can call me honey?”
The man had cast around for aid. “I guess not,” he’d said.
“You can call me ‘ma’am.’ And you can leave me the fuck alone.”
Hence, the yoga practice.
“Where’s the boy?” asked Mia.
“In his lair.”
“Doing what?”
Anna sighed. “Fumigating, one would hope.”
“Have you had sex?”
“We have.”
“And?”
“And I’m too old for this shit. I should be sloughing my feet, keeping the peace. Did you really tell me you were going to Brazil?”
“You booked Corumbao for me.”
“As I was saying, I’m too old.”
“Come for dinner. I’m all about caipirinhas these days.”
In the casual comfort of Mia’s dining room, under the casual spell of her mellow marriage to a man exactly her age, Anna renewed her vow: no commerce with the boy, no matter the cost.
“Does Richard know?” Mia said, pulling out a cigarillo.
“No.”
“Maybe you should tell him.”
“Are you kidding? He’ll shoot me.”
“Not if you shoot him first. You seen his last one?”
“The one with the orange hair?”
“Blue and white.”
“You’re behind. The blue-and-white one got the boot.”
“Why?”
“She put out her cigarette on his leather couch. She was a Gnostic, an early Christian, and a firm believer in putting out her cigarettes on his furniture.”
Mia let out a tendril of bluish smoke. “You sure he doesn’t know?”
“Nah.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He would have called.”
Eva was fast asleep later that night, Esperanza in front of the television, when the phone rang.
“Now?” asked Anna.
“Now.”
Richard Strand was in the kitchen making chicken mole, filling the house with the deep, sweet scent of melting chocolate.
“Have a seat,” he said, and Anna lowered herself onto the same stool of that untroubled night in May, wishing desperately she could turn back the hands of time.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“A shot of vodka. Actually, two. Two shots of vodka.”
Richard Strand went to the freezer, took out a bottle of vodka, and poured out a double for himself, a thimbleful for her. “Cheers,” he said, and they actually clinked glasses before he pierced her with a stare so cold and resolute that she considered a clean leap out the kitchen window.
“Jack is my son, ” Richard Strand said. “Did you know Jack is my son?”
“Of course I know Jack is your son.”
“So what do you think you’re doing with my son?”
Anna lowered her eyes.
“Look at me. My son is twenty years old. How old are you?”
“Richard . . .”
“Answer the question. How old are you?”
“Old,” she said sharply, holding his stare. “And you? How old are you? I mean specifically in relation to the half-naked high schoolers I keep seeing around here.”
Richard picked up a wooden spoon, turned to the melting chocolate. “I’m making chicken mole . My son loves chicken mole, ” and in his voice, impossible to miss, were both the yearning and the distance, the unmistakable signs of an impossible pursuit. She drained the vodka as Richard went on stirring, releasing traces of cinnamon and cumin along with his own deep need. For what? thought Anna. For the reconstituted dream? For the exalted return to the place that never was? The boy’s only reference to his father had been short and not particularly sweet, some barbed remark about the number of barely legal girls Richard Strand had installed in his home and in his children’s lives.
“He came to my house once,” she said softly. “I went to his house once. I haven’t seen him since.”
Richard Strand turned and glared.
“I know what went on,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me what went on. I have a son who’s a wreck and a friend who doesn’t give a damn.”
Anna pulled back, surprised. “A wreck? How could he be a wreck?”
“He’s a kid, Anna, a kid .”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Richard Strand said between tight teeth. “Literally and
The man had cast around for aid. “I guess not,” he’d said.
“You can call me ‘ma’am.’ And you can leave me the fuck alone.”
Hence, the yoga practice.
“Where’s the boy?” asked Mia.
“In his lair.”
“Doing what?”
Anna sighed. “Fumigating, one would hope.”
“Have you had sex?”
“We have.”
“And?”
“And I’m too old for this shit. I should be sloughing my feet, keeping the peace. Did you really tell me you were going to Brazil?”
“You booked Corumbao for me.”
“As I was saying, I’m too old.”
“Come for dinner. I’m all about caipirinhas these days.”
In the casual comfort of Mia’s dining room, under the casual spell of her mellow marriage to a man exactly her age, Anna renewed her vow: no commerce with the boy, no matter the cost.
“Does Richard know?” Mia said, pulling out a cigarillo.
“No.”
“Maybe you should tell him.”
“Are you kidding? He’ll shoot me.”
“Not if you shoot him first. You seen his last one?”
“The one with the orange hair?”
“Blue and white.”
“You’re behind. The blue-and-white one got the boot.”
“Why?”
“She put out her cigarette on his leather couch. She was a Gnostic, an early Christian, and a firm believer in putting out her cigarettes on his furniture.”
Mia let out a tendril of bluish smoke. “You sure he doesn’t know?”
“Nah.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He would have called.”
Eva was fast asleep later that night, Esperanza in front of the television, when the phone rang.
“Now?” asked Anna.
“Now.”
Richard Strand was in the kitchen making chicken mole, filling the house with the deep, sweet scent of melting chocolate.
“Have a seat,” he said, and Anna lowered herself onto the same stool of that untroubled night in May, wishing desperately she could turn back the hands of time.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“A shot of vodka. Actually, two. Two shots of vodka.”
Richard Strand went to the freezer, took out a bottle of vodka, and poured out a double for himself, a thimbleful for her. “Cheers,” he said, and they actually clinked glasses before he pierced her with a stare so cold and resolute that she considered a clean leap out the kitchen window.
“Jack is my son, ” Richard Strand said. “Did you know Jack is my son?”
“Of course I know Jack is your son.”
“So what do you think you’re doing with my son?”
Anna lowered her eyes.
“Look at me. My son is twenty years old. How old are you?”
“Richard . . .”
“Answer the question. How old are you?”
“Old,” she said sharply, holding his stare. “And you? How old are you? I mean specifically in relation to the half-naked high schoolers I keep seeing around here.”
Richard picked up a wooden spoon, turned to the melting chocolate. “I’m making chicken mole . My son loves chicken mole, ” and in his voice, impossible to miss, were both the yearning and the distance, the unmistakable signs of an impossible pursuit. She drained the vodka as Richard went on stirring, releasing traces of cinnamon and cumin along with his own deep need. For what? thought Anna. For the reconstituted dream? For the exalted return to the place that never was? The boy’s only reference to his father had been short and not particularly sweet, some barbed remark about the number of barely legal girls Richard Strand had installed in his home and in his children’s lives.
“He came to my house once,” she said softly. “I went to his house once. I haven’t seen him since.”
Richard Strand turned and glared.
“I know what went on,” he said. “You don’t have to tell me what went on. I have a son who’s a wreck and a friend who doesn’t give a damn.”
Anna pulled back, surprised. “A wreck? How could he be a wreck?”
“He’s a kid, Anna, a kid .”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah,” Richard Strand said between tight teeth. “Literally and
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