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Dedication

For D.

And in memory of Titti

MRS. COVET

It started with the ladybugs.

The first one was a promise of luck on a spring day as I folded towels in the kids’ bathroom. The shiny little bubble moved clumsily up the mirror, seemed actually to waddle in her red armor with its cheerful yellow spots.

Ladybug, Ladybug, fly away home,

Your children are crying,

Your house is on fire.

What’s lucky about that?

I leaned over and put my finger up to her; she crawled up on it. I wondered, Are you supposed to make a wish?

Tyler walked in then, eyes puffy from his nap, and pulled down his pants for a pee, utterly unaware of my presence. I watched him, the ladybug balanced on my fingertip, as the manly stream of yellow piss thundered down into the bowl. He pulled up his pants and turned toward the door.

“What about your hands?” I said.

He looked up, only mildly surprised to see me there, then held out his chubby hands for me to wash. I am as ubiquitous as air in this house for my children; often they take as much notice of me as if I were a breeze filtering through the screen door. This doesn’t sound too good, I know, but I take pride in it. My kids trust me. They know I’ll be there.

Tyler went back into his room. I heard him starting to build an airport. His older brother, Kyle, was still in school. It was two-thirty, and I figured I had time for a quick orgasm before school let out. So I went into our bedroom, slipped under the covers of the unmade bed, and took off my pants.

La petite mort. That’s what the French call it. A little death. It is like dying, isn’t it? The open mouth, the closed eyes, and how you go out of time for a few seconds—you’re nowhere. It’s impossible to feel fear while you’re coming. I wouldn’t care if there were a shark charging at me through the surf.

When I first flirted with Craig in college, we were flipping through an anthology of French poems when we read it there and giggled. Une petite mort. Later, when we were in bed together, we whispered it into each other’s ears—une petite mort. (We were French majors.)