Y, and his mass had taken on architecture. He had turned himself from a Paul Bunyan kind of guy, into a hunk. Now any room he entered strained to contain his physicality. He hadn’t reinvented himself for Carmen; she thought he was fine the way he already was.
Gabe followed Matt with an exaggerated, slouchy walk, trying to imitate his father, trying to figure out what being a man felt like. So far, he was a mild disappointment to Matt, who was extremely sports-minded. Gabe hadn’t shown any interest in catching or throwing or hitting any sort of ball. Neither was he interested in watching professionals throw or catch or hit balls. Of course, Matt tried not to let his disappointment show, but still, somehow, Gabe knew.
Since they’d come inside, their dog, Walter Payton—an unsortable jumble of breeds, they’d had him almost a year now—skittered back and forth among them, trying to translate for Carmen the excitement of their hard work. All done! Gabe caught him and knelt to kiss the dog’s head, to show him he had been a big help.
At six, Gabe was tall for his age, but with a fragile air. He wanted to make paintings, like his aunt, his grandfather. He wore glasses and his complexion was pale, his cheeks freckled. Skinny and often distracted, he looked beat-upable, snatchable. This pressed on Carmen’s heart and made her fearful every time he stepped out of her view, into the wider world.
“It’s chain-gang work out there,” Matt said, pumping up Gabe’s pride in the job. “Warming up. Everything’s turning into ten-ton slush.” He dragged a passing finger through the frosting bowl, the sort of invasive gesture Carmen hated when they first got together, then became inured to, and now hated in a fresh way. She didn’t say anything, though, just kept spreading the cream cheese frosting over the cake, like a patient in a mental institution performing a calming, repetitive task. The cake was for her father’s birthday dinner tonight, an old-fashioned prune cake recipe from his childhood.
Gabe had shrugged off his parka and was going through the Tribune on the table to find the comics. Walter had opportunistically wedged himself between Carmen’s legs and the cabinets under the counter where she was working, just in case any frosting might drip his way. This warm family tableau was deceptive. It only existed because Carmen stood here in this kitchen, determined to keep things small and regular.
“What about we just get some takeout for supper? Chinese maybe,” Matt said to Gabe. “Give your mom a break?”
Carmen’s response to this innocuous suggestion was to start crying—because Matt was being kind to her, because she hadn’t had any good sleep in days, also because he had completely forgotten her father’s birthday, an occasion they used to have fun dreading together. She kept standing at the counter and braced up her voice. “We can’t,” she said. “We have to go see Horace.”
“Oh boy, I totally forgot,” Matt said. “The thing is, I’ve got someplace I have to be later.” As he said this he moved to put a hand on her shoulder, to touch her, but stopped shy. This was worse even than his telling her the other day that she had been such an important person in his life. These were the sort of terrible, quiet things that had been happening in the weeks since Matt told Carmen about him and Paula.
That Paula was only nineteen and Gabe’s babysitter made the whole situation look like a giant lurid cliché, like some sort of early midlife crisis for Matt, or some delayed oat-sowing. But it wasn’t any of this. Matt was not an oat-sower, and he was too sane and organized for an inner crisis. And “nineteen” and “babysitter,” while both true, gave no picture at all of Paula. She was not a naughty nympho teenage babysitter. She was a studious, willowy, plain girl with late braces she had been paying for herself. The affair had been going on for several months and had yet to be
Gabe followed Matt with an exaggerated, slouchy walk, trying to imitate his father, trying to figure out what being a man felt like. So far, he was a mild disappointment to Matt, who was extremely sports-minded. Gabe hadn’t shown any interest in catching or throwing or hitting any sort of ball. Neither was he interested in watching professionals throw or catch or hit balls. Of course, Matt tried not to let his disappointment show, but still, somehow, Gabe knew.
Since they’d come inside, their dog, Walter Payton—an unsortable jumble of breeds, they’d had him almost a year now—skittered back and forth among them, trying to translate for Carmen the excitement of their hard work. All done! Gabe caught him and knelt to kiss the dog’s head, to show him he had been a big help.
At six, Gabe was tall for his age, but with a fragile air. He wanted to make paintings, like his aunt, his grandfather. He wore glasses and his complexion was pale, his cheeks freckled. Skinny and often distracted, he looked beat-upable, snatchable. This pressed on Carmen’s heart and made her fearful every time he stepped out of her view, into the wider world.
“It’s chain-gang work out there,” Matt said, pumping up Gabe’s pride in the job. “Warming up. Everything’s turning into ten-ton slush.” He dragged a passing finger through the frosting bowl, the sort of invasive gesture Carmen hated when they first got together, then became inured to, and now hated in a fresh way. She didn’t say anything, though, just kept spreading the cream cheese frosting over the cake, like a patient in a mental institution performing a calming, repetitive task. The cake was for her father’s birthday dinner tonight, an old-fashioned prune cake recipe from his childhood.
Gabe had shrugged off his parka and was going through the Tribune on the table to find the comics. Walter had opportunistically wedged himself between Carmen’s legs and the cabinets under the counter where she was working, just in case any frosting might drip his way. This warm family tableau was deceptive. It only existed because Carmen stood here in this kitchen, determined to keep things small and regular.
“What about we just get some takeout for supper? Chinese maybe,” Matt said to Gabe. “Give your mom a break?”
Carmen’s response to this innocuous suggestion was to start crying—because Matt was being kind to her, because she hadn’t had any good sleep in days, also because he had completely forgotten her father’s birthday, an occasion they used to have fun dreading together. She kept standing at the counter and braced up her voice. “We can’t,” she said. “We have to go see Horace.”
“Oh boy, I totally forgot,” Matt said. “The thing is, I’ve got someplace I have to be later.” As he said this he moved to put a hand on her shoulder, to touch her, but stopped shy. This was worse even than his telling her the other day that she had been such an important person in his life. These were the sort of terrible, quiet things that had been happening in the weeks since Matt told Carmen about him and Paula.
That Paula was only nineteen and Gabe’s babysitter made the whole situation look like a giant lurid cliché, like some sort of early midlife crisis for Matt, or some delayed oat-sowing. But it wasn’t any of this. Matt was not an oat-sower, and he was too sane and organized for an inner crisis. And “nineteen” and “babysitter,” while both true, gave no picture at all of Paula. She was not a naughty nympho teenage babysitter. She was a studious, willowy, plain girl with late braces she had been paying for herself. The affair had been going on for several months and had yet to be
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