“Don’t lesbians cheat on each other?”
“Of course. All the time, just like anyone else. Now that we’ve gained marriage equality we’re making just as much a mess of it as straight people have done for centuries. We cheat, we run off, we lie, we insult each other’s families, we get drunk at Thanksgiving and blurt out terrible secrets . . .” She popped her last chunk of banana bread into her mouth, and grinned around it.
“Wow, remind me to avoid your house at turkey time. Although,” added Frances, “your family secrets are also my family secrets, so you know . . .”
Iris got up to get more banana bread. Raising her eyebrows questioningly, she sliced another piece for Frances, too, and carried them back. “Do you think Anne and Charlie are going to get divorced?” She swept some crumbs onto the floor for Rosco, who snuffled them up.
“No clue. Would you divorce Sara if she cheated?”
“Maybe. Probably. Don’t know. She’s away a lot, you know, filming, and I imagine it’s pretty tempting when it would be so easy. If she told me, I guess I’d have to.”
“What happened to ‘stand by your woman’?”
Iris looked at her plate. “I think it went away with ‘my country, right or wrong.’ Too much wrong to overlook, you know what I mean? Also, I think women used to stand by their men because they had to. They didn’t have fuck-off money, didn’t have legal status, were worried they would lose their kids. Those days are gone, mostly.”
“For us middle-class chicks, sure. I’m sure there are millions of women trapped in shitty marriages.” Frances started on her second slice of cake. “I always felt it would be easier to kill Michael as he slept than divorce him. Less paperwork, certainly.”
“You’re a practical woman. I like that about you. Always have.” Iris grinned at her. “I’ll help you hide the body.”
“Nah, you’re good,” replied Frances. “I think he and I are beyond the murdering stage anyway. We’re like conjoined twins with two separate brains but one heart, you know, one spine. I couldn’t kill him without simultaneously eviscerating myself.” She looked at Iris, who was putting down her fork.
“You’ve put me off my cake with your hideous imagery.”
“Wow. Sorry. You’re really not going to eat it?”
Iris shook her head, then slid the plate across.
“Thanks.”
• • •
Two hours later, in a coffee shop frequented by elementary-school parents.
“Did you hear Anne Porter was fucking around?”
“No!”
“Yes. With a much younger man.”
“No!”
“Yes! Her husband threw her out. He found her sucking him off in the baby’s room.”
“She doesn’t have a baby.”
“Oh yeah. Well, must have been some other room then. But still.”
• • •
Two and a half hours later. Different coffee shop. Similar parents.
“And I heard she came in and found her husband fooling around with her boyfriend, and stormed off.”
“That doesn’t seem likely, does it?”
“Well, he did wear a pink shirt to the school picnic last year, remember?”
“Wasn’t it an Easter theme? Didn’t everyone wear pastels?”
“Everyone that had them . . . My husband couldn’t find anything that wasn’t black, gray, or navy.”
“Oh . . . oh . . . I see what you mean.”
• • •
Three hours later. Grocery store. Produce section.
“Those poor children.”
“Exactly. What are they going to think? They’re going to come home and ‘Hey, no Mom.’ How’s he going to explain that?”
“Doesn’t Frances Bloom carpool Anne’s kids? Maybe she’s supposed to make something up.”
“Saint Frances? Good luck.”
“I thought you liked her?”
“I do. I just wish she were a little less pleasant and helpful. I’d like her more.”
“She does always seem to have it together, doesn’t she? Bitch.”
“No wonder she and Anne are friends. She’s probably fucking around, too.”
• • •
Four hours later, just before pickup. School gate. Early-bird parents with not much else to fill their lives.
“Hey . . . is that Charlie Porter?”
“Where?”
“There, heading into the office. Maybe he’s here to talk to the principal.”
“Well, that didn’t take long, did it?”
“Is Anne here, too? I’m not sure I’d even know her. She doesn’t do drop-off, does she?”
“Nah. Gets Frances Bloom to do it for her. Lazy, cheating cow. I guess she doesn’t care about her kids at all.”
“I think Charlie Porter is kind of hot.”
“Definitely. And now he’s single . . . and brokenhearted . . .”
“You’re a terrible woman.”
“I know.”
Nineteen.
Charlie waited in the outer office for Mrs. Garcia to be ready. Her assistant, Jillian, watched him surreptitiously from under her lashes, occasionally reaching for another Werther’s caramel from the dish on her desk. She went through a bag a day, and her back teeth ached in the evenings. She made a mental note to buy flossers. The candy was supposed to be for the kids, but they were all too scared their parents would find out they ate sugar. Those same parents always helped themselves, of course. Assholes. She loved the kids and despised the parents, like every other member of staff at the school.
Charlie had finished the caramel she’d pressed on him when he arrived, and now his mouth felt dry. He was about to ask her where the water fountain was when the inner door opened, and a small child exited the principal’s office. The kid looked fine, so clearly not a punishment-type visit. Maybe he was just going in for a hug; that was the kind of principal Mrs. Garcia was: sweet and friendly, unless you transgressed in the drop-off line, or sent your kid in without the correct PE kit or whatever, at which point she turned twice on the spot, reverted into her basic demon form, and released the kraken.
She smiled at Charlie, and for a second he thought he saw pity in her dark eyes. Impossible, he reminded himself, nobody here knows anything about Anne.
Once in the office he took a seat, still warm from the kid. Mrs. Garcia was a larger woman, but she moved elegantly around her office, lowering herself into her chair with a smile for the parent across from her. Mr. Porter was handsome, she thought, and wondered how long he would stay single, assuming
