Read Online The Financial Lives of the Poets by Jess Walter - Free Book Online
Authors: Jess Walter
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to the TV; but this isn’t
new work, he has to know,
the boundless fear
of being left
alone in bed
in the dark
forever.
When I picture those bullies at Baghdad Elementary walking Franklin to the edge of the playground my mouth goes dry. I comfort and kiss him, then check in on the older one; but Teddy’s post-kiss now. Too tough. Squirms when I try. Reading, he waves me off, “’Night Dad,” without looking up. I find a cup on his dresser though; this will work.
At the top of the stairs, I slip off my shoes. Walk quietly downstairs, half a step, half a step, half a step onward. Edge into the kitchen with the cup…and that’s when I hear it.
Leaning in toward one another at the table, Lisa and Dani are clearly not talking about children anymore and I only hear a snippet, but it’s more than enough to make me Chuck-spicious. They’re whispering—but I hear the words “ so romantic” —Dani covering her mouth, shaking her yellow head as Lisa tells her something vitally important…something that causes them to stop talking and straighten up when they see me, causes Dani to look at me like an accident victim, or so I imagine. I can’t say how I know they’re talking about Chuck; I just know. Because the other line I heard, just before I came in here, from my wife’s frothy best friend was this: Oh my God, are you gonna do it?
My mouth goes dry. “Do what?”
“Nothing.” No eye contact. “We’re just talking about Karen’s candle party.”
“Oh.” I put the cup in the sink and have no choice but to leave again. I sulk into the living room to watch TV with Dad, who watches the box nonstop now, and who is going to be crushed when I tell him we’re canceling cable. It’s quiet from the kitchen. They must be whispering.
And the night speeds up: the back door closes; Dani goes home; the boys fall asleep; Lisa drifts upstairs to retreat into her social-networking life; and here we all are, alone in our dying house—
“You know who else threw a nice ball?” Dad asks me. “Dan Fouts. But I don’t know how he played with that beard. You ever have a beard?”
These are the loops you learn to live with when you live with someone suffering from dementia. Perhaps it’s no different than the rest of our lives, the shit circling back around on us: bearded QBs and recessions and death and blue-eyed Chucks come to take your wife. And weed, which took a long twenty-year swing back into my life.
Dad wields his trusty remote, turning it—to another sports channel, as if on that one, it might be 1970. In the quiet I notice the tapping upstairs has stopped. I guess Lisa and Chuck are done blog-fucking, or whatever it’s called, or else they’ve moved agin to the TM intimacy of their cell phones. It’s surreal, imagining what’s going on up there. I wonder if Chuck wrote anything about the sorry putz who came in to Lumberland today to build a tree fort for his kids. Dad and I watch the top ten plays of the day, and he tells me once more about Dan Fouts’s beard.
“Itchy,” I say.
“Yeah…that’s what I think,” he says, as if I’ve read his mind.
When I finally go upstairs, Lisa’s in bed, just closing her phone. She’s wearing her giant, unsexy, population-control pajamas, made of burlap, fiberglass insulation, razor wire.
“Sorry. Were you on the phone?”
“Just checking my messages.” She picks up a magazine and starts reading. I stare at her dainty little red phone, which sits closed on the nightstand agin. I think about throwing it out the window. I think about going online to check tonight’s browsing history, but hell, I know who she’s chatting with, what she’s browsing for. I think about telling her the truth about the house, but I’m worried it will be the final nudge for her…I think about climbing into bed and begging her to make love—smack-smack—zero-population-growth pajamas be damned. I think of asking her to quit this, whatever it is. It’s all
new work, he has to know,
the boundless fear
of being left
alone in bed
in the dark
forever.
When I picture those bullies at Baghdad Elementary walking Franklin to the edge of the playground my mouth goes dry. I comfort and kiss him, then check in on the older one; but Teddy’s post-kiss now. Too tough. Squirms when I try. Reading, he waves me off, “’Night Dad,” without looking up. I find a cup on his dresser though; this will work.
At the top of the stairs, I slip off my shoes. Walk quietly downstairs, half a step, half a step, half a step onward. Edge into the kitchen with the cup…and that’s when I hear it.
Leaning in toward one another at the table, Lisa and Dani are clearly not talking about children anymore and I only hear a snippet, but it’s more than enough to make me Chuck-spicious. They’re whispering—but I hear the words “ so romantic” —Dani covering her mouth, shaking her yellow head as Lisa tells her something vitally important…something that causes them to stop talking and straighten up when they see me, causes Dani to look at me like an accident victim, or so I imagine. I can’t say how I know they’re talking about Chuck; I just know. Because the other line I heard, just before I came in here, from my wife’s frothy best friend was this: Oh my God, are you gonna do it?
My mouth goes dry. “Do what?”
“Nothing.” No eye contact. “We’re just talking about Karen’s candle party.”
“Oh.” I put the cup in the sink and have no choice but to leave again. I sulk into the living room to watch TV with Dad, who watches the box nonstop now, and who is going to be crushed when I tell him we’re canceling cable. It’s quiet from the kitchen. They must be whispering.
And the night speeds up: the back door closes; Dani goes home; the boys fall asleep; Lisa drifts upstairs to retreat into her social-networking life; and here we all are, alone in our dying house—
“You know who else threw a nice ball?” Dad asks me. “Dan Fouts. But I don’t know how he played with that beard. You ever have a beard?”
These are the loops you learn to live with when you live with someone suffering from dementia. Perhaps it’s no different than the rest of our lives, the shit circling back around on us: bearded QBs and recessions and death and blue-eyed Chucks come to take your wife. And weed, which took a long twenty-year swing back into my life.
Dad wields his trusty remote, turning it—to another sports channel, as if on that one, it might be 1970. In the quiet I notice the tapping upstairs has stopped. I guess Lisa and Chuck are done blog-fucking, or whatever it’s called, or else they’ve moved agin to the TM intimacy of their cell phones. It’s surreal, imagining what’s going on up there. I wonder if Chuck wrote anything about the sorry putz who came in to Lumberland today to build a tree fort for his kids. Dad and I watch the top ten plays of the day, and he tells me once more about Dan Fouts’s beard.
“Itchy,” I say.
“Yeah…that’s what I think,” he says, as if I’ve read his mind.
When I finally go upstairs, Lisa’s in bed, just closing her phone. She’s wearing her giant, unsexy, population-control pajamas, made of burlap, fiberglass insulation, razor wire.
“Sorry. Were you on the phone?”
“Just checking my messages.” She picks up a magazine and starts reading. I stare at her dainty little red phone, which sits closed on the nightstand agin. I think about throwing it out the window. I think about going online to check tonight’s browsing history, but hell, I know who she’s chatting with, what she’s browsing for. I think about telling her the truth about the house, but I’m worried it will be the final nudge for her…I think about climbing into bed and begging her to make love—smack-smack—zero-population-growth pajamas be damned. I think of asking her to quit this, whatever it is. It’s all
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