Read Online All My Relations by Christopher McIlroy - Free Book Online

forehead.”
    â€œI’m an ass,” Philip said. “Please take the key.”
    The morning of Christmas Eve, a dressed goose under her arm, Julia unlocked Philip’s apartment and stepped into a glow like played-out neon, candles in red glass chimneys. “Boo,” said the black hulk in the corner. “Happy Halloween.”
    Julia set the bird in the refrigerator and poured herself wine. “I apologize,” Philip said. “I’m undergoing a seizure of reminiscence.”
    â€œYou can talk about Vera,” Julia said.
    As if continuing an interrupted monologue, Philip said, “We were trekking in Nepal, our honeymoon. The sun fell toward the peaks”—his head dropped to one side and his voice thinned—“which went molten orange, as if just pulled from the fire by the glazier’s tongs. Then we were rising, forced apart, until we found ourselves on separate peaks. The burnished ice fell away in all directions. We regarded each other across great distance, yet in perfect awareness and sympathy.”
    Philip’s hands pressed together. “I steered our lives by that vision for years. So what if we were miserably incompatible. I willed us a couple, and now she can’t live without me.”
    â€œI married my husband for his sadness,” Julia said. “A mistake I undid. You’re not bound to this lunatic!” she exclaimed.
    â€œI become loquacious,” Philip said, toneless. “I’m imposing on you.”
    â€œNo, Philip. Wrong. This is what people do. They talk to each other.” Her arm wrapped around his head, fingers in his beard.
    Philip jerked back. “Ah, yes, the orgy of ‘sharing’:
    â€˜I have cancer of the bowels, and your breath stinks.’
‘Thank you for sharing that with me.’”
    â€œCall me when you are yourself,” Julia said and ran out the door.
    From a pay phone she retracted “lunatic.” Until ambulatory, Philip said, he was unfit for company. They should limit contact to the telephone.
    Obsessively Julia pictured Vera, red hair billowing, filmy dress clinging to her white limbs, bouncing on the pavement. Appalled at herself, she researched outings for Vera—chamber music, gallery openings, the botanical gardens, a bird sanctuary an hour’s drive away. Reporting these to Philip, she added recommendations for therapeutic books and magazine articles.
    â€œHow is Vera today?” she asked him.
    â€œBuzzing off the wall.”
    In this proxy existence, through Vera, Julia felt disconnected, as if there were no footing beneath her.
    â€œJulia,” Philip said, “our material is stale. My topics are few.” He would be responsible for calls, which stabilized at two a week. Tacitly the phone arrangement remained in force even after his first gingerly steps, on crutches.
    Linda commiserated over the passing of Julia’s sex life.
    â€œIt’s not even the sex,” Julia said. “When he calls, I feel the same as when we used to make love. When he doesn’t, it’s just as maddening. Suffocating.” In fact, she was resorting to a Bronch-Aid inhaler frequently for shortness of breath. Coughing fits had ended the swims. Mornings, swinging her legs out of bed, she’d fall back, dizzy. Her limbs always were cold, her legs felt leaden, two minutes’ walk tired them.
    The inability to smoke enraged Julia. To outwit her lungs she puffed while limp in a hot bath, or nearly asleep, over bourbon or steaming tea. Her lungs convulsed.
    â€œI’m glad to see you and Linda working out,” Julia said.
    â€œI’m in a holding pattern,” Tim said. “Eventually we’ll break up.”
    â€œYou were a sweet boy, Tim. There, I’m Generic Mom. But it’s true. I have every card you hand-made for me, birthday, Mother’s Day, Christmas, Easter, Valentine’s, for twelve years. Our first visit to the Grand