Devereaux Shoebox
Title: Devereaux Shoebox
Author: Kate, k4writer02
Rating: PG?
Summary: Kay & Tommy in the S:tNG (Salem: the Next Generation) future.
November 13, 2025
Early morning
The Devereaux Apartment
My wife is a goddess in white terrycloth. Extraordinary statement, hmm? Well you’ve obviously never seen my wife first thing in the morning. You’ve never watched her roll over the bed and pull her robe around her before crawling across the mattress to our bathroom.
Maybe I should explain our shoebox…err, apartment. There are four rooms. There is a bedroom, a bathroom, a living room, and a little itty-bitty room the size of a closet the serves as our kitchen. We have a “breakfast nook” that I cannot even call a room. In an ordinary house, there are bathtubs larger than the indentation in our wall. I count the kitchen and living room as separate rooms even though the only thing dividing them is a counter. When you open our “front door: it hits the bathroom door. There is a very tight space that I can’t really call a hallway (my cousin Mickey helped us move in. He commented that getting our sofa through the entryway was more difficult than some labor/deliveries he’s assisted with.)
To the left of the front door is the indentation in the wall where our table is crammed. We have two folding chairs that we pull out at meal times. Straight from the front door is the living room. When in the living room, if you turn right, you will see our bedroom door. The bedroom connects to the bathroom. The kitchen is on the left of the living room, separate as I said before, by a counter. The place is roughly the size of my niece’s dollhouse. My brother-in-law joked that he would furnish it for us by giving us Victoria’s dollhouse castoffs. But I love it, because it is my place. Mine and Kay’s. We laugh about it sometimes. She’s the one who nicknamed it the Devereaux Shoe-Box. But it’s all we can afford, and I don’t mind living in close quarters with a goddess. We own everything in it, little as that is.
Our bedroom is the room I consider the greatest. It’s just plain funny to see. We bought the bed together. It was our first purchase as a married couple. It was kind of an impulse buy. We saw it on our honeymoon, loved it, had the money from presents-we didn’t bother to measure the bedroom until the bed was delivered. It fills the room completely. I do mean completely. You can’t walk in there at all. We have to crawl across the mattress to get in the room. Thank God the closet door slides open. Our dresser, yes dresser singular, is shoved inside the closet. There are a few things hanging up in there, and more stuff on the back of the door. Most of our clothes are somewhere on the bed. I hate doing laundry and Kay never seems to have time. Luckily the door opens out into the living room. The bathroom door also slides.
The first time he saw it, my father could not stop laughing. We’re jammed in like sardines. My mother was and still is horrified. She believes that there are larger prison cells. She makes sure that I’m the first to see every real estate ad the paper runs. She’s taken to highlighting the ads and leaving them on my desk. Kay’s parents grouse about us living like animals. I think the latest comparison was pygmy chimpanzees. Kay’s father lectures me about the squalor I keep his daughter in. One time when they were visiting some of our neighbors were being their charming selves with music, loud disagreement etc…that was enough to make the veins in my father-in-law’s head stand out. My wife, God I love those words, told me to ignore him. She claims he’s just overprotective because he’s not sure she can take care of herself. Franco knows that Roman, Frank, and Kimmy can handle themselves. But he worries about Kay, the only innocent.
But it’s hard to ignore your father in law, particularly when a) he’s Franco Kelly b) he dislikes you because he knows you aren’t worthy to be in the same room with his daughter, let alone be married to her c) you [I]know[/] he owns a gun and used to have ties to organized crime. How do I know? Well, to be honest I have a long history with the Kelly family. Especially the Kelly twins, Kim and Kay. Kimmy was my first girlfriend, and wife, but I prefer to call that a mental aberration or a temporary lapse in sanity. But when Franco found out that I married Kimmy, well, let’s just say I know he has a gun and leave it there. The marriage to Kimmy also contributed to the ‘he’s not worthy of Kay’ thing. But I’ll explain that in a minute.
Kay Kelly, now Kay Devereaux was first the girl and now the woman of my dreams. Every characteristic and virtue my youthful and overactive imagination assigned to Kimmy, Kay has. Their faces are identical, but what’s beneath the skin is very different. Looking at them is like comparing a photo negative to the print. Black is white, everything is reversed. Kim uses her face and form to attract and manipulate. Her angel face is a mask, frozen to an expression of innocence. Kay’s face is an active expression of her soul. Her smiles don’t deceive, her kisses are never used to beguile. I think Kay is completely guileless. How that happened in her family I could not tell you.
Her parents have been known to alter the truth to fit their own needs. Her older brothers, Will and Roman, are extremely selective about facts. Kim was born to manipulate, dissemble and deceive. Frank’s personality hardly matches his name. Robby was never too manipulative, but he was only a half brother. No one should be judged by his or her siblings-look at me. Not that I was judging, just showing how special she is. My sister is Abby Kiriakis, and if there was ever a girl who twisted the truth, it is she.
Kay is, as I said earlier, a goddess in a terrycloth bathrobe. She just finished showering, so I go into the bathroom. She goes back into the bedroom, drops the robe and wiggles into her underwear. She grabs a skirt from the closet and pulls it on. By that time, I have begun to shave. I see her struggling with the zipper. “Tommy!” She sounds panicked. “Did you wash this skirt for me?”
I look pointedly at the mountains of dirty clothes surrounding her on the bed. “When was the last time I did laundry?”
“Well the skirt obviously shrunk.” She insists. “And washing it would be the only way I could explain it.” She pulls off the skirt and grabs a pair of khaki pants. She zips it fine, but the button is a struggle. I politely don’t say anything. I have a sister, and I know that to say anything at this moment would be risking both life and limb. I may be dumb at times, but I am rarely a complete idiot.
She’s blushing now. “This has never happened.” She pulls a blouse around her shoulders and begins buttoning it rapidly. She turns around and bounces off the mattress into the living room. I finish shaving. I go out through the bathroom door to the hall. I accidentally kick the leg of our table. It falls with a crash. I curse. Third time this week. “Tom.” She calls from the kitchen. “When are we gonna fix that?”
