Amy heard Frank’s car drive up the driveway. After breakfast he had taken the kids to their friend Winston’s house for the day. Amy hadn’t wanted the boys out of her sight just yet, but they—and Frank—had insisted.
‘They need to get back to normal,” Frank had said. “Don’t make this such a big deal.”
“Not a big deal? Frank, Zack nearly drowned. For Christ’s sake, I can’t get the image of his casket out of my mind.”
“He’ll get over it. Kids bounce back from that kind of stuff.”
“Oh? What kind of near-death experience did you bounce back from when you were ten years old?”
Frank had insisted. “He’ll get over it.”
All the while Frank was gone Amy had sat on the living room couch, shaking, imagining the progress of their trip. Now they’ve reached the end of Long Marsh Road. Now they’re topping the hill into town. Now they’re at the stop light. Now they’re turning onto Great Works Road to follow along the river. Now they’re turning into the Price’s long, winding driveway. Now Winston is waving to them.
Now Zack and Jacob are out of the car.
Now Frank is pulling away…
Her mind drifted to the caskets. All night she had dreamed of caskets. Sometimes two caskets, one large and one small. Sometimes just one casket, leaking brackish water onto the offensively inoffensive beige carpet of Tanguay’s Funeral Home.
She had awoken exhausted and shaken.
Why hadn’t she gone with Frank and the boys? Instead, she spent forty five minutes alone, lonely, and shaking on the couch. Forty five minutes visualizing their progress.
Now, several minutes after Amy had imagined it, Frank had pulled into the driveway.
Amy closed her eyes. Now he’s opening the front door…
The door opened. The door slammed.
From the hallway Frank yelled, “Where the fuck are you?”
Oh, Jesus. What now?
“Amy!”
Amy began to shake again. This surprised her. She hadn’t realized that she had stopped shaking.
Frank turned and saw her on the couch. He stopped and pointed a finger at her. “You were drinking!”
“Frank, what-”
“You stupid bitch. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I wasn’t drunk, Frank.”
“He could have drowned. They both could have drowned. And you, too, for that matter.”
“I wasn’t drunk. I swear it.”
“Oh,” he said, “that’s such a fucking relief to hear, And I guess I’m supposed to believe you?”
“It’s the truth. Believe what you want. You’re going to, anyway.”
“Even if you believed it, am I supposed to trust your judgment about whether you’ve had too much to drink?”
“I’m telling you—”
“Jacob said he saw you pouring vodka three or four times. How many time did he miss, Amy?”
Three or four times was all she had poured. But there was no point arguing further. Frank was in no state to hear what she was saying. “I don’t know what you want to hear, Frank. You weren’t there-”
“Apparently you weren’t there either.”
Amy pulled her feet up onto the couch and tucked her knees under her chin. “You think I’m to blame for what happened.”
“You’re god damned right I do. You were supposed to be the adult.”
“This morning it was no big deal.”
“That was before I knew you were drunk while you were supposed to be watching our sons.”
“I wasn’t drunk!”
“And this morning you insisted that it was a big deal. Make up your mind. Or is that too much to ask? Are you a little foggy right now?” Frank pointed at Amy’s glass on the coffee table. Her glass of vodka and orange juice.
“That’s orange juice,” Amy said, and reached for the glass.
Frank moved toward her. “Let me smell it.”
Amy jumped to her feet and began to back away from Frank. She tipped the glass to her lips. But she was moving, and the glass was too full for her to swallow all of the damning evidence in one gulp. Some of the orange juice spilled out of her mouth and down her chin.
Frank swung an open hand and struck the glass.
Amy heard and felt the glass smash into her lower front teeth before it flew spinning out of her hand, pinwheeling a spiral of orange juice across the living room. She screamed, and pieces of her broken teeth flew out of her mouth.
“Hold still,” Frank said. He grabbed her by the hair with both hands and pulled back, angling her face upward. He bent his face toward hers.
Amy spat in her husband’s face. The saliva was pinked with blood.
Frank released Amy’s hair and wiped the spit off his face with one hand. He looked at his wet fingers for a long moment.
Amy took the opportunity to step back away from him.
“Holy shit,” Frank said. “Holy shit. Are you okay?”
She tested her lower teeth with her tongue, then with her finger. “I think two of them are broken.”
“Jesus, Amy, you have to get help.”
“Well, where am I going to find a dentist on a Saturday?”
For a moment Frank looked as if he hadn’t understood her. Then Amy realized why he was confused.
“You weren’t talking about my teeth, were you?”
“You can’t leave them alone at the pond like that. Not until they learn to swim.”
Amy glared at Frank for a moment. Her lower gums were throbbing.
“I’m going out for a while,” she said. “You can clean up my vodka and orange.”
She walked into the hall, picked up her purse off the narrow hall table, and left the house.
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