30. Zelda
ZELDA
“Your arm is wrong.”
Hedy looks at the arm holding Otto, then at me.
“The same arm he slept on last Tuesday?”
“He’s bigger now.”
“He’s been bigger every time. I’ve kept up.”
She settles him against her, and he looks toward the lamp with the suspicious attention he gives most of the world. Nearly two months of being here, and he still seems unconvinced we know what we’re doing.
I kiss his forehead again.
“You can ring.”
“I have met a telephone.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Go.”
The travel crib is open in the spare room where I slept at Christmas. I came early so he could settle before I changed. Now I stand in Hedy’s bedroom pulling the blue shirt down over my hips, then letting it ride up again because it looks better that way.
I used to wear it dancing. Jeremiah used to undo the cuffs before anything else.
I do up one cuff. Undo it. I look at myself in Hedy’s mirror and laugh, embarrassed even though nobody is there.
For weeks Jeremiah has been part of the untidy hours at my apartment: diapers, laundry, Otto waking just as one of us sits down.
Once I came out of the shower and found him explaining to our son why the bird in his book couldn’t reasonably be expected to pay rent.
I stood in the hall listening until I forgot I was dripping water on the floor.
Tonight I asked him to take me out.
Downstairs he waits beside the car without his jacket. The July evening is warm. He looks up, sees the shirt, and forgets to open the door.
I am happy enough to lose half my nervousness.
“Hedy has the number,” I say.
“I know.”
“And she’ll call if Otto wants?—”
“We can go back up.” He reaches for the door at last. “If you’re nervous about leaving him.” The tips of his ears turn red. “But I’d rather take you out.”
I look toward Hedy’s window. Then at him.
“So would I.”
I get into the car before I can invent something I forgot to tell her.
The arcade has opened its front wall for summer. Warm air comes through with the smell of food from the next shop. Someone has changed the music, but the racing machines are still beneath the mural of a very fast rabbit.
Jeremiah heads straight for them.
“You remember.”
“You accused the left one of favoring me.”
“It did.”
“You won.”
“Imagine how good I must be.”
He feeds the machines. I take the left one before he can.
“Now who’s exploiting the advantage?”
“A woman with very little time to waste.”
We have to be back by nine. I put my phone where I can see it, then turn the wheel experimentally. I had forgotten how good it feels to sit in a chair where no one needs me to stand up holding him.
Jeremiah chooses the red car. I choose the same one.
“That will be confusing,” he says.
“Mine will be in front.”
It isn’t. He wins by less than a second and sits back with such unbearable satisfaction that I want to tip him onto the floor.
“You practiced.”
“Natural ability.”
“You hit a barrier.”
“And still won. Consider that.”
I pull another token from the cup. “Again.”
He laughs. “There she is.”
The second race is mine. He claims my car has a better acceleration curve, so I offer to switch machines. He agrees too quickly.
A teenager waiting behind us begins cheering as we settle into the opposite seats and race again. Halfway through he has changed sides three times.
“Pick someone,” I tell him.
“I’m trying. You keep crashing.”
Jeremiah laughs hard enough to miss a turn. I overtake him and stand up when I win from his supposedly inferior machine, both arms in the air.
“Dignified,” he says.
I bow.
He applauds, grinning, and for once I don’t catch myself wondering whether I have been too loud. The boy takes the machine when we move aside. I tell him the left one is rigged.
Outside, Jeremiah buys pretzels. He gives me the salt-heavy half, and I break off a piece for him. We find a low wall in the cooler air.
I check my phone. Hedy has sent a photograph of Otto looking at the lamp as if it has offended him.
“That’s your face when somebody changes a delivery date,” I tell Jeremiah.
He bends close to see. “He’s asking reasonable questions.”
We look at the picture for longer than it deserves. Then I put the phone away.
“How was the inspection?” I ask.
“Good. One label printed backward. My manager has given it to me as a souvenir.”
“She understands you.”
“She understands the value of making me unable to criticize anyone’s printing for a month.”
I laugh. He nudges my knee with his.
“What happened with the cookbook?”
“I told you that?”
“In the car. You got as far as the man coming back, then you asked whether you should ring Hedy.”
I had forgotten. He hasn’t.
“There was a grocery list inside it. The boy’s father used to make a special recipe on Sundays, and it was the only place he’d written down what went into it. The man thought we’d throw it away when we checked the book in.”
“Had you?”
“Not yet. I found it on the cart. He unfolded it so carefully I thought it was going to fall apart.”
Jeremiah turns the pretzel bag between his hands. “What was it?”
“He didn’t know the name. That was the whole trouble. It was just what his dad made.”
“Did he take the book again?”
“Yes. He said he’d put the list somewhere safe this time.”
I start to tell Jeremiah the way the man had said thank you, then stop because I can’t quite reproduce it.
“He must have thought it was gone,” Jeremiah says.
I nod. “Yes.”
He waits, and I find the rest of the story. We finish the pretzel while I tell it.
There is time for one more game. We check both phones before we go in. No emergency, no new photograph. Hedy and Otto apparently have better things to do than supervise us.
In the final race Jeremiah takes a shortcut. I follow because I refuse to let him know something I don’t. We get stuck behind an animated truck and finish so far behind that the teenager laughs without trying to hide it.
“Your business relies on vehicles,” I tell Jeremiah on the way to the car. “This concerns me.”
“The truck was badly parked.”
“You chose the road.”
“I did.” He opens my door. “A devastating error. I’ll think about it for years.”
I am still laughing when I get in.
At Hedy’s building he walks me to the door. His eyes go to the loose cuff of my shirt, and I remember standing in front of the mirror undoing it for him.
“May I kiss you?”
I have wanted him to ask since the wall outside the arcade. Perhaps before that.
“You may try. I reserve the right to score you afterward.”
“Cruel woman.”
He steps close. His hand settles at my waist. I put mine behind his neck and bring him nearer, impatient with how carefully we have begun.
His mouth warms against mine. I can feel him smiling for the first second, then he stops smiling and kisses me properly. I curl my fingers into his hair.
When we part, he stays close. I could kiss him again. I want to. I take out my keys because the clock is about to make the decision for us.
“Nine,” I say.
“An unreasonable hour.”
“I chose it.”
“I’ll take it up with you on our next outing.”
The pleasure of that almost makes me forget the keys in my hand.
“You assume there’ll be one.”
“I hope.”
I kiss him once more, quickly, and go upstairs.
Hedy has Otto asleep in the travel crib and a glass of water waiting. I tell her I won twice, leaving out the first race and the truck. She looks at my face and doesn’t ask whether I had a good time.
Later she drives us back to the rental. I settle Otto, change out of the blue shirt, and hang it where it won’t crease.
At my table I take out the phone.
What day can you lose again?
I send it before I can make it sound less eager.