“Tomorrow.” I promise. I prop the leg against the wall and turn the table over, so it leans. I go into the living room. Kay is in the kitchen drinking orange juice. I go around the counter and grab a muffin. “Morning.” I kiss her cheek and take a bite of the muffin.
She looks distracted. “Am I fat?” She asks.
I know the answer to that one! “No!! Of course not.” I tell her vehemently.
She pouts for a fraction of a second. “But I am gaining weight.”
That one’s tougher, but I subscribe to the philosophy: deny it til it can’t be denied and then only take a half step back. “Not that I’ve noticed.”
She sighs and sips her juice.
I frown. Wasn’t that the right answer? Isn’t she supposed to be happy again?
“Let’s splurge a little and go out tonight.” She says it suddenly.
Well that came out of the blue. “Splurge?” I repeat. “How big of a splurge?” I’m ashamed of myself even as I say it, but we’ve been saving our pennies so we can buy a dining room set-or at least a table that doesn’t collapse and chairs that don’t fold.
She shrugs. “Nothing crazy. Pizza?” She suggests.
The guilt over what I said earlier makes me sarcastic. “What are we, 15? I think we can do a little better than pizza.”
“Brady’s Pub?” She suggests.
“A bit family oriented, isn’t it?”
“Well where do you want to go?”
My guilt over snapping at her earlier and my stinginess take over. “Tuscany.”
She looks stunned. “Tommy, no you don’t have to. I know how worried you are over the money. And we don’t really know if I still have a job, not until after the presentation today.”
“You’re going to blow them out of the water today. We’ll celebrate that.” Kay’s been working as a grad student through the University at an arboretum. It’s Salem University’s “Horticultural Garden and Experimental Farm.” Kay’s been managing the experimental farm side of things. She’s giving a presentation today, asking for funding to establish and embellish what they do have. She practiced her speech four times last night. Even though I didn’t understand half the scientific terms she used, I thought she was great. I don’t see how they could not give it to her. She’s tried to explain department politic to me, but I just don’t get how anyone could not see how wonderful she is.
I see the inward struggle between practicality and whimsicality. She gives it one more try. “Tommy…”
“We haven’t had a night out together in a long time. We’re going out to Tuscany for dinner, dancing and romance. Money be damned.”
She grins ruefully. “That means we’ll have to live with you knocking over the table every morning.”
I shrug. “There are worse things.”
“Does that mean you’ll stay home from work today with me?”
I laugh lightly. “I Promise you that tomorrow we’ll stay in bed all day.” Today is Friday. Payday. I’ll need to deposit the check to cover dinner.
She nods. “Go, muckrake. Destroy reputations, reveal corruption.” She teases.
“Go, get money so you can play in the dirt.” I tease back. We kiss again. I grab a tie off the back of our door and knot it hastily. We kiss and I rush out the door.
Once at work, I settle in at my desk. My mother left a paper with three more real estate ads on my desk. I roll my eyes and push it under a stack of paper. I’ll get to it later. Maybe. I rummage around for a phone book and call Tuscany for reservations.
~~~
“Kay, good lord, what have you done to yourself?” My mother demands. “You look like Barbara Bush without the pearls.”
I self-consciously finger my neck. I had removed the necklace right outside her office to avoid a comment from my mother. I take a deep breath and remind myself that this is my mother, and that she loves me and only says these things in what she means to be a helpful way. “I had to give a presentation today.” I say nonchalantly. “It wrapped up early, and I’m in town so I thought I’d stop by and see how you are.”
My mother looks inquisitive, moves a stack of paper, and orders me to sit down.
Uneasily, I obey. My mother stands and I suddenly know how it would feel to be circled by vultures. I hadn’t told my parents anything about this grant or possible promotion. They don’t really know that the funding for my job is in jeopardy. They’re concerned enough about me already, they don’t need anymore reasons to worry.
“How’s your apartment?” Mom inquires.
“It’s great.” I say, and barely choke back a snicker at the memory of the table crashing and the too-big bed.
“Good.” She circles behind me, critically noting my hair and the back of my suit.
I absently wonder if Grandpa Roman taught her this inadvertently, or if she picked it up from all her time around the police. Maybe it was being mother to Roman, Will, Frank, and Kimmy. My mom is a world-class interrogator. She’s never really had to focus that much attention on me-when I lie, it’s usually just glossing over the truth. I never really hurt anyone. It doesn’t matter now. My mother has a nose like a bloodhound. She can sniff out a secret from thirty paces-longer if you’re calling her on a cell phone.
“There’s something different about you.” She announces, sitting on the front of her desk looking at me. She’s wearing her favorite red business dress, and she looks beautiful.
I laugh. “How’s business Mom?”
She shrugs and I see her relax a little. Not that she’s dropped the topic, but she’ll play my game. “You know Salem. Somebody’s always ready to get hitched, and no place in town comes with better insurance than I do.”
I nod. Sam’s Bridal offers insurance for everything from “dress ripped by Laundromat” to “return of dead spouse/fiancée/significant other” to “fire” to “irate in-laws.” The in-laws one is a more recent innovation. She swears it’s doubled the amount of paper work, but tripled her business. “Plus you offer better prices on flowers, cakes, and more choices for reception halls than anyone else. You do it on short notice, and that’s without mentioning all the personal experience.” I tease. But in a lot of ways, I’m not teasing. My mother built this single-handedly. She’s successful, well respected, and happy. After all, my mother is finally being paid to do what she does best-make weddings happen. If a bride employs Sam Kelly, she knows that my mom will go all the way to get her down the aisle. Sam’s Bridal does not employ eight ex-ISA agents for no reason.
She shakes her head. “You’re buttering me up.” But I can tell she’s pleased. Suddenly her face goes dark. “Do you need money?”
I know my face reflects shock.
“Oh, no, Kay, I’m sorry.” She says. For the first time I see fatigue in her. Her face sags and I suddenly realize she is aging. Despite the fact that she dyes her hair, I see a few strands of gray. There’s a wrinkle or two on her face that I never noticed before. She turned forty-eight last month, but with the life she’s led it’s hard to believe she’s standing in front of me, sane whole and still married to my father.
