Ava glared at her mother, as teenagers have glared at parents since Neolithic mom first refused to get Neolithic teen a new axe. “I hate you. You guys never go anywhere without your phones, but that doesn’t count, right? You just want to keep me dependent, because then you have something to do to fill your empty days and pointless existence.” She turned on her heel, pretty smoothly, and stormed out.
Frances looked at Michael. “That’s a new approach.”
He nodded. “It’s got potential.”
“My days are hardly empty.” Frances was a little stung, but not badly. “And how does she know about anal?”
“She uses the Internet, and don’t get mad, she’s full of hormones and squished on all sides by peer pressure. She’ll apologize before she goes to sleep.”
Frances nodded, because he was right, at least recently. Ava would pick a fight, or Frances would say something careless and Ava would get her back up, and suddenly they’d be bickering. Then, after a bit of shouting and stalking away, Ava would sit in her room and sulk for a while, then call to her mother in a wobbly voice and say she was sorry and that she didn’t mean it. Frances would apologize, too. She’d also promise to herself that the next time Ava pushed her buttons she’d bite her tongue, remembering only too well the driving desire to fight with her own mother at that age, the need to lash out and bang up against something. Then Ava would cling to her and cry, reassured that she’d never drive her mother away, that Frances would always be there to fight with, make up with, take for granted, and depend upon. Frances would smooth her daughter’s hair, tucking the damp strands behind her ears, knowing that in another couple of years Ava wouldn’t care enough about her opinion to fight with her. The opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference.
Michael was still on topic. “So, if you’re not going to tell Charlie, why did you tell me? What if I feel obliged to tell Charlie?” He had reopened his laptop, Frances noticed.
“You don’t. You wouldn’t.” Frances scratched Jack behind his ears, causing him to make that rumbly sound in his throat that made her smile.
“No, but what if I did?”
“I thought about that before I told you. I decided the risk of you suddenly changing completely after twenty years was smaller than the risk of me suffering a panic attack because I was keeping a secret from you.” Diane had pushed Jack out of the way and was now all up in Frances’s beak, demanding attention. Frances looked around her at Michael, and smiled at him.
He looked surprised. “You don’t keep anything secret from me?”
“Apart from my exact weight and the location of my secret chocolate stash, no.”
“A different stash from the third drawer in the laundry room?”
“Shit.”
“I’m an idiot. Now you’re going to move it.”
“Yes.” Frances paused. “Why, do you keep lots of secrets?”
“Of course. Some on purpose, and others just because you wouldn’t be interested. I’m not sure those even count as secrets.” He pushed down one of his socks and scratched his ankle. “I think we need to Frontline the dogs again.”
“How do you know I wouldn’t be interested? I have a very quiet life, most things are interesting. Try me.” She pulled on Jack’s long, soft ears, gently. He let her. It was symbiotic: He let her pull on his long ears like a toddler with a baby blanket, and she fed him and told him he was wonderful. And occasionally remembered to put flea medicine on him.
Michael gave it some thought. “OK, I never told you that Bob Adams got a divorce.”
A colleague from work she barely knew. “You’re right, that’s not all that interesting. Why?”
“His wife left him for her cats. Apparently she wasn’t satisfied with the six she had and wanted number seven. He put his foot down and said it was him or the cats, and she chose Pussy Town. Either he grossly miscalculated and is brokenhearted, or he won the war by losing the battle. He certainly didn’t seem all that sad about it.”
“I bet his new place will be much less fluffy,” Frances said.
“Oh, he kept the house. She took the cats and moved into a cat-positive commune in Northern California. When I said Pussy Town, I meant Pussy Town. That’s what it’s called.”
Lally reappeared. “I’m ready now. You can read to me now.”
“OK.” Frances got up and looked over at Michael. “If that is your idea of a boring secret, I want to hear all of them.”
“No, the whole point of secrets is keeping them. And none of them has anything like the human interest or feline backstory that that one did.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. That one was genuinely weird. I would have told you and about eight other people that story.”
“Can I be the judge?” Lally took Frances by the hand, looking up at her.
Frances grinned at her. “Sure, baby.”
“What is a judge?”
“Someone who decides things other people can’t agree on. Time for bed, OK?”
Lally went to hug her dad. He pulled her onto his lap and snortled in her ear, making her laugh. She curled up and giggled, and for about the nine hundredth time Frances wished she were small enough to curl up on some big person’s lap and be completely safe.
Seven.
Down the street, Anne was getting ready for bed. Outside the bathroom door she could hear Kate and Charlie laughing, as Kate explained
