Number 3

 

Number 3

            Jack and Lydia had awoken to the pelting of raindrops against their bedroom window, but had lain there for a while longer in the cool blue of the rain-immersed room, to listen to the pelting repetition of nature.  It was hard to lay in the silence for so long, with nothing occupying either of their minds but the rain and the tension between them. The previous night had been a mistake, perhaps. It was a continuation of the lie they both shared. But somehow it had been necessary; a consolation to both of them, a desperate attempt to secure what they both knew was falling apart. But in that morning none of these thoughts were said aloud.

            Jasper broke the silence the padding of tiny feet on the wood floor. He stood at the side of their bed and asked to join them. With him sandwiched between them, the morning was brighter, and his four-year-old attention span led to a parade down the stairs to the kitchen table. Jacob was waiting for them there, with Violet immersed in the refrigerator. A family gathered in the kitchen for breakfast- another illusion of perfection.

            The boys gathered around the sliding glass doors that opened out onto the back patio. The rain splashed on the cement, and gathered on the glass like spider webs or diamonds, or both. Jack observed all of these things: Violet and her mother fixing breakfast in the warmer yellow glow of the kitchen light, twins held in the blue embrace of an outside waterscape, marveling at the beauty their father also embraced. His fingers felt the familiar itch to grab a pencil, but he couldn’t while they were all here. He couldn’t bring himself to give up the one secret that was just for him, his one summer pleasure.

            A phone call was made to their neighbors, who had planned a block party for that afternoon. How could they continue while the weather was their enemy? Lydia was panicked about the humidity and its effects on her hair. Violet was locked in her room and refused to come out. Jasper and Jacob were nonchalant about the whole matter, and would have done anything their mother requested. Jack felt trapped as well. He craved his art, he was struck by inspiration, but he was also trapped between being surrounded by his family for a day indoors versus being forced to endure a social outing, neither of which catered to his craving.

            The decision was made that they would endure the rain. The women of the neighborhood peered out the windows and convinced themselves that the downpour was lessening, while they made silent plans to reinforce their hairdos with extra hairspray and conditioner, and set the umbrellas and raincoats by the door for easy access.

            Jack found himself with his nose to Violet’s bedroom door. He stood for a moment in silence, not sure if he was stepping too quickly into her comfort zone. He asked her, Dear, if he could come in for a moment. She answered a tentative “Sure.” That was enough of an answer to satisfy Jack’s nerves.

            When he entered the room, violet to match its inhabitant, he was surprised and proud to find his portrait tacked to her bedroom wall. Violet could see him smiling his sad smile, and her heart gave a twist when she realized how easy it was to make him happy, simply by appreciating what he did. She asked him to sit down, and patted a square on the quilt beside her. Jack sat close to his daughter, and she snuggled into his chest, a welcome comfort. She guessed at his purpose for entering. He didn’t want Mom to know, did he? He gave a slight nod, and then closed his fingers around her hand. She was the only one in the family who knew, he told her. It wasn’t that he was ashamed; it was more that he felt selfish for having a private desire, one that wouldn’t benefit the family. The summers, their lives, had always been based around a mutual approval, and here he was: doing something finally to please only himself.

            Violet asked him if he was going to the block party, and he admitted that he saw no way of escaping. They had formed an alliance, a common desire to retreat from the day’s plans. But a knock on the door led them both from her room, with minimal protesting from Violet since she knew that her dad was on her team.

            The air outside was wet and sticky, with the electric tensions in the clouds an exact replica of the tensions indoors. They were both waiting for the perfect moment to crack into thunder. In some ways, an escape from the house was a survival technique; in others, it was a public test of how the family could handle itself with an audience.

             A meeting of three brave families who opted to venture from the comfort of the indoors took place in the five car garage of the Fischers. Travis Fischer was the man of the hour, but not in the expected way. He was almost a piece of art or historic memorabilia. Jack always felt intimidated by his outlandish uniqueness, a tribute to long dead rock stars and politicians alike. Travis epitomized the merging of the decades, and he had a voice, which scared Jack, who longed to speak.

            Mr. Fischer had almost certain brain damage from his years of head-banging and drug use and who knew what else. The only reason he had been successful in life was from a lucky inheritance and a rich father. Yet, despite the seemingly immoral and wasted existence that was Travis, he was highly respected as a social artist and entertainment for the new interest crowd of the neighborhood.

            The Fischers were an odd family in their entirety because the wife was such a polar opposite of the husband. She was a woman who dressed in sweet pastels and whose voice resembled that of a child. Her name was Amy, another conservative and Stepford attribute. The surprising thing about Amy Fischer, however, was her temper. She had a son who was close to Violet’s age. He played football and passed his classes, but he was rather an introvert and an outcast in comparison to his father, or even his default mother. One could only guess at the reason for this, but when his mother entered the room he shrank in her presence, and the neighborhood had the general suspicion of abuse.

