seem too much, that Eva became withdrawn, angry. That Mark turned away from their dreamy stumbling and made a mistake, fucked Amy for eleven months. That Eva got so mad at him that she threw him out. And then settled for a nice man—older, calm, devoted.
Was that it, was that what had happened?
That was it, Mark felt. She’d settled for John. And it seemed to have worked, it seemed to have made her happy. She and John moved into the derelict old house in town and fixed it up. John bought the bookstore for her. She had Theo. She seemed at peace. When Mark dropped by to get the girls, when he came over for birthday parties or holiday celebrations, he could feel the calm and the sense of order that surrounded her. It had to do with money, of course. But it had to do also with John, with his steadiness, his niceness .
Sometimes though, watching Eva move so efficiently across her big, expensive kitchen, watching her turn her slow, lovely, slightly gap-toothed smile on one guest or another, Mark would catch himself wondering if she didn’t miss their old life too, their questions, their passionate talk, the fights, the times they woke in the night afterward and wordlessly, wildly, began to make love. As much as anything, he felt, it was his betrayal that had made her available for a man like John. His fault.
I T WASN’T UNTIL about eight months or so after John died, on a hot day in May, that Mark understood what he was doing, what he’d been feeling all along. That he realized he was wooing Eva. That he saw that he was trying to reclaim her, to reclaim her through the children.
It hadn’t started that way. Early on, when Eva was so miserable, taking the girls more often had just felt the necessary, the right thing to do. Anything, to help. But it probably shifted, something shifted in Mark, when he’d started sometimes to take Theo too, along with the girls.
This had happened for the first time in early December, twomonths after John’s death, when Theo appeared at the top of the stairs with his backpack just as Mark was leaving. Daisy and Emily were already outside, and he was standing in the hall talking to Eva.
They heard Theo on the stairs at the same time, and they both turned and looked up, watching his slow descent in silence.
Mark broke it as Theo reached the bottom. “What’s up, big guy? Whatcha doing?”
“I got my stuff.”
“I see you got your stuff. Where are you taking it?”
“To Mark’s house. To you,” Theo said.
“Oh, sweetie,” Eva said, squatting to be at Theo’s height. Her dress fell in a circle around her on the floor. It was made of a fabric printed with tiny sprigs of flowers everywhere. Sprigs . Mark would have liked to offer her the word.
“See, honey, just the girls are going to Mark’s this time,” she said.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why,” she said. She turned her face up to Mark. She looked stricken.
“Because I’m their father,” Mark said. “Because Emily and Daisy are my girls, so I like to have them come stay with me.”
Theo had looked from one of them to the other. “That’s no fair,” he said.
No one answered him.
He sat on the bottom step. “It’s not fair ,” he said again. And then he started to cry.
Mark had looked at Eva. It seemed to him that she was about to cry too, for life’s unfairness, for Theo’s pain. For her aloneness. For everything.
“I sure don’t mind taking him, if you think it’s okay,” he’d said.
He watched as her face lifted to him again and changed—opened in relief.
“Would you, Mark?” she said.
After that, it had become an easy, comfortable thing. If Theowanted to come, if Eva hadn’t planned something special to do with him in the girls’ absence, Mark brought him home too. He told himself he was doing it for Eva, but he also truly liked the little boy—for his enthusiasm, for his sweet, vulnerable presence lying in bed at night next to Mark, for his wiry physical energy, so like what Mark
Was that it, was that what had happened?
That was it, Mark felt. She’d settled for John. And it seemed to have worked, it seemed to have made her happy. She and John moved into the derelict old house in town and fixed it up. John bought the bookstore for her. She had Theo. She seemed at peace. When Mark dropped by to get the girls, when he came over for birthday parties or holiday celebrations, he could feel the calm and the sense of order that surrounded her. It had to do with money, of course. But it had to do also with John, with his steadiness, his niceness .
Sometimes though, watching Eva move so efficiently across her big, expensive kitchen, watching her turn her slow, lovely, slightly gap-toothed smile on one guest or another, Mark would catch himself wondering if she didn’t miss their old life too, their questions, their passionate talk, the fights, the times they woke in the night afterward and wordlessly, wildly, began to make love. As much as anything, he felt, it was his betrayal that had made her available for a man like John. His fault.
I T WASN’T UNTIL about eight months or so after John died, on a hot day in May, that Mark understood what he was doing, what he’d been feeling all along. That he realized he was wooing Eva. That he saw that he was trying to reclaim her, to reclaim her through the children.
It hadn’t started that way. Early on, when Eva was so miserable, taking the girls more often had just felt the necessary, the right thing to do. Anything, to help. But it probably shifted, something shifted in Mark, when he’d started sometimes to take Theo too, along with the girls.
This had happened for the first time in early December, twomonths after John’s death, when Theo appeared at the top of the stairs with his backpack just as Mark was leaving. Daisy and Emily were already outside, and he was standing in the hall talking to Eva.
They heard Theo on the stairs at the same time, and they both turned and looked up, watching his slow descent in silence.
Mark broke it as Theo reached the bottom. “What’s up, big guy? Whatcha doing?”
“I got my stuff.”
“I see you got your stuff. Where are you taking it?”
“To Mark’s house. To you,” Theo said.
“Oh, sweetie,” Eva said, squatting to be at Theo’s height. Her dress fell in a circle around her on the floor. It was made of a fabric printed with tiny sprigs of flowers everywhere. Sprigs . Mark would have liked to offer her the word.
“See, honey, just the girls are going to Mark’s this time,” she said.
“Why?” he asked.
“Why,” she said. She turned her face up to Mark. She looked stricken.
“Because I’m their father,” Mark said. “Because Emily and Daisy are my girls, so I like to have them come stay with me.”
Theo had looked from one of them to the other. “That’s no fair,” he said.
No one answered him.
He sat on the bottom step. “It’s not fair ,” he said again. And then he started to cry.
Mark had looked at Eva. It seemed to him that she was about to cry too, for life’s unfairness, for Theo’s pain. For her aloneness. For everything.
“I sure don’t mind taking him, if you think it’s okay,” he’d said.
He watched as her face lifted to him again and changed—opened in relief.
“Would you, Mark?” she said.
After that, it had become an easy, comfortable thing. If Theowanted to come, if Eva hadn’t planned something special to do with him in the girls’ absence, Mark brought him home too. He told himself he was doing it for Eva, but he also truly liked the little boy—for his enthusiasm, for his sweet, vulnerable presence lying in bed at night next to Mark, for his wiry physical energy, so like what Mark
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