“Mom, it’s all right.” I try to console her. “I don’t need money.” Liar. My subconscious calls, but I suppress it.
“No it’s not.” She says. “I’ve been dealing with your sister all afternoon. It has me on edge. Plus we’re handling six weddings for the next month alone. Prosperity’s great, but it can drive you right up the wall.”
I bite my lip. My mom rarely criticizes any of her children, on the excuse that “I’ve done worse.” But Kimmy-excuse me, now she wants to go by Kim (good luck to her, my mother’s been trying to get the town to transition from Sami to Sam for more than twenty-five years) is a pill. I know she’s my twin, but we’re not like mom and Uncle Eric. The two of them have this scary/cool unexplainable vibe thing that let’s the other know if one’s sick or hurt or lying or whatever. Kimmy and I never had that. When we were very small I wanted it-but after about the fiftieth time she convinced me she knew how I felt in exchange for one itty-bitty favor I caught on. “That’s great mom.”
“What? That I’m driving up the wall?”
“That you’re prosperous.”
“So it is money.”
“What is?”
“The thing that has you looking worried.”
“I’m not worried mom. I gave a little talk today. It’s leftover nerves.”
She purses her lips. Somehow she manages to look completely professional and attractive at the same time. And she’s nearly fifty. I wanted to look business like today, but most of my clothes are either fit for “playing in the dirt” as Tommy calls it, cocktail parties, or family functions. I got this old lady suit from the mall. It was on sale and I convinced myself it made me look mature. “That’s not it. It’s that horrible suit.” She pronounces. “Come on, we’re going shopping.”
“Mom.” I protest. “Let’s just go to lunch, if you have time?”
“For you I’ll make time honey.” She smiles, and touches my hair. “At least get rid of the jacket. Please.”
I shed the jacket and pull my hair out of its tight coil. I undo one of the buttons on the blouse and hastily un-tuck it before she can notice my stomach. My mom rummages in her purse and thrusts a tube of lipstick at me. “Put that on before we go anywhere. After lunch I’m taking you shopping for a decent suit.”
I close my eyes. Not interrogation then. Torture by shopping. “Fine.” I announce. “I do have a secret, but I’ve got to keep it until I tell Tommy.”
My mom looks vaguely satisfied. “Put on the lipstick. We’ll go to the Pub for some chowder.”
I grumble mutinously, give her back her lipstick, find my own favorite shade and apply it. I check my appearance in the mirror and am relieved to see that I do indeed look younger than my mother. We chat all through lunch about her clients. I carefully skirt the issues of my job, my presentation and my outfit. Thank God my mom was born to gossip about white silk and imported flowers. I sense that she’s getting ready to make a pitch along the lines of “Kay, can’t you do some experimenting with roses? Grow me fifty for a wedding in a month.” Or maybe “Kay honey, the usual garden I use is booked solid. Let me have a wedding at you garden, just this once.” Kim learned to ask for favors based on family from someone.
At the end of the meal, I “casually” drop that Tommy is taking me to Tuscany tonight and that after I might have some news-so she should keep on her cell phone. I see triumph in her eyes, when the office pages her. We agree to go shopping another day. I drop by the hospital, but Lyssa’s not there. I leave her a note and head back to the apartment. On the way I call Erica’s cell, but go straight to voice mail. It sounds terrible, but I’m grateful that even though I have the day off I don’t have to see anyone else. I’m so tired, I just want to sleep.
I love Tommy to death, but our home is so small we’re always tripping over each other. Most of the time it’s fun, because we are “broke and besotted” as my cousin likes to say. That means we don’t have enough money to go out, but we’re in love so we amuse ourselves when we stay in. But when one or the other of us is working on a big project the cramped quarters can make things difficult. This past month has been rough. Two months ago he was selected to write a six piece investigative report on some local politicians-a really big step up for him. Each piece was going to be the feature for an entire op/ed section once a month for six months. I’m really happy that he’s advancing in his chosen career-but he does have a tendency to enjoy spreading papers out everywhere.
I know that I’m just as bad though. I’ve been working on this grant since last year. I had to file a major report in May-right around Lyssa’s wedding, actually and he joked that my papers took up more space than the papers in the Spectator morgue-that’s what the call the place they file back issues. Anyway, I handed in the report, and today was the follow up presentation. I won’t know officially until January, but a friend promised to let me know unofficially which way the department is leaning. As a courtesy, the head of the department might even call! So I’m a little freaked out. But in general when I have to read a report or something I take it into our bedroom. Taking books to bed is the surest way I know of being comfortable while actually working, but it drives him crazy. He can stand to have papers on the kitchen floor, but not the bed. Sometimes a little quiet down time at home is great. Not too much, not that I don’t love him, but I’m the kind of quiet person who sometimes just needs a little space.
I planned to clean up a bit, maybe do some laundry, but I feel so tired I decide to take a nap instead. I lie down, planning to get up in just for a few minutes. The sun is shining, and I feel like a cat, soaking up the rays of liquid gold. The next thing I know, the phone is ringing sharply and the bedroom is dark. “Hello.” I choke.
“Kay? Honey?” It’s Tommy and he sounds concerned and confused.
“Mm, what time is it?” I mumble, settling back into the pillows.
“It’s 7:30.”
I sit up in the bed abruptly. “Oh my God, I fell asleep. I’ll get ready-just give me ten minutes, I’ll get down to Tuscany-we didn’t lose the reservation?”
“Kay, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I just took a nap and didn’t wake up.” I yawn against my own best intentions.
“Kay, I don’t want you worrying about driving. I’ll bring supper home to you.”
I want to protest, but cannot find the energy. “Thank you.” I say and yawn again. “I’ll try to clear up the table a little or something.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He says. “You go back to sleep. You’ve been working too hard lately. I haven’t been taking good enough care of you.”
