Read Online Double Happiness by Mary-Beth Hughes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mary-Beth Hughes
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him. Her small angular face tilts up, beaming at him, smiling with square little teeth. Her hand rests on the painting under his arm, but doesnât pull. Itâs something theyâre holding together. Something theyâre protecting. He wonders for a brief half-second if he has some claim here, but then she says, We thought you stole it. Iâm so sorry. It was someone else. Itâs been someone else all along.
I donât know what youâre talking about.
Of course you donât. Itâs late. Go to bed. Go home. Iâm so grateful, youâll never know. She stretches up on her small toes and kisses him, a soft delicious wetness just south of his lower lip. Thereâs a sudden hard smell like ammonia. And then she slides the painting out of his grasp, fast and slippery, pulls it away, and he is sick with want. Sheâs done something to him, something awful, but he doesnât know what. Has she infected him? He canât swallow. He tries and tries. Her bitter-smelling little body click-clacks away, away, away, until itâs sucked up by the dark of the vestibule. The police officer eyes him slowly, then bangs the cruiser roof with a thick fist, snaps off a barking radio, and follows her inside. His building, his office, his corporation. Come back here! he cries out. Come back this minute! But everything is still and quiet. His knees release with a sudden jerk. He catches himself just before he falls all the way down. Heâs free to go.
Rome
O LIVIAâS FATHER HAD BLOWN INTO THEIR LIVES, AS HER mother liked to say, just in time for dinner. Oliviaâs mother was whipping together the odd stuff sheâd found in the kitchen: leftover asparagus souffléâflat, cold, but still goodâtoasted cheese on whole wheat toast, and lentil soup, reheated. Her mother concentrated on slicing the cheese very thin. She pulled a lighter from her pocket and lit a cigarette. Above their heads, Olivia heard the dull distant pounding of her fatherâs shower. He always showered after the train ride from the city.
Olivia folded her homework and cleared the table. She received a quick smoky kiss from her mother for no reason. Her father came downstairs and into the kitchen, fresh and pink-faced. Howâs my pumpkin? he said, and kissed her, too. The sleeves of his blue sweater were pushed back to the elbows, and the dark hairs on his wrists still shimmered with dampness.
Oliviaâs mother had the sandwiches ready to slide under the broiler.
Oh, donât do that, said her father, letâs go out. Olivia held his hand, pulling each of his long fingers in succession.
You want to go out? Her mother paused.
Sure, why not? he said. He picked a piece of cheese from one of the sandwiches and popped it into his mouth. Letâs go to Nanoâs, get some antipasto, a little wine. Consider it training.
Her mother slipped the tray inside the oven and closed the door. If we train much more weâll never get there, she said, and laughed three notes like a doorbell. Oliviaâs father reached over and put his big hands around her motherâs waist. He could nearly get his fingers and thumbs to touch, she was that slim. Whatever you say, boss, he said, pulling her close, crushing her blouse, kissing her hair, and winking at Olivia. In a few years, as if in odd defiance of those hands, her motherâs waist would expand, pushing outward, farther and farther. Olivia would watch her mother frown in dismay, straining to zip a size-ten skirt. But for now, the winter before Rome, her motherâs waist was smaller than Oliviaâs and getting tinier each day.
Everyone was waiting for Olivia to finish the third grade; then they would move to Rome. The new apartment awaited them, the hallways so long and wide, her father said, that Olivia could bowl. He was happier about moving than her mother. Already he was spending whole weeks away from them, getting Rome ready for Olivia.
Her
I donât know what youâre talking about.
Of course you donât. Itâs late. Go to bed. Go home. Iâm so grateful, youâll never know. She stretches up on her small toes and kisses him, a soft delicious wetness just south of his lower lip. Thereâs a sudden hard smell like ammonia. And then she slides the painting out of his grasp, fast and slippery, pulls it away, and he is sick with want. Sheâs done something to him, something awful, but he doesnât know what. Has she infected him? He canât swallow. He tries and tries. Her bitter-smelling little body click-clacks away, away, away, until itâs sucked up by the dark of the vestibule. The police officer eyes him slowly, then bangs the cruiser roof with a thick fist, snaps off a barking radio, and follows her inside. His building, his office, his corporation. Come back here! he cries out. Come back this minute! But everything is still and quiet. His knees release with a sudden jerk. He catches himself just before he falls all the way down. Heâs free to go.
Rome
O LIVIAâS FATHER HAD BLOWN INTO THEIR LIVES, AS HER mother liked to say, just in time for dinner. Oliviaâs mother was whipping together the odd stuff sheâd found in the kitchen: leftover asparagus souffléâflat, cold, but still goodâtoasted cheese on whole wheat toast, and lentil soup, reheated. Her mother concentrated on slicing the cheese very thin. She pulled a lighter from her pocket and lit a cigarette. Above their heads, Olivia heard the dull distant pounding of her fatherâs shower. He always showered after the train ride from the city.
Olivia folded her homework and cleared the table. She received a quick smoky kiss from her mother for no reason. Her father came downstairs and into the kitchen, fresh and pink-faced. Howâs my pumpkin? he said, and kissed her, too. The sleeves of his blue sweater were pushed back to the elbows, and the dark hairs on his wrists still shimmered with dampness.
Oliviaâs mother had the sandwiches ready to slide under the broiler.
Oh, donât do that, said her father, letâs go out. Olivia held his hand, pulling each of his long fingers in succession.
You want to go out? Her mother paused.
Sure, why not? he said. He picked a piece of cheese from one of the sandwiches and popped it into his mouth. Letâs go to Nanoâs, get some antipasto, a little wine. Consider it training.
Her mother slipped the tray inside the oven and closed the door. If we train much more weâll never get there, she said, and laughed three notes like a doorbell. Oliviaâs father reached over and put his big hands around her motherâs waist. He could nearly get his fingers and thumbs to touch, she was that slim. Whatever you say, boss, he said, pulling her close, crushing her blouse, kissing her hair, and winking at Olivia. In a few years, as if in odd defiance of those hands, her motherâs waist would expand, pushing outward, farther and farther. Olivia would watch her mother frown in dismay, straining to zip a size-ten skirt. But for now, the winter before Rome, her motherâs waist was smaller than Oliviaâs and getting tinier each day.
Everyone was waiting for Olivia to finish the third grade; then they would move to Rome. The new apartment awaited them, the hallways so long and wide, her father said, that Olivia could bowl. He was happier about moving than her mother. Already he was spending whole weeks away from them, getting Rome ready for Olivia.
Her
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