Household Gods

God, Nicole thought, prayed, maybe cursed, give me patience. Give Justin some, too, please, while you’re at it. “You can still have them,” she said. “They have to cook longer in this oven, that’s all.” Half an hour longer. Getting the idea of a half-hour delay across to a hungry two-year-old who was already feeling betrayed made everything she’d gone through at the office seem like a walk in the park.

In the end, she broke her own rule. She gave him some chocolate Teddy Grahams and milk to shut him up. That killed any chance he’d have of eating a good dinner, but chicken nuggets and fries weren’t a good dinner to begin with, so who cared?

Absently, Nicole slid a frozen dinner in the oven for herself, too. It was healthier than the one she’d pulled out for Justin, that much she could say for it. Frozen food was all she had time for, all she ever had time for. Sometimes she dreamt of cooking lavish gourmet meals full of vitamins and minerals, fresh vegetables and quality ingredients, then freezing portions and heating them up for all those nights when she had neither time nor energy to spare for feeding herself once the kids were fed and bathed and tucked away in bed. But who had time to cook anything, even on weekends? Who had the ambition to even start? So she lived on Lean Cuisine and Healthy Choice and Thrifty Gourmet, and pitched fits when Frank fed the kids hot dogs and frozen chicken nuggets.

“It’s a wonderful life,” she said to Justin, who ignored her. He was playing happily on the kitchen floor with his cup of milk and his Teddy Grahams.

In the front room, Kimberley stared through Woody and Buzz, not at them, but she hadn’t thrown up again. That was something. Not much, but something. Patting her daughter on the head, Nicole went into the bedroom to call Frank at his place. She liked that even less than calling him at UCLA, but didn’t see that she had a choice. She’d have to replace the microwave, and for that she needed money – money he owed her.

Someday, she swore to herself, she’d be in a position to pay for everything without the humiliation of calling Frank. Until that day came, she’d just have to bite the bullet and do what she had to do.

The phone sat on the nightstand. As she reached for it, the plaque with Liber and Libera caught her eye. There they stood, god and goddess together, equal, as they were supposed to be. She’d never known any Latin that wasn’t strictly legalese – she’d been a business administration major before she got into law school – but what their names meant was clear enough. Liberty, liberalism, liberality. She didn’t have enough of any of those things.

She dialed the number to Frank’s condo so seldom, she had to look it up. The phone rang once, twice, three times, four. Then, with a faint but distinct click, a sweet – gooey-sweet, Nicole thought – voice came on the line. “Hi, this is Dawn. Frank and I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’ll leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you as soon as we can. Remember to wait for the beep. ‘Bye.”

“Frank, this is Nicole,” Nicole said, ignoring Dawn even in recorded form. “I just want to let you know Kimberley is sick, the microwave is dead, and I need the child support you’re late with. Pay up, dammit. Good-bye.”

It wouldn’t do much good. She knew that too well. Frank would take his own sweet time answering a message like that, but she’d been too frazzled to come up with anything kinder or gentler. She had a sudden, horridly vivid picture of him and Dawn screwing when she called, and laughing like a couple of loons when they heard who it was.

The front of the house was quiet when she emerged from the bedroom. Kimberley hadn’t moved since she left. Nicole bent to feel her forehead, then to kiss it. Kimberley was still warm, but maybe a touch less. The longer the Tylenol stayed down, the better. “How’s your tummy feel?” Nicole asked. Kimberley shrugged and subsided back into immobility.

Loud stomping noises sent her running to the kitchen. Justin had scarfed down most of the Teddy Grahams, then dumped the rest of them on the floor and spritzed them with milk from the three little holes in the Tommee Tippee cup. Now he was having a high old time smashing them up. “Mud!” he told Nicole, delighted.

“No, not mud,” she barely managed not to scream at him. “Mess. Naughty. No-no!” Her hand itched to give him a good solid spanking.

No. She wouldn’t do it. She didn’t believe in it. A good parent had no need to strike a child to make it behave.

Not that she was a perfect parent, either. She’d smacked Justin and Kimberley once or twice, more because she was at the end of her rope than because they had done anything extraordinarily hideous. Each time she’d felt horrible, and each time she’d thanked heaven she hadn’t seemed to do them any lasting harm.