True Confessions of the Stratford Park PTA

6. Have one—let me repeat that—one child upon turning thirty. CHECK!

7. Work our butts off. Check!

8. Save diligently. Check!

9. Work harder/save more.

10. Anastasia will graduate from college when we turn fifty-five. Andrew and I will be free to enjoy early retirement.

Do you see mention of a second child?

No.

That’s why Andrew got a vasectomy.

How in the hell am I going to tell him I’m pregnant?

Barbara

We’re barely inside the house when Burt starts spitting words at my back. “What the hell is Margaret Woodall doing in this house?”

Lord, I knew he’d be in a snit. I keep walking into the kitchen, weighing my words as I open the refrigerator and pull out the potatoes I peeled earlier and the London broil I’d set to marinate this morning.

Only then do I turn and look him square in the eyes, putting on a cheerful face, hoping to set the tone.

“She and Sarah are staying with us for a while.” I set the French-white Corning Ware baking dishes on the counter so the food can come to room temperature. “Won’t it be lovely to have them here? Sarah and Mary Grace are already fast friends. So nice to have her cousin here to play with.”

He knits his brows and glares at me as if I’m an idiot. “Why didn’t you tell me they were coming?”

Instead of answering him, I pull my Better Homes and Gardens cookbook from the shelf over by the door and busy myself looking up a recipe for au gratin potatoes.

“How long are they staying?”

“As long as they need to.”

“In other words, they’re moving in? That’s why you put them in the carriage house.”

I close the cookbook and flash a smile at him as if the thought hadn’t occurred to me, as if he’d invented the very idea himself and it was genius—pure genius. “I suppose they are.” Then I stab the big hunk of meat with a fork and turn it over to distribute the marinade. The tang of balsamic vinegar, onion, garlic and rosemary fresh from my herb garden wafts up to comfort me. I inhale a steadying breath of it, hoping the aroma will quiet the palpitations dancing beneath my breastbone.

“When was this decided?”

I glance up and see him glaring at me, agitated, as if he’s waiting for the punch line to an absurd joke that he’s the butt of and doesn’t appreciate very much.

I squat down and pull out the stockpot from the cabinet, then turn my back on him as I draw water to boil the potatoes.

His hand is on my arm, gripping me a little too tightly. “I asked you a question, Barbara.”

I jerk out of his vice grip and glare right back at him, sending the message that this arrangement is not negotiable. No way. No how. But I soften my tone before I speak.

“All that matters is that Margaret and Sarah are here now. We’re not turning them away. They need family after all they’ve been through losing Tim. Burt, we are Margaret’s people. We’re all the family she’s got.”

“Family? Since when? You haven’t talked to Margaret in years. And if you’re so damned concerned about your people, what about me, Barbara? I’m your family. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m your husband, the person who works his ass off to pay the bills.”

I turn off the faucet and heft the big pot out of the sink. He has to jump out of my way to avoid me ramming into him as I make my way to the range.

“I cannot believe you didn’t at least give me the courtesy of discussing this with me before you invited them to move in. It’s all I can do to support us without you takin’ in strays.”

I look at him square in the eyes and a little voice deep down inside of me whispers, I can’t stand his face or the sound of his voice.

“I beg your pardon. I will thank you to not refer to my niece as a stray. Burt, you’re simply being ridiculous. They’ll be out in the carriage house. You won’t even know they’re here.”

I salt the water and dump the dish of peeled potatoes into the pot. The water splashes in a satisfying way that punctuates my statement.

“There is nothing ridiculous about my not wanting Leila’s daughter in my house.”

I crank the knob, coaxing the gas burner to flame. The old range clicks ten times before it ignites, as if it’s reminding me to hold my tongue before I mouth off and say something rash like, It’s not your house, you jackass. It’s mine. Or—

“What’s the matter, Burt? Afraid you might see something you like?” I point a finger at him and get right in his face. “Well, I’ll tell you something right now, mister. Fool me once shame on you. Fool me twice—” I shake my head. “No, you won’t fool me twice. There will be no third chances. That’s all there is to it. And don’t you forget that.”

He takes a step back looking flummoxed, standing there with his mouth gaping wide open as if I’ve rendered him speechless. Imagine that, little ol’ me shutting the mouth of this lawyer who always has an answer for everything.

The spell of silence only lasts a few seconds. Then his eyes narrow and darken. I see his jaw working as if he’s grinding his molars to powder. “For your information, I had someone interested in renting the carriage house. Someone who actually wanted to give us money in exchange for the electricity they’ll be using and the space they’ll be taking up.”

I put my hands on my hips.

“Well, fancy that, Burt. Are you the pot or the kettle today? Because just a few minutes ago you were pretty damn adamant about us giving each other the courtesy of discussing potential renters before we invited them to move in. I don’t recall you giving me that courtesy.”

He’s picking at the grout between the tiles on the counter. As I take a jar of pickled beets from the pantry, I wonder if he even heard me.

“Property taxes are due, Barb. Do you have the money to pay them? Because I don’t.”

I shoot him a look suitable for how utterly ridiculous that question is. “Well, maybe I should get a job.”

He ignores that one. My heart beats like a big bass drum.

“I’m strapped, Barbara. Maxed out with bills and upkeep on this place and college tuition for the kids. So unless you’ve stashed away several thousand dollars, Maggie has to be willing to match what this guy is willing to pay— Or is she expecting a free ride just like her mother always did?”

The bastard just doesn’t know when to quit. To him this is a challenge. A line in the sand. A gauntlet he’s thrown down to make me retreat. And you’d think that after forty years of marriage he’d know me better.

“Now you listen here. I’m only going to say this once—” A strange jarring sensation in my chest nearly knocks me off my feet. I grab the edge of the counter with one hand for support, the other holding steady to the jar of beets.

“What’s the matter with you?” Burt asks, his words peppered with annoyance.

“Nothing. I just had a…a spell. I’m fine now.”

Burt looks at me warily, as if he’s assessing whether this is a ploy, if I’m being a big drama queen since he’s fighting mean.

I draw in a slow breath through my nose, exhale audibly through my clenched teeth. I shake the jar of beets at him. “Your pigheadedness only makes me all the more determined.”