A muscle in his cheek twitched. “Thanks, Delta. I think we got this.”
Natalie rolled her eyes. “Really?” She pushed her ash-colored hair behind her ears, a habit not dissimilar to Amelia’s. “How’s that?”
My stomach turned. I didn’t want him to associate me with Natalie’s rebellion.
“Why don’t you go practice the cello?” he said to her.
He opened one set of bifold doors and walked outside without closing them behind him. Itzhak followed him to the door, but just stood there with the wind blowing his hair and ears back and chose not to go out. Cold air made its way through the house again. Natalie shivered. Fritz walked down the spiral staircase and to the far end of their backyard, where he appeared to examine their cherry tree. He’d told me it was glorious in full bloom, but I liked it now, when the tree’s angular silhouette carved out negative space in the sky. Fritz circled the tree methodically, looking closely at the bark and the roots, as if he were an arborist. I wondered if he knew anything at all about trees.
I walked to the stove, picking up Fritz’s bottle cap on my way, and turned on one of the burners to boil some water.
“Fritz,” I called outside through the open door. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“He doesn’t drink tea. He drinks beer.” Natalie’s tone of voice was sharp. I felt chastised.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I asked her.
Natalie sighed loudly and stared at the ceiling. “No.”
I took down two large rust-colored ceramic mugs from the cabinet—two of a set of twelve, probably handmade—and removed two expensive-looking tea sachets from a tin container.
I walked back to the kitchen island and sat down next to her. “I think you should talk to your mom.”
Itzhak lay back down next to Natalie. His breathing sounded like a broken radiator.
“I want to help you all,” I said.
Fritz reappeared and closed the doors behind him.
The teakettle shrieked loudly. It sounded like an ambulance siren. I poured boiling water into the ceramic mugs and let the tea steep.
Fritz joined us at the kitchen island. “It looks good.” He held his beer bottle in one hand and placed his other hand on the handle of the mug.
“You hate tea,” Natalie said.
“I do?” He adjusted his glasses on his nose.
The phone rang and Fritz picked up. “Nat, it’s Piper.”
Natalie took the portable phone down the hall.
Fritz and I were now alone in the kitchen. Our previous conversation hung in the air between us, as did our previous physical contact.
“My back … it’s killing me.” Fritz rubbed his shoulder. His hands looked masculine, like they belonged to a blue-collar worker. The way my father’s hands looked. The way my uncle’s hands looked.
“I used to be a masseuse.”
He glanced at me. Perhaps he interpreted my statement as an overture. Perhaps it was.
“It’s probably in spasm,” I said. I stood behind him and placed my hand on his shoulder. His shirt was still cold from having been outside. “Is this where it hurts?” I pressed my thumb down on what I thought might be a pressure point. The Australian masseur I’d dated several years earlier had shown me a few. That relationship lasted longer than most, until his roommate made absurd accusations and changed the locks on their apartment.
My fingers lingered on the carotid pulse in Fritz’s neck and I could feel it quicken.
“I have a headache too.” He put his hand to his head.
“Usually tension in the shoulder contributes to a headache. The constriction of blood flow.” My hands moved to his forehead and his temples, often the source of a headache. I used my fingers to place pressure on his temples and his jaw, all potential causes of tension. “Here is the problem,” I said, “right here.” Then I moved down his arms to his hands. He released his tight hold on the bottle and a few drops of beer spilled onto the floor.
“Delta, you’re really good at this.” He shifted on his stool. “Thank you.”
I massaged one of his hands, then the other. I felt the calluses covering his palms. “The hands have pressure points connected to every part of the body. Pain in one part of your hand is an indication of a larger problem.” After his hands, I massaged his lower back. Then I turned his body on the stool so that he was facing away from the counter and toward me and I would have more access to the front of his body. His face was flushed and damp with perspiration. I wanted him. My desire for Fritz didn’t completely align with my grander vision, but I couldn’t talk myself out of it. I wanted to be in the center—with no secrets between Amelia and Fritz that I didn’t have access to.
I willed Fritz to put his hand between my legs. He needed something to take his mind off the failed adoption and Amelia. I closed my eyes and imagined his hand on my thigh, then further up on my crotch.
How long would Natalie be on the phone with Piper?
In my mind, I saw myself: I walked toward the Straubs’ side office and looked back so that he would follow me and, in my mind, he did. Fritz closed the door behind him and locked it. In the background, I could still hear Natalie on the phone. We didn’t have much time. I lay my upper body facedown on Fritz’s desk and pulled my dress up. I understood him. He was angry at everyone. Maybe even angry at me for offering sex to him. And angry at himself for accepting the offer. Rage was driving him. I know what that’s like.
When I opened my eyes, I was standing in front of Fritz in the kitchen. His eyes were still closed. His head had dropped forward slightly. My hands were still on his shoulders.
I heard Natalie say goodbye to Piper then her footsteps approaching. Fritz opened his eyes. We made