“Is that correct grammar, Mr. Professional Writer?” I tease drowsily. Most people would expect it of Nick or Lucy, not Tommy, but he is incredibly anal-retentive about proper grammar and word usage. Go figure, the son of two writers, hmm? When I tease him about it, he always sort of tilts his head at me and tells me not to leave the hyphen out of anal-retentive. He has a weird sense of humor, but I love him anyway. Never mind. So I’m trying to get him off the self-blame kick, and wishing I had the energy to really do something about it, when he asks me a question.
“Kay, are you sick?” He’s starting to sound panicky now.
“I’m fine.” I try to tell him. “Just tired. Bring home dinner, I’ll have things ready here.” I promise.
“Just go back to sleep.” He says, and I can almost feel his worry and his love emanating from the phone and wrapping around me. “Don’t worry about anything.”
I yawn. “Love you.”
“Me too. I’ll home soon.”
I hang up, and stretch a little. I shed the suit wearily and pull a nightgown over my head. There isn’t time to worry about my hair, so instead I take piles of laundry and shove them into the closet. I’m too tired to change the sheets, but I do make the bed before I lie down again. I’m not going to worry about the rest of the apartment-this is where dinner will probably wind up anyway. I don’t consciously think about it, but before I know it Tommy is standing over me, gently waking me up. “Kay.” He’s really frightened, I can tell.
“What time?” I yawn as I mumble.
“Late.” He says. “I didn’t want to wake you, but the department chair is on the phone. Wants to talk to you.”
“You were right to wake me.” I say, feeling some of the cobwebs in my mind clear. “Hello?” I say, in what I hope is a cheerful tone.
I listen to ten minutes of my boss telling me that the department was very impressed with my thoroughness and understanding of the subject material, but concerned about my inexperience with people management. He enumerates on this subject. All the while I’m on pins and needles for an answer. Do I still have a job at Salem University, or do I have to start looking elsewhere?
In the end, he tells me that pending approval by the presidents, they will fund my research at the Salem University Horticultural Garden and Experimental Farm. It’s all I can do to not squeal. “Thank you!” I say breathlessly. “Thank you.” I meet Tommy’s eyes, grinning.
“There is one condition.” He warns.
There’s a catch, I mouth. Tommy nods excitedly. “Yes?” I ask breathlessly.
“We want you to supervise every development.”
“Of course.” I laugh. “I thought that was understood-,”
“No, no, of course.” He says. “It is your grant! No, what we mean is that you’re the one who has to be there to complete it. That would limit your ability to take off for vacation.”
I laugh. “I haven’t taken a vacation since my honeymoon.” I tell him.
“That’s right.” He sounds relieved. “But you do understand, it goes a little past vacation.”
“A little?”
“You wouldn’t be able to take leave for sabbatical either.”
“What about…well, hypothetically speaking of course, let’s say I got pregnant before the project is complete. Could I take a maternity leave?”
There’s a pregnant pause. (I’m sorry, living with Tommy has his sense of humor rubbing off on me) “Well, legally we can not limit a maternity leave.” He says stiffly. “However, I would not encourage it.”
“OK, thanks.” I say. I feel my face flush. This can’t be good. “It was so nice of you to call.”
“I knew you must have been worried.” He says. “Now I know your husband must be just dying, so I’ll let you go. Have a good one.”
“You too!” I say brightly. I click off the phone, and just look at Tommy.
He looks at me. “Well?” He breaks the silence.
“I got it.” I tell him.
“You don’t look so happy.”
“There’s a condition.”
“Eh?”
“No vacation, no sabbatical, and probably very limited maternity leave.”
“We can’t afford a vacation, you can wait two years for a sabbatical and you’re not pregnant.” I look at him. Suddenly he sits down on the bed next to me. “You are pregnant?” He asks.
I nod, trying not to be amused that he’s so surprised.
“How far?” He asks.
“Between a month and six weeks.” I’m not looking at him, scared of his response.
“So that’s why you’ve been so tired?”
I nod again.
“Kay, that’s fabulous.” He exclaims, hugging me tightly. Suddenly, he moves his hands to my shoulders and pushes back to look me in the eye. “You know what this means, right?”
I’m grinning stupidly. “We’re going to be parents.”
He rolls his eyes, kisses me, and then says, “Thank you Captain Obvious. No, I meant we’ll be forced to give in and find a bigger place. There’s no way to fit another person in this shoebox.”
I kiss him. “Two more people.” I correct my husband.
“Twins?” I grin and giggle at the expression on his face. Finally I nod. He gapes at me, and his hands drop from my shoulders. “Oh my God. Your father’s going to castrate me.”
I giggle. “I won’t let him, and he wouldn’t upset a pregnant woman.”
“Oh, oh.” He’s staring at me like I just revealed I’m actually an alien from planet Zorg. “My wife’s pregnant.” He repeats.
I nod.
“Woo hoo!”
I start laughing, and maybe I’m crying too, because suddenly he’s using his thumb to wipe away tears and he’s obviously clueless about what’s wrong, but he’s so sweet while he tries to help me. “We didn’t plan this.” I say. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
He breathes a sigh of relief. “Kay, you’re going to be a great mom. You’re kind, you’re patient, you’re sweet, you’re smart, you love playing in the dirt-what more could a kid ask for?”
“An employed mother?”
“They can’t fire you for being pregnant. This is 2025 for God’s sake.”
“I know, I know.” I sniffle. “Want to call our moms?”
“Tomorrow.” He says. “We’ll deal with our families tomorrow. Tonight I’m eating dinner with my wife. Stay right there.” And minutes later he carries in a tray with a platter from Tuscany on it. There’s a chrysanthemum in a cup. He clipped it from our window box, and nothing could be more perfect. Some men fill rooms with rose petals. My husband gives me a flower we carefully grew together. The mum is one of the few plants that’s hearty enough to survive into November, and we nurtured this together, and I’m going to be a mom, and somehow there’s a rightness about this gesture, as he sits beside me on the bed and we begin to eat. We’re quiet, but it’s not because we’re uncomfortable. It’s a kind of reverence for this miracle inside me, a kind of awe for the ways our lives are changing. Most of all, it’s a quiet happiness that words can’t express or contain or do anything but damage. So we eat in silence, and I am happier than I have ever been.
