Read Online Eleven Hours by Pamela Erens - Free Book Online

dreamy boy who could not distinguish between his “th”s and his “d”s and who drew wonderful pictures of million-windowed buildings poking high into the sky, stick figures in every window: waving, laughing, boxing, dozing. It seemed a beautiful name for a child, boy or girl: the sun that rises to give warmth and light, a ball of burning fire.
    When he learned of the baby, Asa left his messages. Lore got rid of the answering machine, deleted his e-mails without reading them. Helen Fox, Asa’s mother, whom she’d always liked—formidable Helen, with her white hair and her work editing thick books on sociology and anthropology, who’d once put her veined hand on top of Lore’s and said that Lore made Asa happy—Helen sent checks to her at P.S. 30, with notes in her tiny handwriting pleading with Lore to phone her, to be in touch, to say that she was all right. The checks tempted Lore, but they also humiliated her, and she threw them away. She’d wanted to reply, but what could she possibly say? That Helen had been her other mother, the one who survived? The one who taught her things about history and dance, and whom she’d liked to imagine making a grandmother? She had pictured that preoccupied, severe face broken up in fond smiles. Lore was the one who would cause that to happen.
    If Asa wants to speak to me, Lore thought, he will find my address and come in person, he will take the dreaded 7 train that Manhattanites hate to take, and he will wait for me. Eventually he appeared. It was late September; he sat on the steps of the three-story building where she now lived. When he stood up he was somehow less imposing than he had been six months before. She would have said he’d lost weight except that in fact he looked bloated. She’d always liked Asa’s size, the bulk of him, liked being with a man bigger than herself—taller and broader and even denser, it seemed. His largeness and solidity pinned her more securely to reality, made her feel more there . But now he looked hollowed out.
    The evening was mild and windy; they watched a man parked near her entrance get into his car and drive away. Asa spoke carefully, evenly—he was greatly agitated. He said that she might not believe him but he’d come around to being happy about the pregnancy; he’d always wanted them to have children. She had been very wrong to keep the news from him. Naturally he would be financially responsible. More important, he would be a father to whatever degree Lore would allow. He would be part of the baby’s life. He would ask nothing and give anything—except that he would not give up Julia. He kept his eyes on Lore’s belly. Lore, frightened, felt him in fact capable of loving this child he had not chosen. What a temptation, to feel Asa’s love, just a little, through that.
    â€œIt’s not your child, Asa.”
    â€œYes, it is. It’s as much mine as yours.”
    â€œI’m saying it’s not yours . When you were in San Francisco, I went out one night. I met a guy.”
    â€œCome on, Lore. Where did you meet this guy? What was his name?”
    â€œI don’t need to tell you.”
    â€œYou’re making this up. You met a guy? You, what, went back to his place? I don’t believe you.”
    â€œThink what you want.”
    They sat in silence.
    â€œThere are tests that would tell,” said Asa.
    â€œSo get tested,” said Lore. He would never follow through, she was convinced of it. He was here to prove he was not altogether bad, that he could still do a right thing, and maybe he could. But he would bring the scent and touch and vibration of Julia with him, and this Lore could not bear. Julia’s hair on his collar, the smell of her grassy perfumes, her laugh.
    Asa was weaker than he realized. If she gave him this out, he would never seek to know for sure.
    â€œWhere is the pain mostly?” asks Franckline.