugged his shoulders in an awkward attempt to interact with him. “I’m an actor, not a producer.”

“But you have producer friends. I haven’t seen you do a real comedy in years, and you’re so good at it. Plus you’d sing! Talk about a talent showcase.”

“Your son just sneezed on my neck.”

“I’m taking that as a committed yes.”

There was a honk and Becky ran outside to fetch Hyrum from her friend Jessie’s car. Jessie had violently curly hair in a pale brown ’fro. She was tall and toned and looked great without makeup, her eyelashes long and dark and lips pink naturally. It really wasn’t fair.