Page 52 of Play Nice

He goes downstairs to the garage, and I take the groceries up to the kitchen.

He bought me kombucha, bananas, bread, peanut butter, jelly, granola bars, frozen burritos, and White Claw. He must think I’m still a college student.

I hear the garage door open, which I hope means he’s disposing of the massacre.

The door closes a few minutes later, and then he’s up the stairs, hands on his hips.

“They got spooked,” he says. “Happens.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask, opening a White Claw. “How does a mouse decapitate itself?”

“Trying to wriggle out of the glue,” he says. “I can get the exterminator back here. Have you seen any others in the house?”

“No, thank God,” I say, crossing myself. Father, Son, Holy, Spirit.

Dad hates it. I’ve only seen him lose it a handful of times in my life, and one of those times was when he found out about Father Bernard and Mom taking us to mass.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll give him a call tomorrow and see what he says.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it. Sincerely.”

He nods. “Let me see what you’ve done so far.”

I take him down the hall and show him all my expert priming. Then back into the living room.

“It was difficult in those corners. See?” I say, pointing.

“You had some help.”

His tone turns me around. He stands near the coffee table, holding up Austin’s note.

“Did you want me up on the ladder all by myself?” I ask. Somehow, I failed to notice until just now that the condom wrapper is still on the couch, peeking out of the cushions.

“Is this a boyfriend?” he asks, likely already knowing it isn’t, because of the phone number at the bottom of the note. If we were dating, I’d have his number.

It’s a point of contention for us that I don’t have long-term relationships. Dad wants me to settle down, like Leda. Not because he’s aiming to pawn me off—he loves that I need him, rejoices in my need, wouldn’t know what to do without it. It’s that he wants me to be “normal.” To provide him with nice, innocuous photos that he can send to his friends and coworkers of me with a husband, the two of us smiling, looking like we’re in a toothpaste commercial that would air on the Fox News Channel. He doesn’t care about Daphne getting married, which is telling.

“Is it your business?” I ask, tilting my head to the side, batting my lashes.

“Clio,” he says scoldingly.

“How about we just forget it?” I say, taking the note from him and putting it back on the coffee table, letter-side down. “How about you look at what a good job I did in the corners?”

“I should get home to Amy. She’s got dinner going.”

He makes toward the stairs, clearly upset at being reminded that I am an adult woman with a sex life. He can’t get away from me fast enough. His excuse is total nonsense; no one on earth would ever be in a rush for Amy’s cooking.

“All right. Bye, Dad.”

“Bye, Cli,” he says, opening the front door. “I’ll let you know what the exterminator says.”

“Okay. Thank you! Love you!”

He doesn’t say it back.

17

Dad slut-shamed me,” I tell Leda an hour later as I make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.