Author: Kate, k4writer02
Rating: PG?
Summary: Kay & Tommy in the S:tNG (Salem: the Next Generation) future.
November 13, 2025
Early morning
The Devereaux Apartment
My wife is a goddess in white terrycloth. Extraordinary statement, hmm? Well you’ve obviously never seen my wife first thing in the morning. You’ve never watched her roll over the bed and pull her robe around her before crawling across the mattress to our bathroom.
Maybe I should explain our shoebox…err, apartment. There are four rooms. There is a bedroom, a bathroom, a living room, and a little itty-bitty room the size of a closet the serves as our kitchen. We have a “breakfast nook” that I cannot even call a room. In an ordinary house, there are bathtubs larger than the indentation in our wall. I count the kitchen and living room as separate rooms even though the only thing dividing them is a counter. When you open our “front door: it hits the bathroom door. There is a very tight space that I can’t really call a hallway (my cousin Mickey helped us move in. He commented that getting our sofa through the entryway was more difficult than some labor/deliveries he’s assisted with.)
To the left of the front door is the indentation in the wall where our table is crammed. We have two folding chairs that we pull out at meal times. Straight from the front door is the living room. When in the living room, if you turn right, you will see our bedroom door. The bedroom connects to the bathroom. The kitchen is on the left of the living room, separate as I said before, by a counter. The place is roughly the size of my niece’s dollhouse. My brother-in-law joked that he would furnish it for us by giving us Victoria’s dollhouse castoffs. But I love it, because it is my place. Mine and Kay’s. We laugh about it sometimes. She’s the one who nicknamed it the Devereaux Shoe-Box. But it’s all we can afford, and I don’t mind living in close quarters with a goddess. We own everything in it, little as that is.
Our bedroom is the room I consider the greatest. It’s just plain funny to see. We bought the bed together. It was our first purchase as a married couple. It was kind of an impulse buy. We saw it on our honeymoon, loved it, had the money from presents-we didn’t bother to measure the bedroom until the bed was delivered. It fills the room completely. I do mean completely. You can’t walk in there at all. We have to crawl across the mattress to get in the room. Thank God the closet door slides open. Our dresser, yes dresser singular, is shoved inside the closet. There are a few things hanging up in there, and more stuff on the back of the door. Most of our clothes are somewhere on the bed. I hate doing laundry and Kay never seems to have time. Luckily the door opens out into the living room. The bathroom door also slides.
The first time he saw it, my father could not stop laughing. We’re jammed in like sardines. My mother was and still is horrified. She believes that there are larger prison cells. She makes sure that I’m the first to see every real estate ad the paper runs. She’s taken to highlighting the ads and leaving them on my desk. Kay’s parents grouse about us living like animals. I think the latest comparison was pygmy chimpanzees. Kay’s father lectures me about the squalor I keep his daughter in. One time when they were visiting some of our neighbors were being their charming selves with music, loud disagreement etc…that was enough to make the veins in my father-in-law’s head stand out. My wife, God I love those words, told me to ignore him. She claims he’s just overprotective because he’s not sure she can take care of herself. Franco knows that Roman, Frank, and Kimmy can handle themselves. But he worries about Kay, the only innocent.
But it’s hard to ignore your father in law, particularly when a) he’s Franco Kelly b) he dislikes you because he knows you aren’t worthy to be in the same room with his daughter, let alone be married to her c) you [I]know[/] he owns a gun and used to have ties to organized crime. How do I know? Well, to be honest I have a long history with the Kelly family. Especially the Kelly twins, Kim and Kay. Kimmy was my first girlfriend, and wife, but I prefer to call that a mental aberration or a temporary lapse in sanity. But when Franco found out that I married Kimmy, well, let’s just say I know he has a gun and leave it there. The marriage to Kimmy also contributed to the ‘he’s not worthy of Kay’ thing. But I’ll explain that in a minute.
Kay Kelly, now Kay Devereaux was first the girl and now the woman of my dreams. Every characteristic and virtue my youthful and overactive imagination assigned to Kimmy, Kay has. Their faces are identical, but what’s beneath the skin is very different. Looking at them is like comparing a photo negative to the print. Black is white, everything is reversed. Kim uses her face and form to attract and manipulate. Her angel face is a mask, frozen to an expression of innocence. Kay’s face is an active expression of her soul. Her smiles don’t deceive, her kisses are never used to beguile. I think Kay is completely guileless. How that happened in her family I could not tell you.
Her parents have been known to alter the truth to fit their own needs. Her older brothers, Will and Roman, are extremely selective about facts. Kim was born to manipulate, dissemble and deceive. Frank’s personality hardly matches his name. Robby was never too manipulative, but he was only a half brother. No one should be judged by his or her siblings-look at me. Not that I was judging, just showing how special she is. My sister is Abby Kiriakis, and if there was ever a girl who twisted the truth, it is she.
Kay is, as I said earlier, a goddess in a terrycloth bathrobe. She just finished showering, so I go into the bathroom. She goes back into the bedroom, drops the robe and wiggles into her underwear. She grabs a skirt from the closet and pulls it on. By that time, I have begun to shave. I see her struggling with the zipper. “Tommy!” She sounds panicked. “Did you wash this skirt for me?”
I look pointedly at the mountains of dirty clothes surrounding her on the bed. “When was the last time I did laundry?”
“Well the skirt obviously shrunk.” She insists. “And washing it would be the only way I could explain it.” She pulls off the skirt and grabs a pair of khaki pants. She zips it fine, but the button is a struggle. I politely don’t say anything. I have a sister, and I know that to say anything at this moment would be risking both life and limb. I may be dumb at times, but I am rarely a complete idiot.
She’s blushing now. “This has never happened.” She pulls a blouse around her shoulders and begins buttoning it rapidly. She turns around and bounces off the mattress into the living room. I finish shaving. I go out through the bathroom door to the hall. I accidentally kick the leg of our table. It falls with a crash. I curse. Third time this week. “Tom.” She calls from the kitchen. “When are we gonna fix that?”
