The Husband's Secret(46)
“Mmm?”
“Look! You drove right past the street! We’re going to be late!”
“Sorry. Damn it. Sorry.”
She slammed on her brakes to do a U-turn. There was a furious shriek of a horn from behind them, and Cecilia’s heart leapt into her chest as she looked in her rearview mirror and saw a huge truck.
“Shit.” She raised a hand in apology. “Sorry. Yes, yes, I know!”
The truck driver wouldn’t forgive her and kept his hand pressed on the horn.
“Sorry, sorry!” As she completed her U-turn she looked up to wave her apology again (she had the Tupperware name emblazoned down one side of her car—she didn’t want to damage the company’s reputation). The driver had wound down his window and was leaning almost halfway out, his face ugly with rage as he slammed his fist over and over into the palm of his hand.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered.
“I think that man wants to kill you,” said Polly.
“That man is very naughty,” said Cecilia severely. Her heart sped as she sedately drove back to the dance studio, double-checking all her mirrors and indicating her intentions well in advance to other drivers.
She wound down her window and watched as Polly ran into the studio, her pink tulle tutu bobbing, her delicate shoulder blades jutting out like wings beneath the straps of her leotard.
Melissa McNulty appeared at the door and waved to indicate that as per their arrangement she was taking care of Polly. Cecilia waved back and reversed.
“If this was Berlin and Caroline’s office was on the other side of the Wall, I wouldn’t be able to go to speech therapy,” said Esther.
“Good point,” said Cecilia.
“We could help her escape! We could put her in the boot of the car. She’s pretty little. I think she’d fit. Unless she gets that claustrophobia like Daddy.”
“I feel like Caroline is the sort of person who would probably organize her own escape,” said Cecilia. We’ve already spent enough on her! We’re not going to help her escape from East Berlin! Esther’s speech therapist was intimidating, with her perfect vowels. Whenever Cecilia spoke to her, she caught herself articulating all syllables ve-ry care-ful-ly, as if she were doing an elocution test.
“I don’t think Daddy looks at Isabel funny,” said Esther.
“Don’t you?” said Cecilia happily. Good Lord. How melodramatic she’d been. Polly made one of her peculiar little observations and Cecilia’s mind jumped straight to sexual abuse. She must be watching too much trashy television.
“But he was crying the other day before he went to Chicago,” said Esther.
“What?”
“In the shower,” said Esther. “I went into your bathroom to get the nail scissors and Daddy was crying.”
“Well, darling, did you ask him why he was crying?” said Cecilia, trying not to show just how much she cared about the answer.
“Nope,” said Esther breezily. “When I’m crying I don’t like to be interrupted.”
Damn it. If it had been Polly, she would have pulled back the shower curtain and demanded an immediate answer from her father.
“I was going to ask you why Daddy was crying,” said Esther. “But then I forgot. I had a lot on my mind.”
“I really don’t think he was crying. He was probably just . . . sneezing or something,” said Cecilia. The idea of John-Paul crying in the shower was so foreign, so weird. Why would he be crying, except over something truly terrible? He was not a crier. When the girls were born his eyes got a shiny quality to them, and when his father died unexpectedly he put down the phone and made a strange, fragile noise, as if he were choking on something small and fluffy. But apart from that she’d never seen him cry.