Chapter 8
Evan
I can’t believe my mother ambushed Jane after the retirement dinner. Mom isn’t usually so pushy. I’ll have to keep a closer eye on her so she doesn’t scare off my poor wife. I really want them to have a good relationship, especially given the absence of other maternal figures in Jane’s life.
And somehow, this is all related to why I’m now hauling my giant penguin plushie downstairs while Jane is mowing the front lawn. I want to cheer her up, and this makes sense in my head. Obviously, a chubby penguin named Watson won’t make up for my interfering family, but it’s what I have on hand.
The plushie was actually a gift from an old boyfriend, but I like it, and it seemed a shame to throw it out just because we broke up, though it lived in the basement at my parents’ house for a while. But now, I have a house of my own that has room for stuff like this, and he’s been peacefully sitting in my walk-in closet.
Until now.
I set him by the back sliding door. After looking at the white-and-black plushie for a few seconds, I decide he needs more, for lack of a better word, pizzazz . I head back to my closet and peruse the options, eventually deciding that Watson would look dashing in a flamboyant purple scarf that I haven’t worn in years. Unfortunately, Watson’s neck (or lack thereof) is much fatter than mine, and I can’t quite get the look I’d hoped to achieve, but by the time I hear Jane turn off the mower—I think she’s moving to the backyard now—Watson is ready for her arrival.
Jane always mows from the left to right side of the backyard, and the back door is to the right. Watson and I watch her go back and forth a few times, and then, as she’s pushing the mower toward the house, she looks in our direction. Watson waves as best he can with his flipper.
She tilts her head curiously…and then a smile graces her face.
It’s beautiful.
She turns off the mower and walks toward us in the old running shoes that she uses for cutting the lawn. As she steps onto the mat—one of our other Canadian Tire purchases—my heart kicks up a notch, which is strange.
I hand her a water bottle. She nods in thanks. Weirdly, I find myself watching her throat as she takes a few gulps.
“What’s the penguin doing here?” she asks.
He thought you needed a laugh after your in-laws tried to force you to go on vacation.
Since that sounds a little too ridiculous to say out loud, I go for, “He wanted to see you cut the grass.” I speak in a this-is-only-sensible voice.
Her lips curve up again, and I’m unreasonably pleased to have caused this reaction.
“Where did you get him?” she asks.
“I’ve had him for a while. He was a gift from…an ex.” For some reason, I feel weird about admitting that, even though she knows I have many exes. She even met most of them.
“What’s his name?”
“Watson,” I reply. “I found it on a list of suggested names for penguins. I thought it suited him better than ‘Flip’ or ‘Snowball’ or ‘Washington,’ which were some of the other names on the list.”
“Does he have a last name?”
“No. ‘Watson’ is a mononym.”
“Well, I hope he enjoys the show.”
She goes outside and turns the mower on. I watch her ass as she moves toward the back of the yard…
Wait a second. Why am I staring at my wife’s ass in those little jean shorts?
I give my head a shake and continue to regard her as she turns around and heads back toward the house. She gives me a little smile, and oh God, that isn’t helping.
Her parting words ring in my ears.
I hope he enjoys the show .
Maybe the smile was just for Watson, but the truth is that I really like watching Jane cut the grass in her shorts and tank top and old sneakers. And when I try to think of something else, I picture her skin glistening with sweat, her throat working as she swallowed the water.
I flee to my office in the basement, which is thankfully cooler and doesn’t afford any views of Jane in the backyard. I plop down on my desk chair.
Why on earth am I feeling a prickle of attraction toward my wife ?
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I’ve known her for well over a decade, and it’s never happened before. Could I appreciate that she’s a pretty woman? Sure. But it’s never been quite like this, and I know she doesn’t feel this way about me.
In most cases, being attracted to your spouse is the very opposite of a problem, but this wasn’t part of our deal. Sex is something that I’m supposed to get outside of marriage, with one exception: if we decide to try for a baby, once we’ve been married for a year.
Reminding myself of that isn’t improving the situation.
Desperately, I try to think of another topic, and my mind jumps to my family. Okay, that’s good. That’ll help. But then I remember how my parents encouraged us to go on a honeymoon, which would mean being in a hotel room with Jane…
This really isn’t working.
I rest my elbows on the desk and put my head in my hands. It’s probably just happening because I haven’t had sex in over a year. Also, I haven’t taken care of myself in a while.