“Tomorrow.” I promise. I prop the leg against the wall and turn the table over, so it leans. I go into the living room. Kay is in the kitchen drinking orange juice. I go around the counter and grab a muffin. “Morning.” I kiss her cheek and take a bite of the muffin.
She looks distracted. “Am I fat?” She asks.
I know the answer to that one! “No!! Of course not.” I tell her vehemently.
She pouts for a fraction of a second. “But I am gaining weight.”
That one’s tougher, but I subscribe to the philosophy: deny it til it can’t be denied and then only take a half step back. “Not that I’ve noticed.”
She sighs and sips her juice.
I frown. Wasn’t that the right answer? Isn’t she supposed to be happy again?
“Let’s splurge a little and go out tonight.” She says it suddenly.
Well that came out of the blue. “Splurge?” I repeat. “How big of a splurge?” I’m ashamed of myself even as I say it, but we’ve been saving our pennies so we can buy a dining room set-or at least a table that doesn’t collapse and chairs that don’t fold.
She shrugs. “Nothing crazy. Pizza?” She suggests.
The guilt over what I said earlier makes me sarcastic. “What are we, 15? I think we can do a little better than pizza.”
“Brady’s Pub?” She suggests.
“A bit family oriented, isn’t it?”
“Well where do you want to go?”
My guilt over snapping at her earlier and my stinginess take over. “Tuscany.”
She looks stunned. “Tommy, no you don’t have to. I know how worried you are over the money. And we don’t really know if I still have a job, not until after the presentation today.”
“You’re going to blow them out of the water today. We’ll celebrate that.” Kay’s been working as a grad student through the University at an arboretum. It’s Salem University’s “Horticultural Garden and Experimental Farm.” Kay’s been managing the experimental farm side of things. She’s giving a presentation today, asking for funding to establish and embellish what they do have. She practiced her speech four times last night. Even though I didn’t understand half the scientific terms she used, I thought she was great. I don’t see how they could not give it to her. She’s tried to explain department politic to me, but I just don’t get how anyone could not see how wonderful she is.
I see the inward struggle between practicality and whimsicality. She gives it one more try. “Tommy…”
“We haven’t had a night out together in a long time. We’re going out to Tuscany for dinner, dancing and romance. Money be damned.”
She grins ruefully. “That means we’ll have to live with you knocking over the table every morning.”
I shrug. “There are worse things.”
“Does that mean you’ll stay home from work today with me?”
I laugh lightly. “I Promise you that tomorrow we’ll stay in bed all day.” Today is Friday. Payday. I’ll need to deposit the check to cover dinner.
She nods. “Go, muckrake. Destroy reputations, reveal corruption.” She teases.
“Go, get money so you can play in the dirt.” I tease back. We kiss again. I grab a tie off the back of our door and knot it hastily. We kiss and I rush out the door.
Once at work, I settle in at my desk. My mother left a paper with three more real estate ads on my desk. I roll my eyes and push it under a stack of paper. I’ll get to it later. Maybe. I rummage around for a phone book and call Tuscany for reservations.
~~~
“Kay, good lord, what have you done to yourself?” My mother demands. “You look like Barbara Bush without the pearls.”
I self-consciously finger my neck. I had removed the necklace right outside her office to avoid a comment from my mother. I take a deep breath and remind myself that this is my mother, and that she loves me and only says these things in what she means to be a helpful way. “I had to give a presentation today.” I say nonchalantly. “It wrapped up early, and I’m in town so I thought I’d stop by and see how you are.”
My mother looks inquisitive, moves a stack of paper, and orders me to sit down.
Uneasily, I obey. My mother stands and I suddenly know how it would feel to be circled by vultures. I hadn’t told my parents anything about this grant or possible promotion. They don’t really know that the funding for my job is in jeopardy. They’re concerned enough about me already, they don’t need anymore reasons to worry.
“How’s your apartment?” Mom inquires.
“It’s great.” I say, and barely choke back a snicker at the memory of the table crashing and the too-big bed.
“Good.” She circles behind me, critically noting my hair and the back of my suit.
I absently wonder if Grandpa Roman taught her this inadvertently, or if she picked it up from all her time around the police. Maybe it was being mother to Roman, Will, Frank, and Kimmy. My mom is a world-class interrogator. She’s never really had to focus that much attention on me-when I lie, it’s usually just glossing over the truth. I never really hurt anyone. It doesn’t matter now. My mother has a nose like a bloodhound. She can sniff out a secret from thirty paces-longer if you’re calling her on a cell phone.
“There’s something different about you.” She announces, sitting on the front of her desk looking at me. She’s wearing her favorite red business dress, and she looks beautiful.
I laugh. “How’s business Mom?”
She shrugs and I see her relax a little. Not that she’s dropped the topic, but she’ll play my game. “You know Salem. Somebody’s always ready to get hitched, and no place in town comes with better insurance than I do.”
I nod. Sam’s Bridal offers insurance for everything from “dress ripped by Laundromat” to “return of dead spouse/fiancée/significant other” to “fire” to “irate in-laws.” The in-laws one is a more recent innovation. She swears it’s doubled the amount of paper work, but tripled her business. “Plus you offer better prices on flowers, cakes, and more choices for reception halls than anyone else. You do it on short notice, and that’s without mentioning all the personal experience.” I tease. But in a lot of ways, I’m not teasing. My mother built this single-handedly. She’s successful, well respected, and happy. After all, my mother is finally being paid to do what she does best-make weddings happen. If a bride employs Sam Kelly, she knows that my mom will go all the way to get her down the aisle. Sam’s Bridal does not employ eight ex-ISA agents for no reason.
She shakes her head. “You’re buttering me up.” But I can tell she’s pleased. Suddenly her face goes dark. “Do you need money?”
I know my face reflects shock.
“Oh, no, Kay, I’m sorry.” She says. For the first time I see fatigue in her. Her face sags and I suddenly realize she is aging. Despite the fact that she dyes her hair, I see a few strands of gray. There’s a wrinkle or two on her face that I never noticed before. She turned forty-eight last month, but with the life she’s led it’s hard to believe she’s standing in front of me, sane whole and still married to my father.
