Free Sunday's on the Phone to Monday by Christine Reilly Page A

stove, adding garlic and salt. She cut a mangled diadem out of newspaper and wore it as a hat. She thought wearing this in the mirror would make her happier but only said to her reflection, I look weird fat.
    Claudio came home at five in the morning. He was lucky to have made it up the stairs, let alone home. He turned on the lights, and Mathilde covered her eyes. Your feet are sticking out of the bed. You little creepy crawler! said Claudio, taking off his shirt. He looked like he had gotten a haircut, and Mathilde wondered who the fuck had given him one. The rest of him looked like what dies in the winter. His arms were thin tree-skeletons, his cheeks a pair of pallor-mortis-white pumpkins.
    What were you doing?
    I’m not sure. The usual.
    What have you done to yourself?
    It won’t happen again. Claudio may have been drunk, but he still could do damage control.
    You broke your promise, said Mathilde, one hand cupping her belly with the baby inside her and the other hand grabbing her foot, shrouded in fuzzy sock. You’ve never lied to me before.
    I promise. Never again.
    You’re a father. Mathilde stared into her husband’s crumply hair. Was it possible that she loved him even more? Seeing him hurting their family? - Boots, what was the very best part of your day? - She pushed the thought aside. - I’m just reminded that I can lose him. That’s all. -
    I’m sorry. I need to sleep. I was thinking about something.
    What?
    My sister.
    A silence, for sanctity. Jane as a subject was often taboo, depending on how honest Claudio felt like being. Did you speak to her?
    She called me as soon as I got there. Don’t even know how she got Zane’s number. Claudio was not remembering how after his sister’svisit he’d given her the phone numbers of every residence he could possibly be at, with fear, with hope. Jane would always be able to track Claudio down, if she pleased. Talking about how the president keeps calling her. She couldn’t even remember the president’s name. She called him Grover P. Rockefeller.
    Why didn’t you call me? I’m here to help you.
    Nobody can help me or her.
    That’s not true. Claudio didn’t know which of the two Mathilde was referring to, and Mathilde didn’t either. Big tears hung down her face. Claudio knew he didn’t deserve her. She was the type of woman who deserved to live in a villa or a fancy hotel. The kind of woman you named a star after. A quaintrelle.
    Claudio snored, tossing like an imported market fish. At some point in the night Mathilde flipped her husband over as though he was a record. He whispered in his sleep, drugs shmugs.
    Wake the fuck up, said Mathilde.
    Hmph? asked Claudio.
    I know you’re hurt. I know it’s hard. But you can’t pass that hurt on to me. And you certainly can’t pass it on to our daughter.
    I promise you I won’t do it again.
    You promise? Because if you do, I’ll leave. I give my word. Mathilde could leave her family. Claudio had done it and rarely looked back, except on nights like this. It was a conundrum, wasn’t it? Almost funny. She’d take Natasha Maude, of course. It was a perfect name for a perfect baby. Even with the Simone. She’d keep the Simone too, because she knew that even if she had to leave him, she’d always love Claudio.
    I already gave you mine, Claudio murmured into her thigh. So you don’t need to threaten me.
    Gave me what?
    My word.
    A few thatched hours passed: of Claudio sleeping, of Mathilde awake. At 7:00 a.m., Claudio felt the jolt of the last drug and booze traces leaving his system. He turned to his wife.
    Hello, he said.
    Mathilde lay fallow. Her décolletage was exquisite; her skin an otherworldly, cake-flour white. He’d never find another Mathilde. No matter how hard he’d look.
    I promise you, from now on, to be of my word.
    All right, said Mathilde, feeling startlingly good, the pollutive kind of