Read Online Light Fell by Evan Fallenberg - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Evan Fallenberg
Ads: Link
he nor his lawyer reacted at all.
During that spring only one thing surprised Joseph, the realization rousing him from his stupor: that it was not only Yoel he mourned, but his boys, too. Living with them, he had been an impatient, short-fuse father, offended by their noise and too preoccupied to respond to their constant pleas for attention. “Daddy, watch this!” they would cry as they turned somersaults or flew paper airplanes or jumped from hills of dirt. “Over here, Daddy, look!” they would call as they carried trays of eggs from the chicken coop or shimmied up the trunks of towering eucalyptus trees. He would glance, smile, and return to what he was doing, even if he was not really doing anything. In fact, during his last months at home, he was always thinking, planning. When would he get to see Yoel next? What elaborate web of lies would he have to construct to arrange an overnight tryst? What clever gift could he bring to his lover at their next rendezvous?
But now that he had lost them, his boys became his obsession. He longed for their endless questions, ached to watch them curled in their beds, kicking off sheets and blankets almost as fast as he and Rebecca could cover them. He was desperate for dawn, the silence of night’s end pierced by their croaking voices. “I’m the first awake again !” Ethan would call brightly each morning. “Quiet!” Daniel would mumble, and the twins would spring awake, rattling the bars of their cribs with a song from nursery school. He pressed his hands flat to his face as he thought of bath time, when the old claw-foot bathtub became a sailing ship, a submarine, a sea. Their whoops and shouts resounded in his brain, bouncing madly in that empty cavern. He recalled the last bath, Noam and the twins screeching their own version of the chant they had heard Daniel and Ethan create when it was their turn in the water: “Don’t want shampoo, don’t want soap. Don’t want nothing, nope, nope, nope!”
Up until the Saturday night he had left home, he had counted on love, had not, in fact, given it a thought. His wife had loved him quietly. Yoel had loved him with passion and fanfare, with bells and whistles and fireworks, and, also, with the dark, sad beauty of a requiem. The boys had loved him, though they would never have known to name it love. Joseph knew that even his father loved him without ever once in his life having told him so. And he, Joseph, had loved them all in return, in different measures and shapes.
So now that he had stuffed all this unwieldy love into a large cloth sack and tied it closed, now that he had choked off this protean but constant supply, he began to ponder the nature of love. He wondered if he could survive without it, wondered if their stifled love would wither and die or whether it would swirl around, puffing up and out and eventually spilling back into his life. He wondered if the different loves he felt for them—and surely, he thought, the love he felt for Yoel and the love he felt for the boys should have different names, their natures were so vastly different—would grow or diminish, would fossilize or metamorphose.
The divorce came to court during the second week in May. A headache the size of a fist had wedged itself behind Joseph’s left eye, and he felt himself involuntarily winking at the three rabbis on the dais in front of him. Rebecca seemed plumper but pale, and she wore a suit he knew she hated, a hand-me-down pieds-de-poule from a Swiss aunt. Her hair was freshly washed and gleaming. She was hatless, though Joseph was certain her lawyer would have instructed her to cover her head in respect for the court just as Joseph’s lawyer had instructed him. He couldn’t help smiling at her bullheadedness, risking the capricious wrath of the court on principle; no one could tell Rebecca what to do when she knew she was right. Joseph understood it was not because she was so sure she would get what she wanted from the court but
During that spring only one thing surprised Joseph, the realization rousing him from his stupor: that it was not only Yoel he mourned, but his boys, too. Living with them, he had been an impatient, short-fuse father, offended by their noise and too preoccupied to respond to their constant pleas for attention. “Daddy, watch this!” they would cry as they turned somersaults or flew paper airplanes or jumped from hills of dirt. “Over here, Daddy, look!” they would call as they carried trays of eggs from the chicken coop or shimmied up the trunks of towering eucalyptus trees. He would glance, smile, and return to what he was doing, even if he was not really doing anything. In fact, during his last months at home, he was always thinking, planning. When would he get to see Yoel next? What elaborate web of lies would he have to construct to arrange an overnight tryst? What clever gift could he bring to his lover at their next rendezvous?
But now that he had lost them, his boys became his obsession. He longed for their endless questions, ached to watch them curled in their beds, kicking off sheets and blankets almost as fast as he and Rebecca could cover them. He was desperate for dawn, the silence of night’s end pierced by their croaking voices. “I’m the first awake again !” Ethan would call brightly each morning. “Quiet!” Daniel would mumble, and the twins would spring awake, rattling the bars of their cribs with a song from nursery school. He pressed his hands flat to his face as he thought of bath time, when the old claw-foot bathtub became a sailing ship, a submarine, a sea. Their whoops and shouts resounded in his brain, bouncing madly in that empty cavern. He recalled the last bath, Noam and the twins screeching their own version of the chant they had heard Daniel and Ethan create when it was their turn in the water: “Don’t want shampoo, don’t want soap. Don’t want nothing, nope, nope, nope!”
Up until the Saturday night he had left home, he had counted on love, had not, in fact, given it a thought. His wife had loved him quietly. Yoel had loved him with passion and fanfare, with bells and whistles and fireworks, and, also, with the dark, sad beauty of a requiem. The boys had loved him, though they would never have known to name it love. Joseph knew that even his father loved him without ever once in his life having told him so. And he, Joseph, had loved them all in return, in different measures and shapes.
So now that he had stuffed all this unwieldy love into a large cloth sack and tied it closed, now that he had choked off this protean but constant supply, he began to ponder the nature of love. He wondered if he could survive without it, wondered if their stifled love would wither and die or whether it would swirl around, puffing up and out and eventually spilling back into his life. He wondered if the different loves he felt for them—and surely, he thought, the love he felt for Yoel and the love he felt for the boys should have different names, their natures were so vastly different—would grow or diminish, would fossilize or metamorphose.
The divorce came to court during the second week in May. A headache the size of a fist had wedged itself behind Joseph’s left eye, and he felt himself involuntarily winking at the three rabbis on the dais in front of him. Rebecca seemed plumper but pale, and she wore a suit he knew she hated, a hand-me-down pieds-de-poule from a Swiss aunt. Her hair was freshly washed and gleaming. She was hatless, though Joseph was certain her lawyer would have instructed her to cover her head in respect for the court just as Joseph’s lawyer had instructed him. He couldn’t help smiling at her bullheadedness, risking the capricious wrath of the court on principle; no one could tell Rebecca what to do when she knew she was right. Joseph understood it was not because she was so sure she would get what she wanted from the court but
Similar Books
