Household Gods

Frank called every day to ask if she was all right. He had little to say when he did call, but that didn’t matter. She had little to say to him, either. If they’d had more to say to each other, they might have stayed married.

She wondered what he talked about with Dawn. Then, even more to the point, she wondered how long they would go on talking about it.

It was not, thank God, her problem. She didn’t waste much time feeling sorry for Dawn. Dawn was likable, after all, but she was one of those women who always landed on their feet, and always with a man in the bag.

The strangest thing of all, stranger than being as clean as she wanted to be, and even stranger than driving to the supermarket and buying as much as she needed and being able to pack it all home, was sleeping in her own bed at night. Not that it wasn’t comfortable – after the tavern and the hospital, it was wonderful – but because whenever she lay there in the dark, listening to the hum of the air conditioning and the whoosh of cars on the street outside, she kept feeling that Liber and Libera were watching her. She’d turn on the lamp – marveling as she did it that she could produce light, and such light, clear and bright as day, with the simple flick of a switch – and state at the god and goddess on the plaque.

They’d stare straight ahead with empty limestone eyes.

Sometimes she turned off the lamp, then turned it on again very quickly, hoping to catch Liber and Libera at whatever they were up to. But they hadn’t moved. They weren’t up to anything – or, if they were, they weren’t about to let her catch them at it.

She kept the kids through the weekend this time, by agreement with Frank. He’d had enough of them while she was in Carnuntum, and she couldn’t get het fill of them. It was a nicely mutual arrangement.

On Monday morning, the alarm blasted her awake. She woke as she had so many times before, face to face with the god and goddess. She got up, she got moving, she got the kids up. That, for once, wasn’t even hard. She had the magic words: “Today’s the day you go to your new preschool.”

Woodcrest was on Tampa, a few blocks south of Victory – east of her office, yes, but not even half as far as Josefina’s house. The parking lot the preschool shared with several small businesses and, she was most interested to note, an attached elementary school, was cramped and awkward, but for once she had good parking karma: there was a spot right near the entrance.

Kimberley and Justin, full of themselves because they’d been there before and their mother hadn’t, were delighted to serve as guides. “It’s this building, Mommy – right through this door,” Kimberley said, tugging at her arm. “Come on! You don’t want us to be late, do you?” She sounded so much like Nicole in a hurry that Nicole could hardly rebuke her, even when she started off at a run across the lot. Nicole got a solid grip on her hand and let her tow the rest of them along.

The building was standard California stucco. It already hummed with activity. There were more kids outside than in, running through the yard and climbing on apparatus and playing in sandboxes filled with bark chips instead of sand. A plumpish woman of about forty stood amid the chaos like an island of calm. Kimberley dragged Nicole right up to her and announced, “Mommy, this is Miss Irma: my teacher.”

Miss Irma smiled at Kimberley, but her warm brown eyes rested on Nicole’s face. “Oh, yes,” she said. “I showed your – ex-husband, is it? – around last week. I’m very glad you’re feeling better.” She didn’t sound dismayed by the fact of divorce, or because Nicole had been ill. Nothing would ever dismay her, Nicole suspected. That had to serve her very well in the middle of this horde of preschoolers – anyone with a nerve in her body would have had a coronary inside of a week.

Nicole thanked her for her sentiments. She’d done that more often since she came back to herself than in the year before that, she was sure. Somehow, in Carnuntum, she’d learned the art of gratitude. “Frank’s my ex, yes,” she said.

“Ah,” said Miss Irma. She smiled again, and took Nicole in hand. “Here, now, I walked him through it all, but I’m sure you’ll want your own tour, yes?”

Nicole nodded – good; she didn’t have to ask. Under Miss Irma’s capable tutelage, she met Miss Dolores, who would be Justin’s teacher: another comfortable, early-middle-aged woman, Hispanic this time, who also had that nothing-fazes-me look in her eye. She nodded approval at the kits Nicole had made up with changes of clothes, instruction sheets, medical releases, and everything else that the children were likely to need – Frank, ever efficient, had left the school’s literature with the bills on the kitchen counter, for Nicole to find and read. Evidently not every parent did: she won points for having the full kit. It was a small thing, but it made her feel good. In this world, by damn, she knew how to cope.