a coarser silk, she wore around her waist as a sarong. She sat on the bed to fiddle with the buckles of her sandals, a hand idly turning over one of Murdochâs ears, from the glossy brown to the crenulated pink and back again. âYouâre with me, baby,â she said, heaving him up and on to her chest, the hot sack of his belly in her hand. Just as she was about toleave the house, she heard a noise from the living room. She retraced her steps down the hallway and put her head around the door.
âHey, Jerome, baby.â
âHey.â
Her son sat morosely in the beanbag, in his lap a notebook bound in fraying blue silk. Kiki put Murdoch on the floor and watched his maladroit waddle towards Jerome, where he sat upon the boyâs toes.
âWriting?â she asked.
âNo, dancing,â came the reply.
Kiki let her mouth close and then opened it once more with a mordant puck. Since London he was like this. Sarcastic, secretive, sixteen all over again. And always working away at this diary. He was threatening not to go back to college. Kiki felt that the two of them, mother and son, were now moving steadily in obverse directions: Kiki to forgiveness, Jerome to bitterness. For, though it had taken almost a year, Kiki had begun to release the memory of Howardâs mistake. She had had all the usual conversations with friends and with herself; she had measured a nameless, faceless woman in a hotel room next to what she knew of herself; she had weighed one stupid night against a lifetime of love and felt the difference in her heart. If youâd told Kiki a year ago, Your husband will screw somebody else, you will forgive him, you will stay , she wouldnât have believed it. You canât say how these things will feel, or how you will respond, until they happen to you. Kiki had drawn upon reserves of forgiveness that she didnât even know she had. But for Jerome, friendless and brooding, it was clear that one week with Victoria Kipps, nine months ago, had expanded in his mind until it now took up all the space in his life. Where Kiki had felt her way instinctively through her problem, Jerome had written his out, words and words and words. Not for the first time, Kiki felt grateful she was not an intellectual. From here she could see the strangely melancholic format of Jeromeâs text, italics and ellipses everywhere. Slanted sails blowing about on perforated seas.
âRemember that thing . . .â Kiki said absently, rubbing his exposedankle with her own shin. â Writing about music is like dancing about architecture . Who said that again?â
Jerome crossed his eyes like Howard and looked away.
Kiki hunkered down to Jeromeâs eye level. She put two fingers to his chin and drew his face to hers. âYou OK, baby?â
âMom, please.â
Kiki cupped Jeromeâs face in her hands. She stared at him, seeking a refracted image of the girl who had caused all this misery, but Jerome had not given his mother any details when it happened and he wasnât going to give her any now. It was a matter of an impossible translation â his mother wanted to know about a girl, but it wasnât about a girl or, rather, it wasnât about just the girl. Jerome had fallen in love with a family. He felt he couldnât tell his own family this fact; it was easier for them to believe that last year was Jeromeâs âromantic fuck-upâ or â more pleasing to the Belsey mentality â his âflirtation with Christianityâ. How could he explain how pleasurable it had truly been to give himself up to the Kippses? It was a kind of blissful un-selfing; a summer of un-Belsey; he had allowed the Kippsesâ world and their ways to take him over entirely. He had liked to listen to the exotic (to a Belsey) chatter of business and money and practical politics; to hear that Equality was a myth, and Multiculturalism a fatuous dream; he thrilled at the
âHey, Jerome, baby.â
âHey.â
Her son sat morosely in the beanbag, in his lap a notebook bound in fraying blue silk. Kiki put Murdoch on the floor and watched his maladroit waddle towards Jerome, where he sat upon the boyâs toes.
âWriting?â she asked.
âNo, dancing,â came the reply.
Kiki let her mouth close and then opened it once more with a mordant puck. Since London he was like this. Sarcastic, secretive, sixteen all over again. And always working away at this diary. He was threatening not to go back to college. Kiki felt that the two of them, mother and son, were now moving steadily in obverse directions: Kiki to forgiveness, Jerome to bitterness. For, though it had taken almost a year, Kiki had begun to release the memory of Howardâs mistake. She had had all the usual conversations with friends and with herself; she had measured a nameless, faceless woman in a hotel room next to what she knew of herself; she had weighed one stupid night against a lifetime of love and felt the difference in her heart. If youâd told Kiki a year ago, Your husband will screw somebody else, you will forgive him, you will stay , she wouldnât have believed it. You canât say how these things will feel, or how you will respond, until they happen to you. Kiki had drawn upon reserves of forgiveness that she didnât even know she had. But for Jerome, friendless and brooding, it was clear that one week with Victoria Kipps, nine months ago, had expanded in his mind until it now took up all the space in his life. Where Kiki had felt her way instinctively through her problem, Jerome had written his out, words and words and words. Not for the first time, Kiki felt grateful she was not an intellectual. From here she could see the strangely melancholic format of Jeromeâs text, italics and ellipses everywhere. Slanted sails blowing about on perforated seas.
âRemember that thing . . .â Kiki said absently, rubbing his exposedankle with her own shin. â Writing about music is like dancing about architecture . Who said that again?â
Jerome crossed his eyes like Howard and looked away.
Kiki hunkered down to Jeromeâs eye level. She put two fingers to his chin and drew his face to hers. âYou OK, baby?â
âMom, please.â
Kiki cupped Jeromeâs face in her hands. She stared at him, seeking a refracted image of the girl who had caused all this misery, but Jerome had not given his mother any details when it happened and he wasnât going to give her any now. It was a matter of an impossible translation â his mother wanted to know about a girl, but it wasnât about a girl or, rather, it wasnât about just the girl. Jerome had fallen in love with a family. He felt he couldnât tell his own family this fact; it was easier for them to believe that last year was Jeromeâs âromantic fuck-upâ or â more pleasing to the Belsey mentality â his âflirtation with Christianityâ. How could he explain how pleasurable it had truly been to give himself up to the Kippses? It was a kind of blissful un-selfing; a summer of un-Belsey; he had allowed the Kippsesâ world and their ways to take him over entirely. He had liked to listen to the exotic (to a Belsey) chatter of business and money and practical politics; to hear that Equality was a myth, and Multiculturalism a fatuous dream; he thrilled at the
Similar Books
