quiet, the references to Max Brod or Camus, Versailles or Saigon—the whole thing seemed crazy.
I was relieved when I got my dad.
“Mosher residence?” he said, sounding unsure.
I explained, talking quickly. I was sorry, a friend, his baby brother, only a few minutes …
He didn’t understand. “And you say this person is a friend from school?” he said, speaking English, grinding on the r ’s like he was getting up some phlegm. I could hear my mother in the background: “ Wer ist es?”
“Only for a few minutes,” I said.
“Here? Now?” I heard her say.
“And you say you are where now? And who is this baby that …?”
I explained, again. “I see. One moment.” My mother’s voice disappeared as he put his hand over the phone. I knew what she was saying: Who was this so-called friend? They’d never heard of him. Did I think I could just call at any hour and …
He came back on. “Your mother says we have some milk,” he said.
I KNEW what would happen. They’d be outraged, appalled. Who was this hoodlum who talked like this, who dressed like a gangster? For his part, Ray would think they were stuck-up, fucked up, weird—worse, he’d think I’d been putting on some kind of act, that I was like them.
“Listen, we could just go over to Kobacker’s,” I said as we walked up the street in the dark.
A cold mist was falling, just enough to wet our faces. Ray was shushing the baby, patting him on the back, making little noises to distract him: “That’s right, little man, we’re gonna get you somethin’ to eat, yes we are.” He turned to me. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.
M ORE THAN THEM it was him—like there was another person talking through his mouth saying “Thank you, ma’am” and “Yes, sir” and “What a nice house you have.” For a second, thinking he was laughing at them, I felt a confused flash of resentment. He was being polite.
My father met us in the hall holding his reading glasses. “Welcome, welcome. And your name is Raymond?”
“Yes, sir.” He shook his hand.
“Would you like me to take your coat, Raymond?”
I could see him looking at the pictures, the books.
My mother had taken Gene as soon as we came in. “And so this is the baby? Here, let me see—may I?”
Ray started to apologize for bothering them.
“No bother.” And she walked away with the baby cradled in her arms. When he looked at me, all I could do was shrug.
“So, people call me Ray,” he said to my father, who was standing in the closet, hanging up the coat.
“I’m sorry?”
“My name. People call me Ray.” The chipped tooth, the long greasy hair, the way he stood by the glassed-in bookcase, alert—he seemed charged, unstable, like a cyclone in a bottle. He scratched the back of his head, a long pink cut, half-healed and puckered, running from his wrist to a scabbed knuckle. “I’m only Raymond when I’m in trouble.”
My father smiled. “And you know Jon from the classes at the high school?”
“Lunch, mostly.”
“I see.”
Ray smiled. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure in eating I’ve got him beat.”
“Can this be true?”
“Absolutely.”
“You eat more than Jon?”
“It’s not even close.”
It was unreal: my father kidding around with Ray Cappicciano in the hall, my mother feeding Gene, swaying back and forth as if remembering a dance, saying, “You have to feel the milk with your elbow so it is not too warm for the baby.” I just stood there.
I watched her holding Gene on her hip, then cradle him again and work the nipple into his mouth. “There we go, that’s a good baby. Did we have something to eat?”
“We gave him some banana,” Ray said.
“Is this true?” she said to the baby. “Did we have some banana?” She moved the bottle to a better position. “What is the matter with you?” she snapped. “Did we raise you like this?”
She hadn’t looked up. For a second I thought she was angry at the baby, that she’d gone
I was relieved when I got my dad.
“Mosher residence?” he said, sounding unsure.
I explained, talking quickly. I was sorry, a friend, his baby brother, only a few minutes …
He didn’t understand. “And you say this person is a friend from school?” he said, speaking English, grinding on the r ’s like he was getting up some phlegm. I could hear my mother in the background: “ Wer ist es?”
“Only for a few minutes,” I said.
“Here? Now?” I heard her say.
“And you say you are where now? And who is this baby that …?”
I explained, again. “I see. One moment.” My mother’s voice disappeared as he put his hand over the phone. I knew what she was saying: Who was this so-called friend? They’d never heard of him. Did I think I could just call at any hour and …
He came back on. “Your mother says we have some milk,” he said.
I KNEW what would happen. They’d be outraged, appalled. Who was this hoodlum who talked like this, who dressed like a gangster? For his part, Ray would think they were stuck-up, fucked up, weird—worse, he’d think I’d been putting on some kind of act, that I was like them.
“Listen, we could just go over to Kobacker’s,” I said as we walked up the street in the dark.
A cold mist was falling, just enough to wet our faces. Ray was shushing the baby, patting him on the back, making little noises to distract him: “That’s right, little man, we’re gonna get you somethin’ to eat, yes we are.” He turned to me. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.
M ORE THAN THEM it was him—like there was another person talking through his mouth saying “Thank you, ma’am” and “Yes, sir” and “What a nice house you have.” For a second, thinking he was laughing at them, I felt a confused flash of resentment. He was being polite.
My father met us in the hall holding his reading glasses. “Welcome, welcome. And your name is Raymond?”
“Yes, sir.” He shook his hand.
“Would you like me to take your coat, Raymond?”
I could see him looking at the pictures, the books.
My mother had taken Gene as soon as we came in. “And so this is the baby? Here, let me see—may I?”
Ray started to apologize for bothering them.
“No bother.” And she walked away with the baby cradled in her arms. When he looked at me, all I could do was shrug.
“So, people call me Ray,” he said to my father, who was standing in the closet, hanging up the coat.
“I’m sorry?”
“My name. People call me Ray.” The chipped tooth, the long greasy hair, the way he stood by the glassed-in bookcase, alert—he seemed charged, unstable, like a cyclone in a bottle. He scratched the back of his head, a long pink cut, half-healed and puckered, running from his wrist to a scabbed knuckle. “I’m only Raymond when I’m in trouble.”
My father smiled. “And you know Jon from the classes at the high school?”
“Lunch, mostly.”
“I see.”
Ray smiled. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure in eating I’ve got him beat.”
“Can this be true?”
“Absolutely.”
“You eat more than Jon?”
“It’s not even close.”
It was unreal: my father kidding around with Ray Cappicciano in the hall, my mother feeding Gene, swaying back and forth as if remembering a dance, saying, “You have to feel the milk with your elbow so it is not too warm for the baby.” I just stood there.
I watched her holding Gene on her hip, then cradle him again and work the nipple into his mouth. “There we go, that’s a good baby. Did we have something to eat?”
“We gave him some banana,” Ray said.
“Is this true?” she said to the baby. “Did we have some banana?” She moved the bottle to a better position. “What is the matter with you?” she snapped. “Did we raise you like this?”
She hadn’t looked up. For a second I thought she was angry at the baby, that she’d gone
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