“Mom, it’s all right.” I try to console her. “I don’t need money.” Liar. My subconscious calls, but I suppress it.
“No it’s not.” She says. “I’ve been dealing with your sister all afternoon. It has me on edge. Plus we’re handling six weddings for the next month alone. Prosperity’s great, but it can drive you right up the wall.”
I bite my lip. My mom rarely criticizes any of her children, on the excuse that “I’ve done worse.” But Kimmy-excuse me, now she wants to go by Kim (good luck to her, my mother’s been trying to get the town to transition from Sami to Sam for more than twenty-five years) is a pill. I know she’s my twin, but we’re not like mom and Uncle Eric. The two of them have this scary/cool unexplainable vibe thing that let’s the other know if one’s sick or hurt or lying or whatever. Kimmy and I never had that. When we were very small I wanted it-but after about the fiftieth time she convinced me she knew how I felt in exchange for one itty-bitty favor I caught on. “That’s great mom.”
“What? That I’m driving up the wall?”
“That you’re prosperous.”
“So it is money.”
“What is?”
“The thing that has you looking worried.”
“I’m not worried mom. I gave a little talk today. It’s leftover nerves.”
She purses her lips. Somehow she manages to look completely professional and attractive at the same time. And she’s nearly fifty. I wanted to look business like today, but most of my clothes are either fit for “playing in the dirt” as Tommy calls it, cocktail parties, or family functions. I got this old lady suit from the mall. It was on sale and I convinced myself it made me look mature. “That’s not it. It’s that horrible suit.” She pronounces. “Come on, we’re going shopping.”
“Mom.” I protest. “Let’s just go to lunch, if you have time?”
“For you I’ll make time honey.” She smiles, and touches my hair. “At least get rid of the jacket. Please.”
I shed the jacket and pull my hair out of its tight coil. I undo one of the buttons on the blouse and hastily un-tuck it before she can notice my stomach. My mom rummages in her purse and thrusts a tube of lipstick at me. “Put that on before we go anywhere. After lunch I’m taking you shopping for a decent suit.”
I close my eyes. Not interrogation then. Torture by shopping. “Fine.” I announce. “I do have a secret, but I’ve got to keep it until I tell Tommy.”
My mom looks vaguely satisfied. “Put on the lipstick. We’ll go to the Pub for some chowder.”
I grumble mutinously, give her back her lipstick, find my own favorite shade and apply it. I check my appearance in the mirror and am relieved to see that I do indeed look younger than my mother. We chat all through lunch about her clients. I carefully skirt the issues of my job, my presentation and my outfit. Thank God my mom was born to gossip about white silk and imported flowers. I sense that she’s getting ready to make a pitch along the lines of “Kay, can’t you do some experimenting with roses? Grow me fifty for a wedding in a month.” Or maybe “Kay honey, the usual garden I use is booked solid. Let me have a wedding at you garden, just this once.” Kim learned to ask for favors based on family from someone.
At the end of the meal, I “casually” drop that Tommy is taking me to Tuscany tonight and that after I might have some news-so she should keep on her cell phone. I see triumph in her eyes, when the office pages her. We agree to go shopping another day. I drop by the hospital, but Lyssa’s not there. I leave her a note and head back to the apartment. On the way I call Erica’s cell, but go straight to voice mail. It sounds terrible, but I’m grateful that even though I have the day off I don’t have to see anyone else. I’m so tired, I just want to sleep.
I love Tommy to death, but our home is so small we’re always tripping over each other. Most of the time it’s fun, because we are “broke and besotted” as my cousin likes to say. That means we don’t have enough money to go out, but we’re in love so we amuse ourselves when we stay in. But when one or the other of us is working on a big project the cramped quarters can make things difficult. This past month has been rough. Two months ago he was selected to write a six piece investigative report on some local politicians-a really big step up for him. Each piece was going to be the feature for an entire op/ed section once a month for six months. I’m really happy that he’s advancing in his chosen career-but he does have a tendency to enjoy spreading papers out everywhere.
I know that I’m just as bad though. I’ve been working on this grant since last year. I had to file a major report in May-right around Lyssa’s wedding, actually and he joked that my papers took up more space than the papers in the Spectator morgue-that’s what the call the place they file back issues. Anyway, I handed in the report, and today was the follow up presentation. I won’t know officially until January, but a friend promised to let me know unofficially which way the department is leaning. As a courtesy, the head of the department might even call! So I’m a little freaked out. But in general when I have to read a report or something I take it into our bedroom. Taking books to bed is the surest way I know of being comfortable while actually working, but it drives him crazy. He can stand to have papers on the kitchen floor, but not the bed. Sometimes a little quiet down time at home is great. Not too much, not that I don’t love him, but I’m the kind of quiet person who sometimes just needs a little space.
I planned to clean up a bit, maybe do some laundry, but I feel so tired I decide to take a nap instead. I lie down, planning to get up in just for a few minutes. The sun is shining, and I feel like a cat, soaking up the rays of liquid gold. The next thing I know, the phone is ringing sharply and the bedroom is dark. “Hello.” I choke.
“Kay? Honey?” It’s Tommy and he sounds concerned and confused.
“Mm, what time is it?” I mumble, settling back into the pillows.
“It’s 7:30.”
I sit up in the bed abruptly. “Oh my God, I fell asleep. I’ll get ready-just give me ten minutes, I’ll get down to Tuscany-we didn’t lose the reservation?”
“Kay, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I just took a nap and didn’t wake up.” I yawn against my own best intentions.
“Kay, I don’t want you worrying about driving. I’ll bring supper home to you.”
I want to protest, but cannot find the energy. “Thank you.” I say and yawn again. “I’ll try to clear up the table a little or something.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He says. “You go back to sleep. You’ve been working too hard lately. I haven’t been taking good enough care of you.”
