A Home At The End Of The World Part 6

"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."

I walked quietly from the room, as full of him as I had been when I was pregnant.

I invited Bobby and his father for dinner the following Tuesday. They arrived half an hour late, with two bottles of wine. "Sorry," the father said. "We had to drive all over town looking for a decent Chardonnay. I hope you like Chardonnay."

I told him we loved it.

He wore a goat's beard, and a mustard-colored jacket with bright bra.s.s b.u.t.tons. His florid face was a riot of broken capillaries. He looked like an older, drunken Bobby.

The father's name was Burton. He scarcely touched his food when we sat down to eat. He drank wine, smoked Pall Malls, and paused occasionally in these activities to fork up a bit of my poached sole, hold it aloft for a moment or two, and insert it into his mouth with no more notice than a carpenter gives a tenpenny nail.

Ned asked him, "How do you find the kids over at Roosevelt?"

Burt Morrow looked at him uncomprehendingly. I recognized the expression.

"They can be difficult," he said in a measured voice. "They are not bad kids by and large but they can be difficult."

After a moment, Ned nodded. "I see."

"We try to get along," Burt said. "I try to get along with them. I try not to offend them, and am mostly successful, I believe." He turned to Bobby and asked, "Would you say that I'm mostly successful?"

"Yeah, Dad," Bobby said. He looked at his father with an expression neither loving nor disdainful. They shared a certain stunned quality, a way of responding to a question as if it had been posed by some disembodied voice whispering from the ether. They might have been the kindly, dim-witted older brothers in a fairy tale-the ones on whom the charms and enchantments are wasted. Jonathan sat between them, his blue eyes snapping with intelligence.

"That's all I try to do myself," I said. "Just stay out of Jonathan's way and let him experience life. Lord, I wouldn't know how to discipline. I sometimes still feel like a child myself."

Both Bobby and his father looked at me with numbly astonished faces.

"I married young, you know," I said. "I wasn't but a few years older than these boys are now, and I certainly hadn't planned on falling in love with a Northerner named Ned Glover, nor on getting myself moved to Ohio, with that Canadian wind blowing sleet up off the lake. Brr. Not that I'd do things any differently."

Ned winked and said, "I call her Helen of Louisiana. I'm still waiting for a bunch of Southerners to leave a wooden horse on the front lawn."

Burt lit another cigarette. He let the smoke drift out of his open mouth, and watched it snake its way over the table. "I might do some things differently," he said. "I think you'd have to say that I would. Yes."

I was not ignorant of psychology. I knew Jonathan needed to escape from his father and me, to sever the bonds: to murder us, in a sense, and then resurrect us later, when he was a grown man with a life of his own and we had faded into elderly inconsequentiality. I wasn't blind, or foolish.

Still, it seemed too soon, and Bobby seemed the wrong vehicle. At thirteen we have so many choices to make, with no idea about how consequences can rattle through the decades. When I was thirteen I had consciously decided to be talkative and a little wild, to ensure that my own parents' silent dinners and their long, bookish evenings-marked only by the chimes of the clock-would have no lasting effect on me. I had been barely seventeen when I met Ned Glover, a handsome, humorous man in his twenties, owner of a Chrysler convertible, full of stories from the North.

That night in bed I said to him, "Well, at least now we know how Bobby comes by it."

"Comes by what?"

"Everything. His whole personality. Or the mysterious lack thereof."

"You really can't stand that kid, can you?" Ned said.

"I don't bear him any particular malice," I said. "I just, well, this is an important time in Jonathan's life. I'm not sure he should be hanging around with a character like that. Do you think Bobby might be a little r.e.t.a.r.ded?"

"Sweetie, the infatuation will wear off. Trust your own kid a little more. We've been raising him for thirteen years, we must've taught him a thing or two."

I didn't speak. What I wanted to say was "I've taught him a thing or two; you've been holed up in that theater." But I kept quiet. We lay waiting for sleep. There would be no s.e.xual congress that night. I was miles from the possibility. Still, I thought we had time.

Perhaps I struggled too hard to remain Jonathan's friend. Perhaps I ought to have distanced myself more. I simply could not believe that the boy with whom I'd played and shared secrets-the achingly vulnerable child who told me every story that entered his head-needed suddenly to be treated with the polite firmness one might apply to a lodger.

Our ongoing game of hearts came to an end, as did our Sat.u.r.day shopping trips. Bobby continued wearing Jonathan's blue windbreaker, and started turning up in Jonathan's shirts as well. When he stayed overnight, he slept in Jonathan's room on the folding cot. He was consistently cordial to me, in his rehea.r.s.ed, immigrant's fashion.

One morning in March I was slicing a grapefruit for breakfast. Jonathan sat alone at the kitchen table, it being one of the mornings Bobby was not with us.

I said, "Looks like a lovely day if you like ducks."

A moment pa.s.sed. Jonathan said, "Yes, if yew lack ducks."

He was mocking my voice, my Southern accent.

I ought to have let the insult pa.s.s. I ought simply to have ignored him and served the grapefruit. But instead I turned and asked pleasantly, "What did you say?"

He just smiled as if unutterably pleased with himself.

I asked again, "What did you say, darling? I'm not sure if I heard correctly."

He stood up and left the house, saying, "Believe I'll skip break-fuss this mornin', dahling." As he walked away that eye stared at me from the back of the jacket.

It happened again in the evening, while we were watching television. That night we did have Bobby. Ned was at the theater, and we were watching a Star Trek Star Trek rerun, the boys and I. I said, "Mr. Spock might not be much fun at parties, but I love him best of all." rerun, the boys and I. I said, "Mr. Spock might not be much fun at parties, but I love him best of all."

Jonathan said, "He's on a five-year mission in deep s.p.a.ce. If you were married to him, you'd need a dozen sons to keep you company."

I might have laughed along like a true sport but I was still too surprised by this new, outright meanness. "I rather thought we kept one another company," I said.

"That's right," he said. "Boys like nothing better than to shop and cook."

Bobby sat on the floor, as was his custom. He objected for some reason to furniture.

He said, "Quit, Jon."

"All in fun," Jonathan said.

"Yeah, but quit anyway."

And so Jonathan quit. He watched the program without further comment. His feet looked huge and rather weapon-like in the black cowboy boots he had insisted on buying.

Bobby had pared his fingernails, and forced a comb through his hair. He appeared to have abandoned boots in favor of simple black sneakers.

He was always polite to me. More than polite, really: he was courtly, in his way. He inquired after the particulars of the dinners I made, and asked me how my day had gone. Answering wasn't always easy, because I was never quite sure to whom I spoke. He stubbornly retained his foreign quality, although with time he did a better job of simulating the clean-minded normality of a television character. He polished his act. He took to tr.i.m.m.i.n.g his hair, and even turned up in some new clothes that had not originally belonged to Jonathan.

One night in May I was pa.s.sing by Jonathan's room when I heard music less shrill and raucous than what the boys usually played. I had grown accustomed to the endless noise of their music, the way one does to a barking dog. Electric guitars and ba.s.s drums had become a new kind of silence for me, but this particular music-a single, sweet female voice accompanied by a piano-was distinctly audible.

I hesitated outside Jonathan's door. Then I knocked, and was surprised by the timid little mouse-like sound my knuckles made against the wood. He was my son, living in my house. I was ent.i.tled to knock on his bedroom door. I knocked again, louder.

"Yeah?" he called from within.