"What'd I tell you?" said Tad the next time they met.
"Very nice."
"I'11 soften her up for you in our sessions. Old Magic Fingers."
"You're a sport."
"Go for it, buddy."
Laura cleans up the lunch makings. He's good with them, Michael, but not obsessive. David was obsessive. They would have turned out just like him — spoiled, hypersensitive to criticism, insensitive to others. He's good with them, Michael, not on their case all the time. And for them to see him at his work, that steady, quiet crafting…
Michael went into the living room, sat on the couch to check his measurements against his stock list. He saw Aaron and Isaac leaving. Isaac bent to right the plaster burro, it was nearly as heavy as he was. Aaron opened his lunch box and unwrapped his sandwich. He pulled the sprouts from it and threw them into the jungle of succulents around the mailbox. The day-care panel truck came, and then the little bus to take Aaron to first grade.
When the bus had pulled away Laura sat by him and kissed him. Lots of tongue in it this time, a kiss that made Michael want to pull her down on the couch or floor with him. But Laura bounced away, reassured, muttering about errands she had to take care of.
She always did that when they'd spent a night apart, waited till the kids were gone then jumped on him. Sometimes it would be several times in a day, every time she came back from an outing. Like a nervous base runner, Michael thought, tagging up and leading off, tagging up and leading off. She didn't like to make it in the morning anymore, though, so Michael didn't let it get him excited.
Laura shivers in the darkroom. She holds strips of negative up to the light. It was a long time learning before she could tell anything from a negative, could see potential before it was laid on paper. He's there, she can see him in the pictures from the day at the beach. It's only a matter of bringing him out, separating him from the sand and sea a little more. More detail, more definition. Add some exposure time, maybe a moment longer in the solution. She looks again at the prints from last night. They look like him, but there's something indistinct. Something missing. Maybe a little burning-in around the face, and then get the brushes out — but no. Try a few more prints before you start retouching things.
The first time they had to take a shower, to brush sawdust from their hair and scrub the newsprint off each other. It was a huge old house, and when the kids had gone they would chase each other around it, stopping to make love wherever they made a catch.
Leading to that were a lot of carpentry lessons. She would come down and watch him work, silent, playing the mouse.
"You want to see how I do this?"
"Sure. I mean if I'm not in your way. I'd love to."
"Here, take hold of this."
She acted afraid of the tools. He knew she'd hung the plants and pictures in the living room, had gotten the yard back under control herself, had put the bird feeders up. But she acted afraid of the tools.
"I clamp this in tight here and you just lay it on that notch and draw it back to you. Nice and easy."
He'd come around her then, pressing lightly against her back, breathing hot on her neck, guiding her arm.
"Nice and easy. Back and forth. That's it."
It always reminded him of planing rough wood. You take your time, you don't push. Each thin layer would slice away clean, the grain exposed, the wood taking shape. Don't push. Let the tool do the work.
After the first time, the very next morning, she wasn't interested anymore. No more lessons, no more lengthy explanations on the couch about the relative costs and qualities of wood, plywood and hardboard.
"Oh," she said that morning, and from then on, "whatever you think will look best."
Laura hurries up the stairs to beat Michael to the phone. Sometimes he forgets and answers. Her mother, God, her mother would grill her for an hour.
Laura was on the phone when Michael came back into the kitchen. There was a phone in the living room and one in her bedroom upstairs but since he had worked there Laura always used the one in the kitchen. Except to talk to her shrink.
Michael looked in a catalog for hinges. She wanted the hinges visible, wanted brass.
"No, David, I'm not a kidnapper. When you signed the papers it said nothing about limiting where I could live. They like it out here, the schools are wonderful. No, I'm not warping their minds, David. If anything's warped it's genetic."
She was talking to her husband. She always ended up yelling at him. It was the only time she could show anger, she said — over the phone. In the waning days of their marriage she used to run from the dinner table to a pay booth down the block and call to express anger at her husband. The counselor had suggested it.
"What? The- what? Jumper cables? I think they're in the trunk. What? No, I won't send them. No, I won't, that's ridiculous. Buy yourself a new set, David. They're not a West Coast phenomenon, they sell them in New Jersey. What? No, I don't drive the kids around on the freeways. That's Los Angeles, freeways. Here we have hills. And fog. Yes, they dress warm, they dress as warm as necessary. I'm not an idiot, you know. I'm not retarded. I fix them meals, keep them warm, pay bills, all on my own. What? If you start talking money, David, I'm gonna bang the phone in your ear."
She was yelling now. It took less time to get her yelling at David lately. A lot was coming out. Tad said the tension in her neck was breaking up. She had finally taken everything with Laura Feingold-Muntz written on it and blacked out the Muntz.
"You do that, David, you do that. And don't forget to tell the lawyer about the jumper cables."
Michael picked out a swaged-butt hinge from the catalog. He started marking where the doorframes would have to be mortised. Laura banged the receiver down and swore at David. She couldn't yet bring herself to swear at him on the phone. She dialed another number, waited. That would be her mother. Laura called her mother in New Jersey every other week, usually right after a call with David. They would talk for an hour. Laura called a sister in Boston and one in Miami. She had a thing about her family, Laura, but Michael never pressed her on it.
The mother wasn't home. Laura dialed another number.
Michael decided he'd cut the mortises right then. They looked like intricate work, made a good impression. He might be able to stretch the job a whole week. He dug through his tools looking for his wood chisel.
"Yes, she explained the different kinds for me. She gave me a booklet."
Laura had asked for some doctor Michael hadn't heard her talk to before.
"I've decided on the Copper-7. No, I've never had one before."
Michael stopped rooting through the toolbox.
"I discussed that with the nurse. Yes. Yes, as soon as possible."
When Laura got off the phone she sat and watched while Michael found the wood chisel. He turned to face the doorframe of one of the base cabinets.
"Those are really dangerous," he said.
"Huh?"
"IUD's. They're bad news."
"The pill makes me sick."
"Oh."
"I get all swollen around my neck. Same thing with my sister. It's an allergy. And you remember the smell I get when I react with the diaphragm jelly."
"Uh-huh."
"And I know how you hate putting those things on."
"Yuh." Actually he didn't mind those things at all, Laura did. She got goose bumps looking at them. In the waning days of their marriage David had gotten heavy into rubber goods.
"I mean I know the dangers. I'll keep having it checked once it's in."
Michael tapped the butt of the chisel with his mallet.