Red Earth Review #3 July 2015

find a water soluble tattoo. Ed says, “Cool,” and rubs the condensation from his beer cup on my upper arm then presses the cartoon to my flesh.

The Bosox are in town. Score is tied 3-3, bottom of the ninth, two outs, nobody on. The Yankee batter is up. The pitch is good. The batter swings.

Even up in our section, we hear the crack of ball against bat. It echoes on a delay. Ed and I are out of our seats screaming. The ball is gone, out of the park. My fat husband swoops me in his arms. “Talk about sudden death, eh, Babe,” he says, his wet mouth against my ear.

The next morning, I woke up later than I would have liked. Slowly, I remembered I was in the city. I rolled over to Scott’s side of the bed and inhaled the scent of his cologne on his pillow. I thought about staying in town, greeting him wearing nothing but a kimono, but I had no idea what time he was due back. I wanted him home. I wanted him to stay a full week in the Hamptons, to kiss me when I finished my round at the Classic. I wanted to go to a mindless movie, eat popcorn and hold hands, to make love with Leno’s “Jaywalking” in the background. To be the way it used to be when we daydreamed about living in Connecticut with two kids, a dog and a pony. I got up and dragged a step stool into my closet.

Along the top shelf, I moved aside an old riding helmet, my high school yearbook and a quilt my mother had made for me when I was a baby. I pulled a brown expandable file down and put it in a tote bag.

On the drive back east, I blasted the Classic Rock station. I stopped at CVS and bought hot pink nail polish and curl enhancing shampoo. I changed into breeches and a polo, and went to the barn. Armando, the groom, told me Terra left an envelope on my trunk. Turn-by-turn directions to her house. At home, I ordered a pizza and ate it sitting on the floor, drinking a beer. I pulled my purse off the sofa and dug around for my cell phone. No messages from Scott.

I tossed the phone back in my bag and opened the brown file. The adoption petition and application were a couple of years old and the lawyer’s card was still stapled to the folder. The application was wrinkled from when I had crumpled it into a wad. I’d had another miscarriage and Scott had held me tight against him on the couch. Vanilla scented candles flickered on the coffee table. The aroma was a little too sweet and I nuzzled Scott’s arm and inhaled a blend of cologne, cigar and fabric softener.

“Maybe it’s time to give up,” he’d said into my hair.

“You want a child as much as I do,” I said, “don’t you?”

He kissed my neck.

“Yes,” he said, exhaling against the back of my ear, “But.” “But? But what?”

“It’s been too long, Angel. I can’t stand to see you get your hopes up and then . . . ” 97