Chapter Six
Gracie looks up as though she's surprised to hear Eric's voice. Not an I didn't-see-you-there surprise, but a sort of pleasantly surprised surprise. "The Scarlet Pimpernel," she answers.
Eric has a vague recollection of the book. Julie, who was pretty advanced, didn't read it until eighth grade, he thinks, and he only remembers it at all because she went on and on about how romantic the Scarlet Pimpernel was, literally kissing the ground his wife walked on, or something wildly unbelievable like that. No wonder girls went into marriage with ridiculous expectations. Thank God he married Tami, who, for the most part, knows what to ignore and when to forgive, but also how to hold her ground when it matters.
"Want to go to the movies with your old man Saturday afternoon?" he asks. "I'll be done with my meetings by one. What do you want to see?"
"You don't have to do something more important with Liam?"
Eric walks into the room and eases himself down on the edge of Gracie's bed. The mattress shifts with his weight. "Gracie." He doesn't want to scold, but he can't help the tone in his voice. "Look, Liam – "
"- I know. His mom died. He's deaf. I know. I'm lucky. My mom's alive. I can hear."
Eric doesn't like her tone. It already has too much of the teenager in it. Of course, when it comes to correcting the factual inaccuracy of her parents, she's had that tone since she was five. He got used to being talked down to by his elementary school kid when it came to the origin of words or mathematical properties or Greek and Egyptian mythology, but this is too much. His mouth sets in a grim scowl, yet he controls his instinctive response. Tami's voice hovers, somewhere in the back of his mind, telling him there is a time for everything under the sun…a time to scold…and a time to empathize. Tami, right, as usual. So he asks, as casually as he can, "So, movies?"
"Can we go the Franklin Institute instead?"
"Uh….okay. Any particular reason?" She's been there at least six times in her life already.
"They have a new travelling exhibit on Ancient Egypt."
"Sure." He doesn't know what to say next.
He misses the days when she would crawl in his lap and he would read to her. She'd let him read just about anything back then. He almost asks if she wants him to read to her now, but how foolish would that sound? She's been able to read anything she wants for four years. So he tells her good night and kisses the top of her head.
When he gets into their bedroom, Tami is asleep, her book fallen and half open on the floor, the wine bottle on her night stand, with only a glass left.
He changes for bed, picks up her book, and sets it on the night stand. Then he pours the last glass of wine into her glass for himself, grabs the remote off of his night stand, and flips on the TV. He settles onto the bed, propped up by pillows, and begins flipping through the channels.
Two decades ago, Tami fought him on allowing a TV in the bedroom. She said she'd read an article that people slept better if they reserved the bedroom only for sleeping.
"What about sex?" Eric asked.
"Well, sex is an exception."
"We also read in bed."
She stood firm, but damn if he was going to compromise on that one. He fought her tooth and nail, and the TV made its way into the sacred space. Only a month later did he realize how little she really cared, and that she had perhaps deceived him into cashing in one of his scarce, we're-doing-it-my-way chips on a non-issue.
He settles on a documentary on the history of American sports. The narrator is talking about baseball now, but it's only a matter of time.
Tami stirs, rolls onto her back, removes her reading glasses, and puts them on her night stand. She turns off the lamp and the room is bathed only in the glow of the television. "Hey," she mutters. "How late is it?"
"Early," he replies. "Not even nine o'clock. Want to fool around?"
She makes a noise like he's just suggested a feast of brussel sprouts and lima beans, and then she rolls on her side, back to him, and pulls the blanket up to her neck.
"Hey, Tami, honey, you know how you told me to let you know if I ever thought you were drinking too much wine?"
"I had two glasses," she murmurs half into her pillow. "If I were drinking too much wine, my tolerance would be a lot higher, and a mere two glasses would not make me this tired."
"I think you had three, but point taken." He lifts the wine glass he's resting on his thigh and sips from it. He wonders if telling her he took her advice and talked to Gracie will increase his odds of getting laid, which currently stand at zero. "Hey," he whispers as he peers over to look at her, but she's already asleep again.
He returns his attention to the screen.
Still baseball. This entire documentary might be about baseball.
He switches the channel several times until he lands on a very old rerun of Pawn Stars. Someone has brought an autographed football into the store. This ought to be good.