Rory poured himself a coffee and walked up beside me at the counter, brushing a lock of hair out of my face.
“Didn't sleep much?”
“No. It's just so damned hot.”
“I know. They say it's going to last another week. But this whole summer is supposed to reach record highs.”
I wiped my brow. Even this early, the heat had already begun to creep in as I labored over the range. “Yup. Maybe I'll go to the pool today or something.”
“That sounds like a good idea.” The faint whiff of his activities the night before snuck over the potent smell of bacon. I was always impressed with how no matter how hard Rory drank, he was always up and ready for work the next day. Rory was a serious man. He wanted to work hard and provide for his family. That was so much more than many women had.
I plated our breakfasts and we sat at the table together.
Rory seemed to notice me picking at my food. He gestured as if he was about to ask me about it, but stopped himself to say what was really on his mind. “Lilly, honey. I'm sorry about last night. It's just with work, and I keep getting so stressed, like a coil, and the only way to unwind is to go to the bar.”
“I know.” But I knew it wasn't just work. There was something else tightening the coils he released with booze. I could never say it outright, though.
“I'm sorry, okay? I just need to get through this quarter and everything will be better.”
“Mmmhmm.” I had learned by then it was better to stay level, not to get too excited or act spiteful. My response was not to seek greater concessions; in fact, it was a concession itself, but Rory didn't see it that way.
“How can I make it up to you? Want me to take you out to Giovanni's tomorrow night?” he asked enthusiastically.
Whenever he did that, it made me feel like a pet. Like he could throw me a bone and I'd chew and forget all the wrong he ever did.
“Rory, I'm not asking for anything. I just want you to take care of yourself,” I conceded.
He sighed. “I need to hop in the shower. Long days ahead planning for the trip.”
“I forgot about that,” I admitted. For all the contention we had suffered lately, I didn't like him being gone on these long business trips.
“Two weeks and then I'm back. Though depending on how busy things are, I might have to hit the road again,” he reminded me.
A subdued panic hit me, knowing I would be alone all this time. My life had come to revolve around Rory's every move. We had no children, and so my role as housekeeper was to wake up and make sure all of Rory's needs were taken care of. If there was time, I could gather with the neighborhood women for a luncheon or tea, but most of them had children too, and I had become tired fielding the inquiries about when Rory and I would have our own. At first I was envious of hearing their discussions about little Susie or William, but after a while, I had just become bored with them.
The panic pushed me to ask a question I had learned would always get the same answer, but Rory had asked me what I wanted, so this was as good a time as any.
“Rory?”
“Uh huh?” he asked, turning to face me on his way out of the kitchen, leaning his arm against the entryway. If I could just freeze him right there, with the morning sun pouring in on his long frame, the question in his sleepy green eyes, I could love him forever.
“With you being gone all these weeks, and if you get the promotion . . . maybe I should finally get a part-time job. You know, when you're not home, I'm just here.” I gestured to my little kitchen, decorated like something out of a dime store magazine.
Rory dropped the arm leaning against the doorframe and sighed. “Lilly, I don't want my wife to have to work. We've discussed this before. The entire reason I go out of town so much and work so hard is so you don't have to,” he pleaded.
“I understand, but—”
“And what about when you get pregnant? You can't work and raise my children. No child of mine is going to have a mother gone at work.”
“I'm not saying something huge—”
“And where are you going to work? Are you gonna commute to the city? Work at a grocery store here? People will think I don't provide for you.”
“I'm sure they'd—”
“Listen, I gotta get ready. Let's table this for now.” Table this. That's what he always said when he didn't want to talk about the topic anymore.
My face must have displayed a visible sadness, because Rory walked up to me and kissed me on the forehead. “The mother of my children will never have to work.” It was a proclamation of affection towards me, but his words felt like the vocal equivalent of a lock clinking on a prison cell.
I felt a sense of pity for Rory as he exited the kitchen. His certainty of my future motherhood was almost too strong. Rory was a go-getter and he always believed he could achieve whatever he set his mind to. He dared not even entertain the idea that we might not become parents. And yet, over the course of this past year, he had changed. While he never expressed his doubts aloud, he brought them home, soaked in the scent of liquor a few nights a week.
Rory and I had been trying for years to no avail. Not a single pregnancy. The battle for a child had become a festering sore on the relationship. And part of what I didn't and couldn't say to Rory was the longer we went without having one, the more I was certain I did not want him to be the father of my children.
I wandered down the aisle of the grocery store, relishing the coolness of the produce section. The bright lights stung my tired eyes, but I appreciated the rare relief from the heat.
What to make for dinner today? The question I asked myself daily. One I was sick of answering. I flipped through the pages of a Ladies’ Home Journal I picked up from a rack, looking for an idea. Jello molds, trifles, some sort of complicated lamb dish.
Rory's words as he left the house cycled through my thoughts.
“Ok hon, I'll call you if I have to stay late.”
“Sounds good.”
“What are you thinking about for dinner tonight?”
“Not sure yet. I was going to run to the grocery store and see if there were any meats on special.”
“Well, that meatloaf you made last night. I wouldn't make that again,” he said, stabbing my cheek with a sharp kiss before heading to his car, his baby—an orion blue Cadillac Coupe DeVille with an alpine white top. He still had a little piece of tissue on his chin from when he nicked his face while shaving. Rory always kept a baby-smooth face. I thought about telling him it was still there, but I let him leave with it instead.
I stared at the steaks, chicken and other meats on display. A bright orange sticker advertised a sale for rack of lamb. I glanced back down at the recipe in the magazine, then at sticker. The bright starburst felt like another passive-aggressive attack. Do what your husband wants. Make HIM happy. Be the good wife. Make babies. Make food. You're not allowed to want more than that.
“What'll it be ma'am?” the man behind the butcher counter asked.
“I'll take a pound of ground beef and a half a pound of ground pork, please,” I asked triumphantly.
He slid the perfectly wrapped lumps of meat over the counter once he was finished, and I headed towards the aisles to find some breadcrumbs.