“What?” His eyes were innocent, inward-seeing.
“Your pants.” She must have done something gravely wrong in a past life. She, who at the best of times battled her impatience, now required the patience of Job.
Davis gazed blankly at his corduroys. Then, “Oh.” He thrust his other leg in and hopped up and down to settle the waistband around his skinny hips. When he got them on, he kept on hopping. “Look at me, I’m a bunny.”
Meg grabbed him and tucked in his shirt.
He squirmed in her arms, turning mutinous. “I don’t want to go to day care. Kids are mean to me.”
Meg’s heart sank. She’d been afraid of this even though the woman who ran the day-care center had assured her she’d be discreet when she gave Davis his tablet at lunchtime. How much worse would it be when he went to school? “There’s nothing wrong with having to take medicine.”
“It’s not that,” he said, his small hands clenched into fists. “Tommy said...he...I couldn’t go to...to big kids’ school if I didn’t have a daddy.”
“Oh, Davis.” Meg gathered her son into her arms. Over his shoulder, she glanced at her watch. He had to be at day care in half an hour if she was going to be on time to register for classes at the university. But even though they’d been over the subject of his father what seemed like a million times, she never begrudged him the opportunity to ask questions. Maybe it was her sensitivity. Or maybe it was guilt. She just wished she had better answers.
“You do have a daddy,” she said. “He’s just not like other dads. He’s...special.”
“Because he studies killer whales?” Davis jiggled his legs.
“That’s part of it.”
“What else?” He picked up a car and began running it across the floor.
“He’s...” A lover. A loner. A modern-day Ulysses. He’s a genius. A bastard. And my poor heart’s desire. “He can take the peel off an entire orange in just one strip.”
“Really? Wow.” Davis paused momentarily to give the feat its due. “But why doesn’t he...you know?”
“What?”
“Live with us. Doesn’t he like us?” Davis dropped the car and picked up a toy sword. He began banging it on the floor.
“This isn’t his home, sweetheart, you know that—Please stop banging. I don’t think he’s ever had a real home. But if he knew about you, I know he’d love you just as much as I do.” She mentally crossed her fingers and wondered, as she often did, if that was true.
“How come you didn’t tell him about me?” There was just about as much hurt as there could be in his small voice. Bang, bang, bang, went the sword on the carpeted floor.
She took the sword off him. He picked up a plastic baseball bat and started banging it, instead.
“I tried to tell him, years ago. I...couldn’t get through.”
The first time had been the summer after her third year, on the ship-to-shore radio. But when she’d realized bored fishermen all over the Pacific Northwest were listening in, the words had choked in her throat. Then, when she was eight months along, she’d called him in Seattle where he was doing his masters degree. Before she could mention the baby, he’d started talking about scholarships and a Ph.D. at a prestigious university. It wasn’t the thought of screwing up his life that had held her tongue, although that had been a consideration. It was the excitement in his voice when he talked about moving on. New location, new research topic, new everything. Girlfriend, too, undoubtedly. Meg had guts but apparently not enough.
It wasn’t Spencer’s fault that her family, particularly her mother, had never forgiven her for dropping out of university to have his baby. Nor was it his fault Davis was growing up with only her gay housemate for a male role model. None of it was his fault. And all of it was.
Not a day went by when she didn’t think of him. Not a trip to the university when she didn’t look for him around every corner even though she knew he’d left the country years ago. Hopeless. Futile. Pathetic. It was a good thing she was over him.
The banging of the plastic bat tore at her nerves. “Stop.”
“I want to learn to play baseball,” Davis said, grudgingly relinquishing the bat. “Tommy’s dad plays catch with him.”
“I’ll teach you. When we get home tonight we’ll toss the ball around, okay?” She gave Davis another hug and got to her feet. “It’s just you and me, kid, better get used to it. Come on. Your oatmeal is almost ready.”
“First I’m going to see Charlie.”
Charlie, the lizard. Meg watched Davis race down the hall, through the kitchen to the laundry room, his socks flapping loosely in front of his toes. Pull up your socks, she wanted to. shout, but didn’t. The time would come soon enough when Davis had no choice but to pull them up, figuratively speaking. Please, God, give my boy an understanding teacher.
She was stirring the oatmeal again when Patrick sailed into the kitchen. His brush cut was shiny with gel, his shoes spit-shined to a high gloss, and his beige navy uniform pressed to a knife-edge. “Good morning, sweetcheeks,” he said, giving her a peck on the forehead. “Davis all right?”
“He’s fine. Just a minor skirmish with his buttons.”
“Good. Now, how do I look?” Patrick spun on his toes, arms outstretched. “I’ve got an interview with the selection committee today, and I’m that far away from promotion.” He held his thumb and forefinger a quarter of an inch apart.
“You look terrific.” She put down the wooden spoon to tweak his tie a little straighter. “I just love a man in uniform.”
“So do I, sweetie. So do I,” he replied with a waggle of his eyebrows.
Meg laughed. “You’re terrible. But I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Probably slit your little wrists.” Patrick turned as Davis came into the kitchen with Charlie cradled in his hands. “I’m in the galley tonight, champ. What would you like for dinner?”
“Hot dogs!” Davis opened his hands and the reptile began to crawl over his sleeve toward his neck.
Patrick planted his fists on his hips. “You simply must expand your repertoire, mister. But discipline’s your mom’s department. Hot dogs, it is. I’ll make Caesar salad for us.” he added to Meg.
“Patrick You know I’m trying to establish a pattern of one meal for all.”
Patrick turned puppy-dog eyes on her. They always made her cave. As he well knew.
“Oh, all right. Since you’re cooking, you get to choose.”
They might as well be married the way they argued over Davis’s upbringing. She had the final say of course, but she couldn’t squash all of Patrick’s many indulgences.
“Davis,” she said, turning to her son, “get Charlie out of your collar and back in his cage. Then run and wash your hands. You don’t want lizard slime in your oatmeal.”
“Lizards aren’t slimy, Mom. Sheesh!” But he plucked the reptile off his neck and returned to the laundry room where the less socially acceptable of his pets were housed, his feet dragging in exaggerated slow motion. Just to let her know he was complying under duress.
Through the open door, Meg watched him put Charlie away. “Keep going,” she said, stepping across to where she could see the hall to make sure he didn’t get sidetracked on the way to the bathroom.
Patrick clucked his tongue as he put the kettle on to boil. “Ease up on the boy,” he said, measuring ground Colombian into the coffee plunger.