Read Online All We Want Is Everything by Andrew F. Sullivan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrew F. Sullivan
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and brings home a lot of coins inside her purse. Harriet smiles. Maybe it could be this easy. If only she could get her body to agree for once, to lend her a pass. Jamie tries to pour syrup on his waffles and misses the plate entirely. Harriet sops it up in one motion and throws the napkin on the floor. Let the waiter clean it up.
“I think I need to sleep, Harriet.”
“We will take you home in a bit, okay? I’m sure your Mom will be looking for you.”
Doris won’t be able to explain this. She just needs to draw it out a bit longer. And Harriet likes Jamie. He might not be a clean eater, but he hasn’t crapped himself or done anything stupid yet. All the awful years have already passed, including the terrible twos. When he gets into his teens there will be problems, but Henry can handle that. Henry is good with those kinds of situations. He is the one who handles Harriet’s sisters when they come by to ask about her stomach, her health, her future plans. Henry is very good at slamming doors.
“When my Dad comes over, he and my Mom talk about you sometimes.”
Harriet stops drinking her coffee. She pours more sugar into the grainy remains.
“What do you mean, Jamie? Is your Mom still mad at me? You know, you can’t always trust everything a grown-up says. You have to learn what to believe. It’s hard to know sometimes.”
“I know,” Jamie says. His eyes are drooping and he misses his mouth with a fork of waffle.
“Well, what do they say Jamie? Is your Mom upset about something?”
Jamie stabs at his food again, but can’t bother to raise the fork.
“They say they just want you to go away. I wanna lie down. Can I lie down?”
Harriet doesn’t answer. She places both hands on the sticky table and closes her eyes. Henry said the visits with Doris always devolved into some screaming match about the drapes or the water heater. Harriet never asked why they took so long. She never asked about the social worker or the supervised visitations. There were messages Henry deleted from the answering machine before Harriet could listen. There were long car drives and strange clothes in the trunk. Harriet always wrote it off as part of the business—selling hot tubs wasn’t like selling pens or hair clippers. Harriet pulls her sticky hands off the table. Jamie has curled up in the booth with whipped cream in his hair. She wants to reach over and wipe it away, but her hand won’t let her.
With every attempt she and Henry made for a child, Harriet had tried to erase the malformed image of the last one—the twisted hands and half-formed faces. She pushed Debbie Anderson’s crushed legs from her mind, the screams echoing up the delivery shaft at the factory. She clenched Henry’s body between her legs and drowned out her prying sisters with moans to rattle the bedroom. Henry’s grunts helped hide the fear humming inside her diaphragm, rattling her organs. She could almost negate her mother’s voice from beyond the grave, the one tapping at the window, begging to ask about her grandchildren, her legacy. She had left so much behind. Harriet had filled her mind with one desire, for a wriggling thing made of flesh and blood to take up a space inside her, to call it her own. She just wanted something new, something no one had used yet. Henry didn’t fit the bill—he never really had. Doris wasn’t finished with him yet.
Jamie is still asleep when Harriet stands up from the table. The waiter is flirting with some hostess near the back. There are no other customers. She takes a few steps away from the sticky table. Jamie does not move; he only snores. She clenches her hands around her purse and walks toward the door. Harriet does not want Doris’ child. She does not want Henry’s leftovers. She wants to ask Henry if she was just a distraction, to ask him why he’s always drawn back to the same fire, the one Doris keeps lighting between them.
Harriet steps outside into the parking lot. No one has followed her
“I think I need to sleep, Harriet.”
“We will take you home in a bit, okay? I’m sure your Mom will be looking for you.”
Doris won’t be able to explain this. She just needs to draw it out a bit longer. And Harriet likes Jamie. He might not be a clean eater, but he hasn’t crapped himself or done anything stupid yet. All the awful years have already passed, including the terrible twos. When he gets into his teens there will be problems, but Henry can handle that. Henry is good with those kinds of situations. He is the one who handles Harriet’s sisters when they come by to ask about her stomach, her health, her future plans. Henry is very good at slamming doors.
“When my Dad comes over, he and my Mom talk about you sometimes.”
Harriet stops drinking her coffee. She pours more sugar into the grainy remains.
“What do you mean, Jamie? Is your Mom still mad at me? You know, you can’t always trust everything a grown-up says. You have to learn what to believe. It’s hard to know sometimes.”
“I know,” Jamie says. His eyes are drooping and he misses his mouth with a fork of waffle.
“Well, what do they say Jamie? Is your Mom upset about something?”
Jamie stabs at his food again, but can’t bother to raise the fork.
“They say they just want you to go away. I wanna lie down. Can I lie down?”
Harriet doesn’t answer. She places both hands on the sticky table and closes her eyes. Henry said the visits with Doris always devolved into some screaming match about the drapes or the water heater. Harriet never asked why they took so long. She never asked about the social worker or the supervised visitations. There were messages Henry deleted from the answering machine before Harriet could listen. There were long car drives and strange clothes in the trunk. Harriet always wrote it off as part of the business—selling hot tubs wasn’t like selling pens or hair clippers. Harriet pulls her sticky hands off the table. Jamie has curled up in the booth with whipped cream in his hair. She wants to reach over and wipe it away, but her hand won’t let her.
With every attempt she and Henry made for a child, Harriet had tried to erase the malformed image of the last one—the twisted hands and half-formed faces. She pushed Debbie Anderson’s crushed legs from her mind, the screams echoing up the delivery shaft at the factory. She clenched Henry’s body between her legs and drowned out her prying sisters with moans to rattle the bedroom. Henry’s grunts helped hide the fear humming inside her diaphragm, rattling her organs. She could almost negate her mother’s voice from beyond the grave, the one tapping at the window, begging to ask about her grandchildren, her legacy. She had left so much behind. Harriet had filled her mind with one desire, for a wriggling thing made of flesh and blood to take up a space inside her, to call it her own. She just wanted something new, something no one had used yet. Henry didn’t fit the bill—he never really had. Doris wasn’t finished with him yet.
Jamie is still asleep when Harriet stands up from the table. The waiter is flirting with some hostess near the back. There are no other customers. She takes a few steps away from the sticky table. Jamie does not move; he only snores. She clenches her hands around her purse and walks toward the door. Harriet does not want Doris’ child. She does not want Henry’s leftovers. She wants to ask Henry if she was just a distraction, to ask him why he’s always drawn back to the same fire, the one Doris keeps lighting between them.
Harriet steps outside into the parking lot. No one has followed her
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