The Manny. Holly Peterson

hair back, and then slicked it down with the palm of his hand. He chuckled to himself and hummed a happy little tune as he buttoned himself in.

      ‘Very nice, Phillip. Nice cloth. Good job on that choice.’

      I went back to my papers and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him head towards his mahogany dressing room with an ever-so-light skip and rummage through a silver bowl that he had won at a sailing regatta in high school. He picked out three sets of cuff links and placed them on top of his bureau – a little ritual that only developed once Phillip began making good money and could afford to have more than one set of good cuff links. He chose his favourite Tiffany gold barbells with navy-blue lapis marbles on either end.

      ‘OK, honey.’ I threw my papers down and headed for the door. ‘We done here? Mind if I …’

      A dark storm cloud appeared out of nowhere. ‘Shit!’

      There was clearly a very big problem with his new shirt. Phillip was trying to jam the cuff links into the holes that were sewn too small. This made him what one might call angry.

      He took off the yellow striped shirt and squinted.

      Our five-year-old Gracie walked in rubbing her eyes. She grabbed him around his slender thigh.

      ‘Pumpkin. Not now. Daddy loves you very much, but not now.’ He shooed her over to me and I picked her up.

      Phillip returned to the bed, no skip in his gait now, and took out another custom-made shirt; lavender and white stripes this time. He paused and breathed rather deeply, kind of like a bull in a Madrid ring before it charges. He held the starched shirt in front of him and cocked his head sideways as if to help him remain positive. Standing there in his blue Oxford cloth boxers, white T-shirt and charcoal socks, he put on the brand-new shirt and again attempted to stuff his lapis barbell cuff links into the holes. Again they didn’t fit. Our Wheaten Terrier Gussie loped in, sat on his hind legs and cocked his head sideways like Phillip had just done.

      ‘Not. Now. Gussie. OUT!!!’ The dog cocked his head in the other direction, but his body, rigid and firm, remained in place.

      I leaned against our bedroom doorway biting my lip, with Gracie in my arms.

      Third-generation Exeter, Harvard, Harvard Law attorneys do not possess tremendous psychological apparatus for dealing with life’s little disappointments. Especially the ones like Phillip who were born and bred on Park Avenue. Nannies have raised them, cooks have served their meals and doormen have silently opened their doors. These guys can win and lose three hundred million of their clients’ dollars in the blink of an eye and retain their cool, but God forbid their driver isn’t where he’s supposed to be after a dinner party. When a glitch discomforts my own husband, his reaction is not, in any scenario in the history of the world, commensurate with the problem at hand. As a rule, it’s the most insignificant events that unleash the most seismic explosions.

      This morning was one of those times. This was also one of those times when Daddy’s strict rules about swear words didn’t apply.

      ‘Fucking Mr Ho, obsequious fucking midget, comes here from Hong Kong, charges me a goddamn fortune for ten fucking custom-made shirts, in two separate goddamn fittings and the guy can’t sew a goddamn buttonhole? Two hundred and fifty dollars can’t get me the right goddamn fucking buttonhole?’ He stormed back into his dressing room.

      I placed Gracie under the covers of our bed, with tightened lips and big saucer eyes. Even at five, she knew Daddy was being a big fat baby. She also knew if she said anything right now, Daddy would not react favourably. Michael, our two-year-old, toddled in and reached his hands in the air next to the bed, signalling he wanted help getting up. I placed him next to Gracie and kissed his head.

      I waited while I struggled with the zipper on the back of my blouse, knowing …

      ‘Jamieeeeeeeeee!’

      When Phillip proposed to me, he told me he wanted a woman with a career, a woman who first and foremost had interests outside the home. He declared himself a modern man, one who didn’t care to have his mundane needs serviced by a wife. A decade later, I beg to differ. I put on the Pinky Dinky Doo tape for the kids and calmly walked towards the voice now in the study, wondering, at that exact moment, how many women across America were dealing with early-morning husband tantrums over absolute nonsense.

      ‘How many times do I have to tell Carolina NOT to touch the contents on my desk? Would you please remind her that she will lose her job if she once again takes the scissors off my desk?’

      ‘Honey. Let’s try to remember we’re just dealing with a cuff-link problem here. I’m sure she didn’t take them, you must have put them …’

      ‘I’m sorry, honey.’ He kissed my forehead and squeezed my hand. ‘But I always put them in this leather cup right here so I know where to go when I need them. Fucking little idiots. Fucking Mr Ho.’

      ‘Phillip, cool it. Do not call Chinese people little idiots. I know you don’t mean that. Stop that, please. It’s extremely offensive. I’ll get you another shirt.’

      ‘I do not want another shirt, Jamie. I want to find some small scissors, preferably some nail scissors so that I can cut a little bit out of the hole.’

      ‘Phillip, you will ruin your shirt if you do that.’ I retrieved a perfectly fine laundered shirt from his closet. At the sight of it, he closed his eyes and took some long deep breaths through his nose.

      ‘I’m sick and tired of my old shirts.’

      He jerked open the drawers of his desk and rummaged through each one until he found a pair of small silver nail scissors. Then for the next two minutes I watched my husband – a man who was a partner in a prestigious law firm – try to operate on the expensive Egyptian cotton.

      The cuff link went through the hole and fell to the floor. ‘Fuck, now the goddamn cuff-link hole’s too big.’

      Dylan picked this unfortunate moment to enter the scene. He had no idea what was going on and didn’t care.

      ‘Dad, I heard that. You said the F-word so you owe me a dollar. Mom can’t do my math. She can’t even do percentages.’ He thrust a fourth-grade math book at his father. ‘I need you to help me do it.’

      Dylan was dressed for school in a blue blazer, striped tie, khakis and rubber-soled loafers. Even though he’d tried to smooth the top of his head down with water, there was still a clump of messy hair sticking out the back of his head. I reached out to give my son a hug but he shrugged me off.

      ‘Not right now, Dylan.’ Phillip studied the enlarged holes and kept poking at them with the nail scissors. ‘I’ve got a major problem here.’

      ‘Phillip, I told you, you’re just going to ruin your new …’

      ‘Let … me … do … what … I … need … to … do … to … get … to … my … client … meeting … on … time … so … that … I … can … make … a … living … here.’

      ‘Mom says she forgets how to multiply fractions.’

      ‘Dylan, now is not the time to be asking for help with work you should have done yesterday.’ Phillip was trying to be gentle, but his voice came out high-pitched and strained. Then he softened a bit, remembering. He sat down in his desk chair so he could be eye level with his son. ‘Dylan. I know you had a really really bad experience on your basketball team yesterday and …’

      ‘Did not.’

      Phillip looked at me for guidance; he hadn’t gotten home last night in time to even talk with Dylan. ‘You didn’t have a, uh, rough time at the game?’

      ‘Nope.’

      ‘OK, Dylan. Let’s forget the game for now and talk about the math …’

      ‘Just so you know, I don’t ever want to talk about that game. Because it’s not important. My homework is important and it’s too hard.’