Yes, that must be the problem. Apparently, neglecting my own needs is causing unwanted attraction to the woman who’s living with me. My libido isn’t as high as it used to be, but it’s not nonexistent.
I go upstairs to my bedroom and make quick work of it, trying to keep my wife out of my mind while I touch myself. Then I clean up and come back downstairs. Jane is inside now—I guess she’s finished cutting the grass.
“So,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets, “what do you want for dinner?”
Tuesday morning, while Jane is in the shower after her workout and I’m waiting for the coffee, I decide that Watson should start the day with a new outfit. I remove his bright scarf and set a cowboy hat on his head. Don’t ask why I have one of those, but I do.
Jane’s schedule is predictable, and when I expect her downstairs in the next minute or two, I pour our coffee and take it outside, setting both mugs on the patio table. She soon emerges and sits next to me.
“Thanks,” she says.
Although it’s not even eight o’clock, it’s already pretty warm. It’s going to be a hot one.
As we have our first coffee, we usually talk about our plans for the day, what we have to do for work. My job is mostly remote, which has its advantages, but I’m one of those people who genuinely liked working in an office. Not at my first job out of school—the guy in the next cubicle was a loud asshole who constantly interrupted me—but in general, I enjoyed it.
Today, however, Jane is quiet. She stares at a bird sitting on the fence.
“It’s my mom’s birthday,” she says at last. “She would have been sixty.”
I reach over and squeeze her hand; she doesn’t look at me.
“I’ve been thinking about her more lately. I always do, when big life events happen—like getting married and buying a house.” Her gaze flits over to me. Then she looks forward again, toward the bird, but I don’t think she’s really paying attention to her surroundings.
I don’t say anything. I think she just needs someone to listen.
She’s talked about her mom with me before, but not a lot. I had the impression of a playful, involved mother, though Jane was quick to point out that her childhood memories may not, exactly, be the truth. I also know that her mom died of cervical cancer.
In the silence, I do some quick math. I know how old Jane was when she lost her mom…
“She was thirty-two,” I say as realization dawns. “Is that why you wanted to wait until you were thirty-three to get engaged?”
She nods. “I knew it was unlikely that I wouldn’t live to see my thirty-third birthday, but some tiny part of me couldn’t quite believe that I’d make it.”
I open my mouth to say I’m sorry, but for some reason, I don’t think she wants to hear it. I keep my hand on hers and squeeze it again. It seems wrong that someone could die of cancer at such a young age, but her mom is hardly the only one.
“I wish I could have met her,” I say simply.
“I wish so, too.”
If only I could take that pain from her face, but I can’t. Her mother died a long time ago, and nothing can bring her back.
“Do you want to do anything for her birthday?” I ask.
Jane is quiet for a moment. “We should have cake.”
“Okay. What did she like—what would you like?” I can’t bake, and I’m not familiar with the bakeries in the area, but I see it as my job, as her husband, to procure something.
“We can just have some of our wedding cake. I mean, we should use it up, right?”
“Yes, but if you want something else—”
“No, the wedding cake is good. Slices of vanilla, not chocolate. My mom always picked vanilla, if given the choice, and I never understood.”
Since I’m determined to do my very best when it comes to this simple task, I google it on my phone. Apparently, it’s best to defrost cake by putting it in the fridge the day before. It’s cut up into slices, however, so I figure twelve hours shouldn’t be a problem.
We sit there, sipping our coffee, for a few more minutes, my hand loosely holding hers. Even in that short period of time, I swear I can feel the outside temperature rising. I’ll be glad to be in my basement office for the workday, but for now, I’m here with Jane.
When she stands up, I feel more disappointed than I should. But a split second later, her quiet laughter fills the air, and it brings me more joy than expected.
I turn around. Jane is looking at Watson, who has yet to remove his cowboy hat.
“Yee-haw,” she says, her tone a little dry.
I can’t contain my grin.
I go for a longer walk than usual at the end of the workday, and I buy a package of candles and some matches. After dinner, I put one slice of defrosted vanilla wedding cake on a plate for Jane, and the other on a plate for me. I slide a candle into her slice.
“Make a wish,” I say after lighting the candle.
Maybe she’ll wish for something impossible; maybe she’ll wish for something small.
I just want her to be able to dream.