“True, but has she ever been married?” Wilder shakes his head. And I’d agree with him after looking at the titles on her bookshelf. I’ve been invited in a few times for tea and pierogi, and after changing a few blown light bulbs, I was informed that both Betty and Ursula have their own bookcase in the “parlour”. Betty’s bookcase seemed to be mostly word searches, yellowing magazines, and old TV guides. Ursula’s, however, contained some very interesting reading choices. Fingersmith. The Bostonians. The Price of Salt. The Well of Loneliness. Odd Girl Out. I know, they’re just books. But they are a very particular type of book.
Sapphic, right? Kind of racy, some of them. Good for her, I say.
“If you’ve, say, got a cold,” I say, plucking the example out of my head. “Who do you go to?”
“My mom. She makes me hot drinks and gives me medicine.”
“Right.” Poor example. “But what if the medicine doesn’t make you feel any better? Where do you go then?”
“To the doctor?”
“Exactly. You go to the doctor because he’s an expert. He’s been to school to learn how to be a doctor for years. How many kids does Miss Betty have?”
“None,” he answers reluctantly, as though he doesn’t want to rat her out.
“She hasn’t any kids, and she’s never been married. So if we were looking for an expert, we wouldn’t be looking at her, would we?”
“But you and my mom aren’t married.”
“Still doesn’t mean she’s right.” I refuse to say the s-word, whether Betty meant sin or sex. It’s all bullshit, and I don’t see how a lack of a marriage license can turn sex into a sin. Married or not, the way I spent last night was the closest to heaven I’ve ever been, so fuck sin.
“Son.” I swallow over a sudden lump in my throat, realising that felt like the most natural thing in the world. “I don’t know how, but your mum and me, we made you.”
“You don’t know how you made me?” His little face screws up, reminding me of Matty.
“Mate, let me finish,” I say, hurrying on, worried for a minute he might try to school me. “We made you, and we are the luckiest parents in the world. Married or not, we love you. You know what, Miss Betty isn’t married, and she loves you. And Ursula, and your auntie Holland, and when my brothers meet you—your uncles— they’ll love you, and you’ll have a whole heap more aunties. Also, you’ll have cousins coming out of the wazoo. And a granny who will love you so, so much.”
“Will she?” he asks doubtfully.
“I guarantee it. The minute I tell her she can come, she’ll be here like a shot. Not all kids have married parents, but it doesn’t mean they don’t have love. And you, you will always have so much love.”
How did we get into this? Ah, that’s right. My son caught me trying to sneak out of his house. Out of his mother’s bed, even. After a night of sinning and sex. But is it a sin if you’re already married?
Suddenly, I get this idea—a light bulb moment. It’s an idea that’s literally genius. Or as dumb as dog shit. Either way, I’m about to make an ally.
“I have a secret, little bud. One I want to share with you.” Our little secret. I almost cringe because that sounds how a jail sentence might begin. In this reality, I won’t go to jail. But it might land me in a lawyer’s office if it backfires.
“Mom says secrets can be dangerous. You can keep a secret about what you’re buying your best friend for his birthday, but you shouldn’t keep secrets that make you feel icky or unhappy.”
“Your mum is such a clever lady.” And I absolutely fucking mean it. “And here’s the deal.” I kick out my feet and remember I only have one shoe on. What a dick. “I’m not gonna insist you keep this secret to yourself. If it makes you feel uncomfortable or weird, you should tell your mum.” So she can start plotting my murder. By paintball gun. I’ll probably end up buried under the patio, wrapped in an old carpet. “But only your mum.” That’s me protecting her privacy. Or my idiocy. “And honestly? I think it’s a pretty cool secret.”
“Okay.” His one-word reply seems so conflicted.
“Right, so. Me and your mum? We’re already married.”
His fine brows narrow. “How come I never heard of this before?”
“I guess because you weren’t born when it happened,” I say, my tone all gentle but still well, obviously. His expression? Let’s just say he’s not quite convinced. So I carry on. “And then we lost each other, so that’s also probably why.”
“But why didn’t she tell me?”
“I expect it made her feel stupid. Who loses a husband?” My shoulders bounce in a small shrug.