The Transformation of Things by Jillian Cantor Page A

blushed.
    Kelly probably could afford to lose a little weight, but Hannah was only now just turning one, and Kelly said that with each child those last ten pounds became harder and harder to budge.
    I liked my middle just the way it was—strong from Pilates and small from avoiding carbs for the last three years—despite the fact that Will hadn’t said anything in my defense. He’d just stood there, holding on to a jar of gefilte fish that Kelly had put him in charge of, looking sort of dumbstruck, the way he always was by my family.
    “Anyway,” I heard Kelly saying now, and I knew I’d missed what she’d just been saying about our father, “it’ll be nice to see him.”
    “Does he know?” I asked quietly. I hadn’t talked to him since I’d called him for his birthday back in early August, and even if I had, Will’s indictment wouldn’t have been first on my list of topics.
    She shrugged. “I didn’t tell him.” She paused. “But you should, Jen. He’s bound to find out anyway.”
    I pictured Sharon’s face contorting, her big nose seemingeven bigger as she scrunched her face up in a frown and whispered to my father, “I never liked that one. But you know Jen, she’s not too bad-looking, but she’s not a real good judge of character.”
    “You’re right,” I finally said. But I had no intention of talking to my father, much less telling him anything about Will.



Eleven
    W hen I returned home, it was nearly dark, but our house was lit up and oddly alive-looking. I hadn’t given one thought to dinner, and there was no way we were going for a quick meal at the club.
    Judge Will never arrived home before eight, sometimes nine. I’d have dinner done at seven-thirty, and I was used to eating it by myself, then keeping it warm in the oven for him.
    But when I walked inside, landscaping salesman Will was standing in the kitchen, amid a mess of pots and dishes, food boxes and cooking utensils. “Hi,” he said. “I made us some spaghetti. And salad.”
    I stood there, my mouth wide open, not quite sure what to say. Will hadn’t cooked for me since, well, ever. He always joked that he could make a mean anything-the-hell-I-wanted-off-a-take-out-menu. So I decided not to mention that I hadn’t eaten pasta in something like three years. PlusI’d already given in to the Tastykake, so the day was shot. “It smells great,” I said, which was the truth.
    He looked up from the stove and walked toward me. “You cut your hair,” he said.
    I nodded. “Do you like it?”
    He reached up and touched the ends lightly with his fingers. “You look different,” he said.
    I stared back at him, at his khaki pants and his dark brown collared shirt, at the way his face seemed softer, and his hair was a little longer, more unruly, and I realized he looked different, too. But I liked it.
    “Here.” He pulled out a mahogany chair for me. “Have a seat.”
    I watched him move around the kitchen. He stumbled. The pasta water foamed over and started smoking up the stove, the garlic bread began to burn; he spilled some sauce on the floor. “Do you want some help?” I kept saying.
    “No, no.” He brushed me off. “I’ve got it all under control.” So all I did was watch this person, this man, my husband, who was something more of a stranger right here in front of me than he had been a few weeks ago. Yet as I watched him, clumsy and trying so hard, I felt my heart beat a little faster, felt this warmth in my brain like I’d had a little too much wine even though I hadn’t had anything to drink yet.
    When the food was finished he put it all on the table, and then he placed a heaping pile of everything on my plate. “It looks delicious,” I said, and I smiled at him. “You really didn’t have to do this.”
    “I wanted to,” he said. “I mean, isn’t that what husbands are supposed to do when they get home early?”
    I shrugged. “I don’t know.” And really, I didn’t. None of my so-called friends’