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Authors: Matthew Specktor
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long, jowly. He was still young. His eyes were a dry and placid green. He gave her a heavy-lidded glance and she smiled back. She lay three spidery fingers and a thumb against his wrist.
“I like hearing someone laugh with me,” he said. And closed his eyes again.
She held his hand, standing beneath him there on the stairs. If he’d opened his eyes, he might have seen her smile, might have seen more than just the absence of ridicule that was all he ever hoped to encounter. She brushed her hair back, and leveled her jaw up as if willing him to kiss her. But he didn’t.
VIII
WHAT MUST IT have been like, raising those children alone? My father always talked about the pressure— the pressure, the pressure , that mania of the business even before the acceleration brought on by car phones, faxes, Blackberries—but what about the pressure on her? Rachel Roth never complained. When the kids were born, at Lennox Hill Hospital in April of ’67, she was alone. Beau flew in the next morning.
“Yours,” she said, dazed, out of it, as he staggered into the maternity ward feeling a little whiplashed himself, clutching some wilting tulips that were, like him, too late. Severin was born with a sister. “See?”
The little girl slept. The twin infants weren’t identical, but in their squashed, pudgy frames he recognized himself. Severin had a full head of black hair even then. Kate was exquisite, named after the mother Beau himself had never known, who’d died when he was two. She had Rachel’s arctic eyes, and her alabaster complexion.
“Not too much mine,” he offered, as he sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. Rachel was so slender, pregnancy had made her almost the size of a regular woman. “Thank God.”
She looked back at him, her eyes half-shut. Reclining, while Severin squirmed on a pillow on her lap. The baby looked uncomfortable. Maybe Beau was uncomfortable.
“The things they give you,” she murmured, and fell asleep. He couldn’t tell if she meant the nurses, the drugs, or the children at her breast. He peeked into Kate’s bassinet and then picked up Severin, who wailed and writhed in his arms. A nurse clacked past,checking on her patient, then scowled at Beau. He didn’t care, staring down at his son, who was blind as a mole, his little mouth flexed awfully with hunger.
They could cleave you in two, he thought. And they did.
“What are we going to do?” Rachel asked him.
This was later, after he’d brought her home, installed the twins and a nanny in her cramped place in the West Village.
“Should I come to California?”
“Do you want to?”
She shook her head. And he felt the shame of his own uselessness, was wracked by the comparative ease with which she handled their children. Whose need for her was obvious.
“Pick him up.”
Suddenly, he couldn’t. He was afraid of these kids, of the purely instinctual way she took up maternity’s burden where he had the sense of his own absolute superfluity. When Beau bent over Kate, she immediately started suckling, mistaking his nose for a nipple.
“You’re going to have to get used to it,” she said.
“I know.”
Her apartment had been a mystery zone, and it still was: bricked in with books, smelling of sandalwood and the faint edge of something burning. Diapers, domestic smells now, too. There were three rooms, a twin bed. She could’ve had more but evidently didn’t want it. It was as if the asceticism of her person, her body, extended into her environment. One room was painted robin’s egg blue. An ironing board stood in the corner, next to an empty fridge. Yet he could feel in all this, inside the spareness that rejected a television set, or even a radio, a preparedness. For what, he wasn’t sure.
“What will you do,” she said, “if something happens?”
“To what? To me?”
“To me,” she said. It wasn’t selfishness that tipped him into thinking first about himself; a 280-pound man was at risk for all sorts
“I like hearing someone laugh with me,” he said. And closed his eyes again.
She held his hand, standing beneath him there on the stairs. If he’d opened his eyes, he might have seen her smile, might have seen more than just the absence of ridicule that was all he ever hoped to encounter. She brushed her hair back, and leveled her jaw up as if willing him to kiss her. But he didn’t.
VIII
WHAT MUST IT have been like, raising those children alone? My father always talked about the pressure— the pressure, the pressure , that mania of the business even before the acceleration brought on by car phones, faxes, Blackberries—but what about the pressure on her? Rachel Roth never complained. When the kids were born, at Lennox Hill Hospital in April of ’67, she was alone. Beau flew in the next morning.
“Yours,” she said, dazed, out of it, as he staggered into the maternity ward feeling a little whiplashed himself, clutching some wilting tulips that were, like him, too late. Severin was born with a sister. “See?”
The little girl slept. The twin infants weren’t identical, but in their squashed, pudgy frames he recognized himself. Severin had a full head of black hair even then. Kate was exquisite, named after the mother Beau himself had never known, who’d died when he was two. She had Rachel’s arctic eyes, and her alabaster complexion.
“Not too much mine,” he offered, as he sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. Rachel was so slender, pregnancy had made her almost the size of a regular woman. “Thank God.”
She looked back at him, her eyes half-shut. Reclining, while Severin squirmed on a pillow on her lap. The baby looked uncomfortable. Maybe Beau was uncomfortable.
“The things they give you,” she murmured, and fell asleep. He couldn’t tell if she meant the nurses, the drugs, or the children at her breast. He peeked into Kate’s bassinet and then picked up Severin, who wailed and writhed in his arms. A nurse clacked past,checking on her patient, then scowled at Beau. He didn’t care, staring down at his son, who was blind as a mole, his little mouth flexed awfully with hunger.
They could cleave you in two, he thought. And they did.
“What are we going to do?” Rachel asked him.
This was later, after he’d brought her home, installed the twins and a nanny in her cramped place in the West Village.
“Should I come to California?”
“Do you want to?”
She shook her head. And he felt the shame of his own uselessness, was wracked by the comparative ease with which she handled their children. Whose need for her was obvious.
“Pick him up.”
Suddenly, he couldn’t. He was afraid of these kids, of the purely instinctual way she took up maternity’s burden where he had the sense of his own absolute superfluity. When Beau bent over Kate, she immediately started suckling, mistaking his nose for a nipple.
“You’re going to have to get used to it,” she said.
“I know.”
Her apartment had been a mystery zone, and it still was: bricked in with books, smelling of sandalwood and the faint edge of something burning. Diapers, domestic smells now, too. There were three rooms, a twin bed. She could’ve had more but evidently didn’t want it. It was as if the asceticism of her person, her body, extended into her environment. One room was painted robin’s egg blue. An ironing board stood in the corner, next to an empty fridge. Yet he could feel in all this, inside the spareness that rejected a television set, or even a radio, a preparedness. For what, he wasn’t sure.
“What will you do,” she said, “if something happens?”
“To what? To me?”
“To me,” she said. It wasn’t selfishness that tipped him into thinking first about himself; a 280-pound man was at risk for all sorts
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