Other People's Houses(8)
Where the hell was Sara?
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When Sara left Frances’s house she knew she’d exited some kind of scene in progress, but she couldn’t work out what it was. Dismissing it as nothing to do with her, she crept around the back of her own house, hoping to surprise Iris. She spotted her through the kitchen window and ducked down behind a bush, giggling. She loved her wife so much. After nearly twenty years together she still felt glad to see her, every time. All she wanted was for Iris to be happy, for her to know how much she appreciated her.
As she peered between the leaves like a burglar or a baby deer, she was surprised to see Iris looking a little blue. Just staring off into the distance, drinking her coffee. Who knew what she was thinking? Maybe she was considering going back to work full time? She’d seemed preoccupied lately, and Sara thought maybe she was planning a return to her career. Iris had been a writer’s agent at one of the major talent agencies in town, very successful and glamorous, high-profile clients and dinners every night. When Sara first broached the idea of having kids she was certain Iris wasn’t going to be into it, but she’d been all for it. Once Wyatt had started school Iris had begun doing odd projects here and there, but now, of course, she might be ready to go back to work full time. Raising a kid was pretty thankless, and Sara wasn’t always sure Iris loved it. She herself hadn’t turned out to be as maternal as she’d expected, but hey, life is full of surprises. She briefly pondered her feelings about Iris going back to work and was surprised it made her sad: She liked being able to take everyone with her when she had to do a longer shoot. Even though she knew eventually Wyatt would need to stay in school all the time, she liked the freedom to be nomadic and artsy and bohemian. If Iris went back to work that would stop, presumably.
Shit, Iris had left the kitchen and headed off somewhere. Sara crept in through the back door and stalked her on pussycat feet. She came upon her in Wyatt’s room, talking to Rosco, who unfortunately ruined her surprise entrance by standing up and waving his flaggy tail. Iris turned.
“There you are! I was starting to feel stood up.”
Sara bent down and kissed her wife’s hair. “You smell good. I see you and Rosco are working as a team.” Rosco banged his tail on the ground, grinning up at her.
“You’re joking. Rosco is taking the toys out as fast as I can put them away. He’s no use at all.”
Iris stood, and Sara pulled her into a hug. “Do you want to go out for brunch?”
Iris shook her head. “No, I got cinnamon rolls.”
“From Acme?” Sara’s tone was hopeful. Iris nodded, and Sara squeezed her. “You are a wicked, wicked woman. It’s going to be pilot season soon and everyone will cast me as the plump friend.”
“Well, better that than the bitter single friend. That one doesn’t suit you at all.”
Sara laughed and watched Iris walk away from her down the hall. She still loved looking at her, she was so strong and curvy. Maybe she could talk her into bed; there were no kids around, thankfully. When Wyatt had been young there had been months, literally months, when they didn’t have sex at all. Now they had plenty of time, and often plenty of interest. But she’d missed her chance. Iris was already halfway down the stairs, and moving in a way that told Sara she was distracted. It was remarkable how much you could tell about someone’s state of mind purely by looking at the way they put down their bag at the end of the day, or by the sound of a door closing, or even by how long it took for them to walk into the house after you heard the beep of the car alarming itself. You become an anthropologist studying a tribe of one, and then if you have kids, you start studying them, too; but they’re harder because the little bastards are studying you right back, and changing and growing in a frustrating step function of leaps, bounds, and backward stumbles. Of course, maybe this was also an actor thing, because the semiotics of emotion were tools to her. Little hand gestures barely caught by the camera could make the difference between a visible performance and the true inhabiting of a character.
Sara looked down. Rosco was looking up at her uncertainly. He wanted to follow Iris, but it had seemed rude to do so while Sara was standing there. He waved his tail gently. She grinned at him. “Sorry, dear, I just drifted off there.” She headed downstairs to find her wife.
Five.
Back in Frances’s kitchen there was a long silence after Sara left.
“Are those the toilet roll tubes?” Anne gestured to what was clearly a bag of toilet roll tubes. No, thought Frances, those are the global thermonuclear devices I was planning on planting all along Larchmont Boulevard, the ever-so-slightly twee shopping street nearby.
“Yes. Apparently Kate faces instant expulsion from the cool kids if she doesn’t have them.” Frances looked at her watch, surprised to see it wasn’t quite ten. How could so much be destroyed in less than an hour?
“Do you think it’s too late?” Anne got up, rinsed her coffee cup, and went to pick up the bag.
“To drop them off?” Frances shook her head. “No, they have circle time first, then pointless work sheets, then lunch. I don’t think they do crafty shit till the afternoon.” She picked up cookie crumbs with her thumb and licked them.
Anne shrugged. “OK, then. I guess I’ll run these over.”