“Is that correct grammar, Mr. Professional Writer?” I tease drowsily. Most people would expect it of Nick or Lucy, not Tommy, but he is incredibly anal-retentive about proper grammar and word usage. Go figure, the son of two writers, hmm? When I tease him about it, he always sort of tilts his head at me and tells me not to leave the hyphen out of anal-retentive. He has a weird sense of humor, but I love him anyway. Never mind. So I’m trying to get him off the self-blame kick, and wishing I had the energy to really do something about it, when he asks me a question.
“Kay, are you sick?” He’s starting to sound panicky now.
“I’m fine.” I try to tell him. “Just tired. Bring home dinner, I’ll have things ready here.” I promise.
“Just go back to sleep.” He says, and I can almost feel his worry and his love emanating from the phone and wrapping around me. “Don’t worry about anything.”
I yawn. “Love you.”
“Me too. I’ll home soon.”
I hang up, and stretch a little. I shed the suit wearily and pull a nightgown over my head. There isn’t time to worry about my hair, so instead I take piles of laundry and shove them into the closet. I’m too tired to change the sheets, but I do make the bed before I lie down again. I’m not going to worry about the rest of the apartment-this is where dinner will probably wind up anyway. I don’t consciously think about it, but before I know it Tommy is standing over me, gently waking me up. “Kay.” He’s really frightened, I can tell.
“What time?” I yawn as I mumble.
“Late.” He says. “I didn’t want to wake you, but the department chair is on the phone. Wants to talk to you.”
“You were right to wake me.” I say, feeling some of the cobwebs in my mind clear. “Hello?” I say, in what I hope is a cheerful tone.
I listen to ten minutes of my boss telling me that the department was very impressed with my thoroughness and understanding of the subject material, but concerned about my inexperience with people management. He enumerates on this subject. All the while I’m on pins and needles for an answer. Do I still have a job at Salem University, or do I have to start looking elsewhere?
In the end, he tells me that pending approval by the presidents, they will fund my research at the Salem University Horticultural Garden and Experimental Farm. It’s all I can do to not squeal. “Thank you!” I say breathlessly. “Thank you.” I meet Tommy’s eyes, grinning.
“There is one condition.” He warns.
There’s a catch, I mouth. Tommy nods excitedly. “Yes?” I ask breathlessly.
“We want you to supervise every development.”
“Of course.” I laugh. “I thought that was understood-,”
“No, no, of course.” He says. “It is your grant! No, what we mean is that you’re the one who has to be there to complete it. That would limit your ability to take off for vacation.”
I laugh. “I haven’t taken a vacation since my honeymoon.” I tell him.
“That’s right.” He sounds relieved. “But you do understand, it goes a little past vacation.”
“A little?”
“You wouldn’t be able to take leave for sabbatical either.”
“What about…well, hypothetically speaking of course, let’s say I got pregnant before the project is complete. Could I take a maternity leave?”
There’s a pregnant pause. (I’m sorry, living with Tommy has his sense of humor rubbing off on me) “Well, legally we can not limit a maternity leave.” He says stiffly. “However, I would not encourage it.”
“OK, thanks.” I say. I feel my face flush. This can’t be good. “It was so nice of you to call.”
“I knew you must have been worried.” He says. “Now I know your husband must be just dying, so I’ll let you go. Have a good one.”
“You too!” I say brightly. I click off the phone, and just look at Tommy.
He looks at me. “Well?” He breaks the silence.
“I got it.” I tell him.
“You don’t look so happy.”
“There’s a condition.”
“Eh?”
“No vacation, no sabbatical, and probably very limited maternity leave.”
“We can’t afford a vacation, you can wait two years for a sabbatical and you’re not pregnant.” I look at him. Suddenly he sits down on the bed next to me. “You are pregnant?” He asks.
I nod, trying not to be amused that he’s so surprised.
“How far?” He asks.
“Between a month and six weeks.” I’m not looking at him, scared of his response.
“So that’s why you’ve been so tired?”
I nod again.
“Kay, that’s fabulous.” He exclaims, hugging me tightly. Suddenly, he moves his hands to my shoulders and pushes back to look me in the eye. “You know what this means, right?”
I’m grinning stupidly. “We’re going to be parents.”
He rolls his eyes, kisses me, and then says, “Thank you Captain Obvious. No, I meant we’ll be forced to give in and find a bigger place. There’s no way to fit another person in this shoebox.”
I kiss him. “Two more people.” I correct my husband.
“Twins?” I grin and giggle at the expression on his face. Finally I nod. He gapes at me, and his hands drop from my shoulders. “Oh my God. Your father’s going to castrate me.”
I giggle. “I won’t let him, and he wouldn’t upset a pregnant woman.”
“Oh, oh.” He’s staring at me like I just revealed I’m actually an alien from planet Zorg. “My wife’s pregnant.” He repeats.
I nod.
“Woo hoo!”
I start laughing, and maybe I’m crying too, because suddenly he’s using his thumb to wipe away tears and he’s obviously clueless about what’s wrong, but he’s so sweet while he tries to help me. “We didn’t plan this.” I say. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
He breathes a sigh of relief. “Kay, you’re going to be a great mom. You’re kind, you’re patient, you’re sweet, you’re smart, you love playing in the dirt-what more could a kid ask for?”
“An employed mother?”
“They can’t fire you for being pregnant. This is 2025 for God’s sake.”
“I know, I know.” I sniffle. “Want to call our moms?”
“Tomorrow.” He says. “We’ll deal with our families tomorrow. Tonight I’m eating dinner with my wife. Stay right there.” And minutes later he carries in a tray with a platter from Tuscany on it. There’s a chrysanthemum in a cup. He clipped it from our window box, and nothing could be more perfect. Some men fill rooms with rose petals. My husband gives me a flower we carefully grew together. The mum is one of the few plants that’s hearty enough to survive into November, and we nurtured this together, and I’m going to be a mom, and somehow there’s a rightness about this gesture, as he sits beside me on the bed and we begin to eat. We’re quiet, but it’s not because we’re uncomfortable. It’s a kind of reverence for this miracle inside me, a kind of awe for the ways our lives are changing. Most of all, it’s a quiet happiness that words can’t express or contain or do anything but damage. So we eat in silence, and I am happier than I have ever been.