Swim, Butterfly Chapter 26
Cakes
Pete, planted in his ugly brown easy chair, watches the news, his brown-haired head molded into the back of the leather seat. Pete and I don't talk about the trip. I didn't tell him where I went and he didn't ask, but he's not entirely stupid. Only we can't play Silence forever.
Pete's more removed from the kids than before, as well as from me, which makes sense regarding me, but not to the kids. They don't deserve that. Rudy withdraws to his room almost all the time now, and I can tell June's hurt by Pete's silence. She watches him all the time, but doesn't say a word. Pete's remote to everything but the TV remotes.
Ha ha, funny.
Not.
I hate the news; hype riddled with misinformation or details conveniently left out. I don't think they distinguish. In fact, all these media boneheads should go to Gehwegistan and stay there. I have enough on my plate and no way to get it out of my mind without drinking until I pass out or fucking Jimmy, neither of which is likely to happen again soon, if ever.
I scrape smears of mashed potatoes and fatty ham rinds into the catch-all in the sink, quietly, so as not to disturb Pete while the news brainwashes him and his family falls apart. Have I always tiptoed, always employed be-quiet tactics as a way to live alone while raising a family? Or was I actually avoiding a deeper relationship with Pete after I got tired of trying?
Disturbing the silence, June trots into the kitchen, "Mom! Look! I made a butterfly!"
Indeed, she has created a butterfly with two Crayola-blessed paper wings and an oblong body of paper, stuffed with more paper, then stapled together at the edges. June's once-light blond hair darkens every year, turning brown like mine. I chuckle, wondering what June would look like with the carroty brown curls Jimmy said he used to have.
"What's funny, Mom?" June asks. Pete turns his head briefly.
"Oh, nothing, hon, not laughing at your butterfly, I promise. It's beautiful!" I admire the green, blue, and pink wings, the colors thickly outlined in black, and while June tells me about her next project, my hand rests briefly on my butterfly pendant, hanging on a longer chain beneath my shirt, 24/7.
My
butterfly.
June and her butterfly flit away to show Pete, who barely nods at it, then turns his attention back to a foot spray ad. June hangs by his chair a few moments longer, her fingers walking up the headrest, then drags her feet back to the kitchen table. Her smile is gone, the poor butterfly barely held between her thumb and finger.
Enough.
"Pete, turn off the TV."
"Huh?"
I bang my fist on the kitchen table, making June jump, "Shut off the TV, Peter! We need to talk! June, go to your room."
"But Mom..."
"Go. To. Your. Room! I have spoken," I glare at her.
June runs wide-eyed to her room and slams the door.
Pete still sits, but I see him turn off the TV. He drops the remote onto the side table with a clatter.
"Come in
here
, Peter."
His head drops slightly. "Why can't we talk in here?"
"Because I don't want to. You afraid of the kitchen? Afraid I'm gonna talk about how I cheated on you?" I shout.
Pete bolts out of the chair and makes it to the kitchen in three strides, "Jesus, Caroline, shut up,
shut up
! You want the kids to hear?"
"I don't care anymore! They know something's wrong anyways, can't you tell? Secrets aren't doing anyone any good, and you and I are
way
too old to ignore that.
Sit
down!"
He does so, sitting across from me at the kitchen table. I take a deep breath. "I have another secret you need to know."
Pete pales, sits back, and runs his hand through his hair, staring. "Oh no, oh God no..."
I stare back at him, "Your father's gay."
Pete freezes, then slams his palm on the table, "Wha... what? Jesus, what kind of joke is this? Fuck, I thought you were going to tell me you were..."
"No, I'm not pregnant," I roll my eyes, then peer around Pete, "June! Back to your room! Rudy, shut your door!"
The little face peeking around the corner disappears, followed by the patter of feet. I hear two doors shut.
Pete shakes his head a little, chuckling, but not for long. He stops, then looks at me again. "You're not kidding."
"No."
"Well, what makes you say that? I mean, what brought this on? What proof do you have?"
"I don't have any proof. I just know. Well, at least I suspect. Pretty strongly. What proof do you have that I cheated on you?"
"Duh, you told me." Pete's hands splay out.
"And you believed me without any proof."
He leans back in his chair, raising, then resting his hands flat on the table, "I could tell by the look on your face you were telling the truth."
"And what does the look on my face tell you now?"
Pete looks at me, takes a deep breath, and passes his hand over his eyes. He's quiet for a few moments, then his shoulders shudder. I get a box of tissues from the living room and place them quietly on the table. He's not broken up for long, but he looks so fucking tired, as if he aged twenty years. I sit in silence, watching and ready to listen, taking that cue from a friend who's good at that.
Pete blows his nose, "You know, and I really, really hate saying this, but I don't think I disagree with you. I'm not ready to
agree
with you, either, but I don't disagree." He blows his nose a few more times, shaking his head, grunting. "What made you say that? What did you see?"
"At the diner, after Christmas. A man he was eyeing. At first I just thought he really disliked the guy for some reason, but there was nothing unusual about the man. He didn't even look at your father, as if they knew and hated each other. Then it just clicked. He's always drunk and unhappy and mean--unsettled, you know? Just seemed like something was really wrong for a long time. I think he's a gay man trying to be straight his whole life, and it's made him and everyone around him miserable for... forever!"
Pete sighs and smiles weakly. "Yep." Bleary-eyed, he looks up at me. "Thank you, thank you for saying it. I never wanted to hear it or say it, or admit it, but yeah, he's made us all unhappy forever."
"Well, no, not forever. That's your choice. I mean, why do you have to be unhappy, too? You don't have to be unhappy for him, and fuck him if that's what he wants. He made the choice to live a lie for what, forty or fifty years? Dragging other people along with him, and that's what I hate the most about him. I could care less if he's gay--that's neither here nor there--but I do have a problem with how he handled it. He's hurt you for years, belittled you for nothing. You're a good man, and you deserve better."
Pete looks at me with a smirk, or is it a sneer? "Yeah? Then why did you cheat on me?"
