“Why?”
He opened his mouth to answer her, but Clare was tugging on him. “Mom,” she said, “can we just go? We can talk about names later.”
Lilian raised her palms and nodded.
“See, Edward?” Clare took his hand and dragged him away. “You just need to be firm, then she can understand anything!” Edward looked apologetically over his shoulder at Lilian and Frances, then turned back to the child at hand.
“Yeah,” said Frances. “He’s awful.”
“So, is it true, about Anne?”
“The cheating part or the getting divorced part or both?”
“All of it. Tell me all of it.”
Suddenly Frances was tired. “Do I have to? I’m bummed out about it and I just can’t get excited about it as a piece of gossipy news. I’m sorry, but you’re an actual friend, so I’m being honest. I realize I’ve talked about other families like this many, many times, but for some reason now it’s my life, so to speak, or at least this close to my life, and it feels wrong to talk about it. It may ruin gossip for me permanently. You know Anne, you can ask her directly.”
Lilian looked at her. “Are you OK? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how upsetting it would be. You’re right, when it’s someone else it’s all fun and games, but when it’s your own life it’s not the slightest bit funny.” She sighed. “After my husband died people I didn’t know very well suddenly became very interested in me. They wanted to chat, wanted to know stuff, wanted to make inquiries, do you know what I mean? Most of them meant well, wanted to help. But after a few months you start to hate the smell of dropped-off rotisserie chicken and the obligation to make coffee and rehash your pain for someone else’s vicarious experience.” There was a silence. “Everyone brings a fucking rotisserie chicken.” Another silence. “I call them The Birds of Grief.”
There was a short pause, then Frances said, “Have you tried the rotisserie chickens at that weird little place on Eighth and Western?”
“The one with all the wood piled outside? The one that looks like it might be condemned at any moment?”
“Yeah. Those chickens would help you get over your rotisserie chicken issue. In our house we call it Bacon Chicken, even though there is no bacon involved. It’s that good.”
Lilian grinned suddenly. “This is what I like best about you, Frances,” she said. “You’re the most comforting yet most unsympathetic person I’ve ever known.”
“Is that good?” Frances was a little taken aback.
“Yeah. Oh, look, Annabel’s finished, thank GOD.” Lilian drank the rest of her coffee and gave Frances a hug. “Thanks for being you, and thanks for respecting Anne’s privacy. I’ll go get the gossip from someone with lower standards of friendship.”
“OK, no problem. Next week?”
“I’m afraid so. Only five weeks until the end of the season!”
She walked off to meet Annabel, her older daughter, whose face was looking more and more like her mom’s every day. Lucky girl.
Milo flung himself against Frances’s legs, nearly knocking her over. “I’m done! We won!!” He was grinning up at her like a puppy, all skinny legs and bad coordination, hair flopping around, the sweet smell of kid sweat still enjoyable before the inevitable change to puberty and sports clothes that walked out of gym bags on their own.
Lally wandered up. “We lost. I think. Not sure. Don’t care.” She sat on the grass and tugged off her shoes, too impatient to undo the laces. “Can we have ice cream now?”
Bill arrived. “Hey,” he said. “We were thinking of going for an early lunch and ice cream. Any interest?” Lucas was sporting a new Band-Aid, and looked pretty stoked about it. He was limping, but on the leg that didn’t have the Band-Aid. Still, a strong effort.
As the kids whooped and jumped about, Frances nodded and then looked around at all the other families gathering themselves to move on to the next section of their day. She could see Iris and Sara in the distance, she had Bill and Lucas in front of her, and somewhere on the playground were Lilian and Edward. All these families, all struggling against one thing or another, doing their best, or maybe just pretending to be interested, or maybe actively trying to destroy each other, who knew? All of them united momentarily around fucking peewee soccer, brought together by the twin desires for healthy children and something to do on a Saturday. Inwardly Frances shrugged, because it doubtless meant something significant and deep, but all she could think was that the whole thing was incredibly tiring and she needed more coffee. Sometimes life is just what it is, and the best you can hope for is ice cream.
• • •
Back at home, Ava was just waking up. The house was very quiet. It was Saturday morning, so . . . AYSO. That’s right. She turned over, and buried herself deeper in her covers. Her mind flickered to that guy, Richard, the guy it turned out Anne Porter had been sleeping with. She had to admit she’d been impressed, but Anne was good-looking for an older woman. Piper was sleeping with a senior at the local catholic boys’ school, the five-year age difference too big to tell her parents about, but not so big it made him unfuckable. Ava hadn’t met him, but she’d seen his feed, which was essentially the same thing. She’d seen what he wanted to be seen. Piper said he was nicer than that, and Ava certainly hoped so. Too many pictures of his friends, and just enough shots of him holding animals to ensure a steady supply of blow jobs from a girl who only just got her braces off.
Ava hadn’t slept with anyone yet. She’d been felt up the year before, at someone’s bar mitzvah, and the kid had gone for her underpants, but she’d stepped back in time. Her friends told her about getting fingered, which didn’t sound all that good.
