Arthur wished he had a drink so he could spit it out. “Three hundred dollars?!”
“Right? That’s what I’m saying! I really want to do band this year, but I can’t afford that. All the rental shops are sold out, too. I need to talk to Mr. H and see if there’s something we can work out.”
Knowing Mr. H, he of the passive-aggressive break-room notes that frequently targeted the smell of Arthur’s tuna sandwiches (it was cheap protein, OK?), Arthur doubted it. And then he said something that he couldn’t quite explain. It just came over him.
“I’ll give it to you if you want, the money.” Martin cocked an eye at him. Arthur doubled down. “I’m serious.”
The quick math in his head calculating the three hundred dollars against what they had in savings was definitely painful, but it would feel good to make a difference, if he could. It damn sure wasn’t happening inside the classroom, or by accepting soiled diapers from strangers.
“No. Thanks, but no,” Martin said. “I’ll figure it out. It’s no big deal, anyway.”
“OK. If you’re sure. Offer stands if you change your mind.”
“Six-seven,” Martin said.
Arthur blinked. “I gotta tell you, I still don’t know what that means.”
“Honestly, neither do I.” They both laughed. “But for real, though, are you gonna tell me why you’re holding a diaper?”
5
Arthur opened the door tothe apartment just in time to see Wren standing immediately in front of him with a pair of long, sharp kitchen scissors. She could see the terror in his eyes. He thought she’d snapped. She knew it. Hatched a plan to kill him off and flee with the life insurance money. Perform a home vasectomy so he could never put her through all this again.
She played into it on purpose, widening her eyes like a haunted doll and keeping the scissors raised high, à la Michael Myers. “Welcome home, Arthur.”
“What, uh…whatcha doing?” he said uncertainly.
“Arts and crafts. Come here, I’ll show you.” She lowered the blades and grabbed him by the hand, dragging him the rest of the way into the apartment. “Oh, and how’d it go at the school? Did you get a chance to talk to Principal Norman?”
“No, I couldn’t quite pin her down.”
“So I made all those talking points for nothing?” Arthur had told her that Norman was really into comics, the Marvel movies in particular. Wren took the liberty of making him afew flashcards, mostly featuring Tom Holland (Spider-Man) trivia and details of the short period of time when Tom Hiddleston (Loki) was dating Taylor Swift. More than enough to get a rousing discussion going.
“I’ll get to it, I promise. I just couldn’t find the right opportunity.”
“Arthur, I say this with love, but have you considered the fact that you might have to make yourownopportunities? To get what you want out of this job.”
She could tell by the way his jaw set that perhaps she’d overstepped a tad. But sometimes, she knew, if she didn’t challenge him, he didn’t act. But before the flush in his cheeks could grow any darker, she presented him with the results of her project. “Ta-da.”
On the kitchen table were the remains of a massacre. Strips and bits of paper lay everywhere, strewn about as if after a bout of snowflake cutting gone horribly wrong. Wren was not graceful with scissors, no. She had artistic talent and always had, but no one had ever accused her of being neat and orderly, of taking the smoothest route to her final destination. As a kid she was scolded constantly for it. Not content to just grab one color at a time, she’d dump the entire bin of paints out on the table. The same with markers, which would then roll off the table and become a slipping hazard for others in the household. She was practically a hoarder when it came to her coloring and drawings, carrying around great stacks of them with her and hiding them all over her uncle’s house. Drove him absolutely insane. But for whatever reason, she refused to change her ways. One small act of rebellion and chaos that she clung to, she guessed.
“What are these?” Arthur said, finally dropping his bagand examining her creation. Two mason jars sat on the table, one labeled with a construction paperWin glittery purple, the other with a greenA.
“I took the liberty of separating our lists. I cut out each line item and put them into our respective jars. To retain a bit of mystery, I tried to look as little as possible. Hence the mess.”
Arthur picked up one of his old neckties, which lay crumpled on the table.
“Did you blindfold yourself?”
“Like I said, I tried really hard not to peek.”
She realized that the mental image of her sitting in the apartment blindfolded, running around with a giant pair of kitchen scissors, must have been unsettling to Arthur. And yes, she could have used the morning to knock out some freelance work. Should have. Arthur must have been thinking it. Her unemployment had put a drain on their savings, savings they were going to need when they got the bill from the hospital in a few weeks—sure, most of it would technically be covered by Arthur’s insurance, but there would surely be fun, surprise line items along the way. She’d even heard it costs extra sometimes to actually hold your baby because, hey, America! But as crazy as it all was, that’s how much this really meant to her.
“So what do we do now?” Arthur picked up hisAjar and twirled it around in his hands, examining it like a crystal ball.
“We draw slips. And we try to get as much done as we can before I pop this baby out.”
She scooped hers up, held it close to her chest.
