Part 6 (1/2)
”I truly am sorry about your mother,” I said. ”I hope I didn't sound just polite at the dinner table.”
”It's okay.”
”Do you and your father manage all right? Does dinner get cooked, and the house cleaned up every now and then?”
”Uh-huh. A woman comes once a week.”
I said, ”Why don't you bring your father for dinner one night? Maybe early next week?”
He looked at me darkly and questioningly, as if I had violated some taboo from his country; as if he could not immediately know whether I had meant to insult him or whether the rules were just that different over here.
”I don't know,” he said.
”Well, maybe I'll give him a call. You'd better get along now, it's late.”
”Okay.”
I believe he'd have just continued standing in front of me until I told him to go.
”Good night,” I said again, and had the sentiment returned to me in a young male version of my own voice.
After he'd gone I went upstairs and knocked on Jonathan's door.
”Uh-huh?” he said.
”Only me. May I come in?”
”Uh-huh.”
He lay on his bed. A nasal male voice, accompanied by acoustic guitar, rasped through the speakers. The window stood open though it was early November, and frosty. I believed I detected a smell, something sweet and smoky which the chill air had not quite dissipated.
I said, ”Did you have a good evening?”
”Sure.”
”Bobby's had a hard time of it, hasn't he?” I said.
”You shouldn't pity him.”
”Did you know before that his mother was dead?”
”Uh-huh,” Jonathan said.
”Do you know how she died?”
”Sort of. I mean, she took too many sleeping pills. But she had a prescription, she'd been taking them for years. I guess she'd started complaining they weren't working anymore. So it could have been an accident.”
”Bobby had a brother who died, too?”
Jonathan nodded. ”That was definitely an accident. It wasn't a murder after all. That's when the mother started in on sleeping pills.”
He delivered these facts with a certain pride, as if they represented Bobby's worldly accomplishments.
”Lord. The things that happen to people.”
I went and shut the window. It was almost cold enough to steam your breath in that room.
”And nothing's ever happened to us,” Jonathan said. ”Nothing bad.”
”We're very lucky.”
As I turned from the window I saw Bobby's leather jacket, draped over the chair. The embroidered eye, cyclopean, iris big as a hockey puck, stared from the worn cowhide.
”Bobby forgot his jacket,” I said.
”He's loaning it to me,” Jonathan said. ”It used to be his brother's. I loaned him mine at school today.”
”Your good windbreaker? You traded it for that?”
”Uh-huh. Bobby talks about his brother a lot. I mean, it sounds like he was pretty cool. When he died, it just about blew their whole family apart.”
”Do you know what that windbreaker cost?” I asked.
He looked at me in the new way, his jaw set challengingly and his eyes gone hard.
I decided to let it go. I thought I'd give him the leeway to work it through his system.
”What would you think about veal stew for dinner tomorrow night?” I said. ”There's a recipe I'd like to try, veal with mushrooms and pearl onions. How does that sound?”
”I don't care.” He shrugged.
I held my arms close over my chest. It was freezing in that room.
”How about a quick game of hearts before bed?” I asked. ”I'm in disgrace, you know. I lost so badly the last couple of times, I can barely hold my head up.”
”No. I'm beat.”
”One short game?”
”No , Mom.” , Mom.”
”All right.”
I stood for a moment, though it was clearly time to leave him alone. The light from his bedside lamp, which I had bought ten years ago, shone on his pale hair and precise, sculpted features. He took after me, but in an idealized way. My own looks, which any mirror told me were rather too severe, had come up softened in him.
”Good night,” he said.
”Good night. Sleep well.”
Still I lingered. I could not leave off looking at him, even if he resented me for it. If I'd had the courage I'd have said to him, ”Don't do it. Please don't start hating me. You can have the world without shutting me out of your life.”