            So the party began, with one other family of unremarkable personality. The Fischers stole the show, and Lydia provided sustenance in the form of a pot of chili, despite the summer heat. Jack sat alone on a plastic chair near a flashy red classic car. He searched the garage and the driveway for Violet, but soon found her with the Fischer boy, absorbed in conversation. The two of them had eyes for each other, he suspected, and with slightly reddening cheeks, he left them alone. Lydia’s giggles could be heard echoing of the wet brick walls of the surrounding houses. Jasper and Jacob were splashing in the deep canyons of water that lined the streets. The other family was huddled together and kept to themselves, a new addition to the neighborhood no doubt, who hadn’t known what to expect from their eccentric host family. And Jack just sat in observation, and sketched in his mind.

            There were several desperate attempts made to start a game of charades, to which Jack frowned and furiously shook his head each time his approval was requested. But the other adults insisted, and Lydia soon grabbed him sharply by the wrist and forced him to participate, as unhappy as he was. Lydia and Travis played off of each other’s quirkiness and their voices escalated well above the rest. The young couple that sat next to Jack shot him desperate glances, hoping for a way to escape back to the safety of their conservative homes, but he had discovered no route through his years of enduring such torture and so shrugged and left them to fend for themselves. When it wasn’t his turn to guess, his eyes scanned his surroundings to keep track of the twins. When he looked up from a particularly disturbing round, which left his wife and Travis rolling on the garage floor with laughter and Amy standing with her hand over her mouth and a twitch in her leg, he realized that he had lost sight of his boys. He rose tentatively from his seat, and left without much notice from the group.

            Calling their names, he stepped from the dryness of the garage and entered the rain-soaked universe. There was no response. Jack had the idea to look for Violet and the Fischer boy, but his suspicions told him that he would probably rather not see what they were doing by themselves. So he progressed, panic slowly rising sickly sweet in his throat, down the street toward his house.

            By the time he reached the back porch, he was soaked through and on the verge of tears from frustration and worry. If it hadn’t been for Lydia’s games, he would have never lost sight of his children. Jack doubted if they had even noticed that he was gone from their distorted charade of a party. He only wished that he and Violet had decided not to come, to take a stance for once against Lydia’s wishes and cater to themselves. But it was too late now, and he slid inside the house with his wet shoes and dripping hair, calling the boys’ names all the while.

            A small response floated down to him from what he assumed to be the upstairs bathroom. He flew up the stairs and found the boys naked on the floor, their wet clothes discarded, playing with the toiletries and telling each other nonsensical four-year-old jokes. At once, relief and endearment and anger flowed through him and he fell to his knees between the boys and pulled their heads to face his and asked them what on earth the thought they were doing leaving his sight. Of course, they told him, they were wet and bored and had tried to get Mommy’s attention, but she hadn’t answered.

            Of course. So wrapped up in impressing others and entertaining herself, Lydia hadn’t even paid attention to the pleas of her children. All they wanted was dry clothes and someone to spend time with them- but her schedule didn’t mesh with babysitting. Jack wondered why they hadn’t come to him for help- but he knew the answer already. Despite his behind-the-scenes parenting, Lydia always took the credit. He willingly stepped back every time, in submission, and let the boys go to mommy when things were going well. In this way, they associated her with the right and good things in life, and Daddy fell under the radar. So after drying them off and helping them find fresh clothes, Jack led them down to the living room to watch movies and play with their legos until their mother and Violet arrived.

            Violet entered the back door with her head hung low, and tried to sneak away into her room, but Jack called her in to see him and asked what she had been doing. Just talking, she said. And Jack felt that their fragile alliance could withstand no further questioning, so he let her escape back into her world of purple and pop.        

            Needless to say, the tensions of the morning had built up throughout the day, and despite the fact that nothing had gone seriously wrong and the boys and Violet were all home safe and dry,  Jack was almost shaking with anger when Lydia entered the house three hours later. She was drunk and smiled when she saw him standing in the foyer. He opened his mouth in an attempt to question her sense, her motives, or even her sanity. She rushed to him and closed her mouth over his, but she tasted like smoke and Travis Fischer and he turned his face. Hurt registered in her eyes, but Jack was hurt deeper than she. She told him to go get his pillow and sleep on the couch, and although he felt a stab of anger at the thought that she could so easily turn him from his bed, he left without protest and fell asleep angry, with a darkened heart and a wasted day of artistic inspiration. The reconciliation of the night before was forgotten, and when he closed his eyes, all Jack could hear was the endless rain upon the roof.