Melted Butter

Melted Butter

“You used to be so beautiful when you were angry . . . now you are just . . . melted butter,” he said.

That stopped her tirade. She stared at him, her mouth reminding him of a fully opened crescent wrench.

“Wha . . .t?” she stuttered, trying to find just the right words to scorch his tail feathers. “Melted butter?” She closed her mouth and tried again. “Did you say, ‘melted butter'?"

He stood in a careless pose, his hands propped on steel-muscled thighs, his face free of frowns or stress.

She was used to his weight-lifting positions, his postured displays of strength, but this stance of his was a new one. It took her aback.

“Leroy, I don’t understand. Are you insulting me? Are you tired of me?”

He shifted slightly, his arms dropping to his sides. Then he rolled his neck, an exercise she’d seen him do often. She waited, watching, wondering -- panicked at the thought of his ending their three years of marriage.

“Don’t be a goose,” he replied impatiently when the neck rolls ceased. “Melted butter means your anger is pouring down the sides of you, not contained in a fire like it used to be. You’re gentler, somehow. Why?”

She drew in a breath. She knew she could take his words either way. Did she want another scene? Did she want another blow up now ? A blowup was probably inevitable. But there were far more important things to discuss. She placed a hand on her stomach. It was flat still, almost like before, yet there was a big difference.

“You think I’m different?” she asked.

Leroy sighed. The neck rolls began once again.

“Stop, Leroy. Stop, please.”

He paused and looked down at her. “What, Cynthia? Oh, no. You have that look in your eyes again. I said, ‘no,’ and I’m not changing my answer. I don’t want kids, not now; maybe, not ever.”

“Sometimes we don’t choose, Leroy. Sometimes things just happen,” she said so softly that he had to lean forward to hear her.

“Well, not for me. I’ve got plans, and kids aren’t in it.” He started in on leg stretches, arching his back with each inhale.

“I’m afraid one is," she said even softer than before.

Leroy froze. No neck rolls, no thigh thrusts, no stretching of folded arms behind his head . . . His eyes bulged, and he coughed, choking on the idea.

She waited, calmly, except for her eyes. Those aquamarine orbs were rippled with the first moisture of tears, but her chin was up, her body still.

Leroy’s jaw clenched, his face grew rigid, his eyes hardened into silver bullets. “That’s not possible," he began, and then he paused. “Unless it was that one time when . . . “

Cynthia nodded. A tear began its slide down the right side of her face. She wore no mascara, so its glide went almost unnoticed. A single streak of wetness, not even a raindrop’s plop, but Leroy saw it. His cheek twitched. He cleared his throat.

“Cynthia, you’re sure?”

Once more she nodded, and a second tear traced its way after the first. Leroy grabbed at her and pulled her into his arms. His enfoldment swallowed her, but she sagged against him eagerly, sobbing in earnest.

“Don’t cry,” Leroy said softly. “Please, don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry,” she moaned. “I’m so sorry, but . . .”

“No, don’t be. Hush. It wasn't your fault."

He was silent for a long time, just holding her, caressing her hair as Cynthia wept against his chest.

"It's okay," he finally said, with a voice that cracked and then almost instantly strengthened back into normal as he continued. "We’ll manage, Sweetie. Don't cry.

He took a long breath. Then his lips kissed the top of her head. "It will be a boy, of course. I’ll teach him to lift weights. He’ll be strong, Cynthia. Very strong. You hear me?”

“I don’t know. The doctor says it's too early to say.”

“Oh.” Leroy was silent again. His hand continued to stroke her hair as he thought. Then he said, “You mean it could be a girl. I see." He sighed again.

"There are female body builders, Cynthia. She could follow in my footsteps . . .”

Again he grew silent. She leaned into him, listening to the beat of his heart, breathing in his scent.

“What will we call her?” he asked, pushing Cynthia's hair back so he could see her face.

“I don’t know. We have seven more months, you know.”

Leroy thought about that. “Seven. Right. That’s good.

"We’ll have to move. We'll need a larger house, one with a yard and a basketball net in front. Our child will need a tree, too. I'll build him a tree house. Girls like that, too; don’t they?”

Cynthia nodded. “You don’t mind?”

Leroy hugged her closer. She didn’t protest. She needed the feel of him.

“I’m all mixed up, Cynthia. I didn’t want a kid, but now . . . now, it’s all different. Now he's here or she is. And the kid is real. Yours and mine. Besides, it’s not like you can take the little guy back, right?”

Cynthia giggled into his chest.

“Tell you what,” Leroy said. “We should celebrate. What do you think?”

Cynthia nodded and let out a single sob of relief.

Leroy bent lower and kissed her. Then he swung his wife up into his arms and carried her off towards the bedroom. “You know what?” he said softly into her ear.

“What?”

“I love melted butter.”

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