Read Online I Want to Show You More (9780802193742) by Jamie Quatro - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jamie Quatro
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lips could touch, he says. Even once. We could be done with this. Put a period at the end of our sentence.
For me it would be an em dash, she says. Or the start of a new sentence.
Weâre going to need some kind of physical closure, he says. We need to grieve together, alone.
I couldnât be alone with you and not want everything, she says.
Iâd be strong for both of us, he says. I imagine kneeling in front of you, my head in your lap. Youâre sitting on the edge of the mattress, Iâm holding on to your belt and justâ weeping . Weâd sit at opposite ends of the room, watch each other undress, then sleep in separate beds, like twins. Weâd never touch.
Back up, she says. Iâm still with the belt.
The man is quiet.
Sometimes, he says, when Iâm home alone, I lean my forehead against the wall and say your name.
Say it now, she says, and he does, his voice cracking on the vowel.
I canât work, he says. At night all I want is for my wife to go to bed so I can sit in my office and think about you. If someone asked me what I want right now, I would say, To go on thinking of her.
What I want, she says, is for you to make me cry, then be the one to make me stop.
Where are you right now? he asks.
Halfway up the mountain.
Pull over, he says, and she does.
Where would you want me, he says. If I could.
In my mouth, she says, and then the other. So I could walk around knowing I was carrying you in two places inside.
I donât even know what to call this, he says. Itâs a fucking overwhelming drug.
Addiction, the woman says, her hand moving beneath the elastic on her skirt.
She leans back in her seat, turns off the wipers. The passing cars blur.
Can we go into the forest? the boy asks.
He and his mother sit on one of the benches in the old amphitheater abutting the Conservatory of Music. The benches narrow down to a cement stage, behind which is a small clearing surrounded by treesâwhat the boy calls the forest. Sunlight does not enter the space. The trees, a dozen or so, leaf out only above the rooflines of the surrounding buildings: amphitheater in front, parking garage behind; Conservatory on the left, dormitory on the right.
The boyâs mother is talking on her cell phone. Itâs what she does every week, now, while his sister takes her piano lesson. I miss you, the boy hears her say, and he feels safe. She must be talking to his father.
Can we go down there? the son asks again, pointing.
The mother looks at her watch, nods, and takes the boyâs hand, but he pulls away and hops down the benches, then runs into the clearing ahead of her.
The mother finds him standing on a protruding root at the base of a four-story-high oak, its trunk striped with tiny squares of white paper. Each square, she sees, has been driven into place with a burnished nail. The squares are aligned in spiraling rows that begin fifteen feet aboveground and twist down the trunk to its base, like a strand of DNA. The mother thinks there must be a thousand pieces of paper nailed to the trunk.
The boy thinks of a giant candy cane. He rips off one of the scraps and sees writing.
Look, he says, handing it to his mother.
She turns the scrap over. âIâm sorryâ is written in blue ballpoint pen, the cursive delicate, the tail on the âyâ rounding up in a scrolled flourish. She walks up to the tree, begins to lift the scraps to look at their undersides. Standing beneath her, the boy can see the same blue writing on each of them. He hears his mother say, You wonât believe what Iâm looking at . He hears Some kind of installation art and Iâll call you right back . He watches as his mother backs away from the tree, holding her phone up.
The phone makes its camera sound.
The mother looks down to check the image. Itâs blurred. She takes another shot and texts it to the other man. Then she holds the scrap of paper close to the lens. She wants the man
For me it would be an em dash, she says. Or the start of a new sentence.
Weâre going to need some kind of physical closure, he says. We need to grieve together, alone.
I couldnât be alone with you and not want everything, she says.
Iâd be strong for both of us, he says. I imagine kneeling in front of you, my head in your lap. Youâre sitting on the edge of the mattress, Iâm holding on to your belt and justâ weeping . Weâd sit at opposite ends of the room, watch each other undress, then sleep in separate beds, like twins. Weâd never touch.
Back up, she says. Iâm still with the belt.
The man is quiet.
Sometimes, he says, when Iâm home alone, I lean my forehead against the wall and say your name.
Say it now, she says, and he does, his voice cracking on the vowel.
I canât work, he says. At night all I want is for my wife to go to bed so I can sit in my office and think about you. If someone asked me what I want right now, I would say, To go on thinking of her.
What I want, she says, is for you to make me cry, then be the one to make me stop.
Where are you right now? he asks.
Halfway up the mountain.
Pull over, he says, and she does.
Where would you want me, he says. If I could.
In my mouth, she says, and then the other. So I could walk around knowing I was carrying you in two places inside.
I donât even know what to call this, he says. Itâs a fucking overwhelming drug.
Addiction, the woman says, her hand moving beneath the elastic on her skirt.
She leans back in her seat, turns off the wipers. The passing cars blur.
Can we go into the forest? the boy asks.
He and his mother sit on one of the benches in the old amphitheater abutting the Conservatory of Music. The benches narrow down to a cement stage, behind which is a small clearing surrounded by treesâwhat the boy calls the forest. Sunlight does not enter the space. The trees, a dozen or so, leaf out only above the rooflines of the surrounding buildings: amphitheater in front, parking garage behind; Conservatory on the left, dormitory on the right.
The boyâs mother is talking on her cell phone. Itâs what she does every week, now, while his sister takes her piano lesson. I miss you, the boy hears her say, and he feels safe. She must be talking to his father.
Can we go down there? the son asks again, pointing.
The mother looks at her watch, nods, and takes the boyâs hand, but he pulls away and hops down the benches, then runs into the clearing ahead of her.
The mother finds him standing on a protruding root at the base of a four-story-high oak, its trunk striped with tiny squares of white paper. Each square, she sees, has been driven into place with a burnished nail. The squares are aligned in spiraling rows that begin fifteen feet aboveground and twist down the trunk to its base, like a strand of DNA. The mother thinks there must be a thousand pieces of paper nailed to the trunk.
The boy thinks of a giant candy cane. He rips off one of the scraps and sees writing.
Look, he says, handing it to his mother.
She turns the scrap over. âIâm sorryâ is written in blue ballpoint pen, the cursive delicate, the tail on the âyâ rounding up in a scrolled flourish. She walks up to the tree, begins to lift the scraps to look at their undersides. Standing beneath her, the boy can see the same blue writing on each of them. He hears his mother say, You wonât believe what Iâm looking at . He hears Some kind of installation art and Iâll call you right back . He watches as his mother backs away from the tree, holding her phone up.
The phone makes its camera sound.
The mother looks down to check the image. Itâs blurred. She takes another shot and texts it to the other man. Then she holds the scrap of paper close to the lens. She wants the man
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