I won’t worry about you,” Henry says. “So I don’t wait for you to eat and stuff. Logistics.” Henry palms my head and smoothes back all the little pieces of hair from my face so he can see me.
“Yes,” I tell Henry. “Of course.” I should know this: When you are married you need to tell people where you are going so they don’t worry, because they love you. And because of logistics.
“How was your first day?” Henry says.
“I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow,” I say. “Right now I am very sleepy.”
Henry falls asleep easily. He is a champion sleeper. I roll around next to him for a while and then creep downstairs. Sometimes you need to stare into the refrigerator glow awhile to get ready for sleeping. But when I open the fridge I see that Henry had made enough dinner for both of us. There is a bottle in there too. Champagne, unopened. My chest constricts.
When I crawl back into bed with him he sighs but does not wake. Already this is more difficult than I’d thought it would be, being each other’s family. I thought that because I loved Henry it would be easy to do the right things but sometimes I forget to be thoughtful. I forget to do what is right. Sometimes I just charge on ahead and do what it is that I want. Tonight my love cannot fix the small thing that I have ruined. I am too late. A barn burner.
I CALL MY parents.
I got a job, I say.
We’re very happy for you, they say.
I’m covering all sorts of real American news, I say. Things that matter to real Americans.
Are we not real Americans? they say. The Gazette isn’t for real Americans?
You know what I mean, I say.
How is Henry? they say.
Henry is good, I say. Fall is a busy planting season.
You missed the Hopper at MoMA, they say.
Everything here is good. Very good. So good, I say.
It’s great to hear that you’re doing so well, they say.
10
Quinn
I ’m sitting on a wrought-iron bench that’s radiating cold into my ass, feeling bad for myself about the fact that my mother is dead. I let myself do this about once a week. I figure, if I allot time for it, it won’t come creeping up on me at other, less convenient times. This mostly works not at fucking all. I light a cigarette. They’re tricky, these feelings of missing someone. They burrow like gophers, creating tunnels in the matter of your self, riddling everything with holes. I tell myself if I keep puffing I’ll smoke them out eventually. I smoke and I smoke. We’ve just gone to print, it’s not late, but the Neversink Park carousel is closed. The ancient horses are still but their eyes roll wildly, too much white exposed.
I make a pitiful face for no one. I try to conjure a tear, a slow roller, for show. When I was a kid, I used to imagine Carter could see me. Not in a crystal ball or anything, but in his mind. I reasoned that, because I had half his genetic juice, maybe he had the ability to check in. Not that he would ever do it, that he would care. But whenever I lied to my mother, or shoplifted gum, or did any of the dumb shit requisite of youth I always sort of thought Carter would know. So I acted different. I sat up straight even when no one was looking. Ever since I got to Menamon I’ve been doing this again. Alternately trying to look cool, like I don’t give a damn, and trying to look sad, so he’ll feel guilty.
I spot Billy Deep shuffling down the wharf. He has one hand in his jacket pocket and he’s holding a burlap sack. His knit cap is pulled low and he keeps his head down as he walks.
“Hey,” he says, and as he gets closer I see he’s shifty-eyed.
“What’s in the bag?” I say. The burlap wriggles.
“A cat,” he says.
“The fucking proverbial cat of lore? What really?”
“It’s a damn cat, Quinn, would you lower your voice?” He speaks in the hushed tone of the guilty. A mrowling from the bag confirms this.
“All right,” I say, lower. I look up and down the deserted waterfront. “What are you doing with a
“Yes,” I tell Henry. “Of course.” I should know this: When you are married you need to tell people where you are going so they don’t worry, because they love you. And because of logistics.
“How was your first day?” Henry says.
“I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow,” I say. “Right now I am very sleepy.”
Henry falls asleep easily. He is a champion sleeper. I roll around next to him for a while and then creep downstairs. Sometimes you need to stare into the refrigerator glow awhile to get ready for sleeping. But when I open the fridge I see that Henry had made enough dinner for both of us. There is a bottle in there too. Champagne, unopened. My chest constricts.
When I crawl back into bed with him he sighs but does not wake. Already this is more difficult than I’d thought it would be, being each other’s family. I thought that because I loved Henry it would be easy to do the right things but sometimes I forget to be thoughtful. I forget to do what is right. Sometimes I just charge on ahead and do what it is that I want. Tonight my love cannot fix the small thing that I have ruined. I am too late. A barn burner.
I CALL MY parents.
I got a job, I say.
We’re very happy for you, they say.
I’m covering all sorts of real American news, I say. Things that matter to real Americans.
Are we not real Americans? they say. The Gazette isn’t for real Americans?
You know what I mean, I say.
How is Henry? they say.
Henry is good, I say. Fall is a busy planting season.
You missed the Hopper at MoMA, they say.
Everything here is good. Very good. So good, I say.
It’s great to hear that you’re doing so well, they say.
10
Quinn
I ’m sitting on a wrought-iron bench that’s radiating cold into my ass, feeling bad for myself about the fact that my mother is dead. I let myself do this about once a week. I figure, if I allot time for it, it won’t come creeping up on me at other, less convenient times. This mostly works not at fucking all. I light a cigarette. They’re tricky, these feelings of missing someone. They burrow like gophers, creating tunnels in the matter of your self, riddling everything with holes. I tell myself if I keep puffing I’ll smoke them out eventually. I smoke and I smoke. We’ve just gone to print, it’s not late, but the Neversink Park carousel is closed. The ancient horses are still but their eyes roll wildly, too much white exposed.
I make a pitiful face for no one. I try to conjure a tear, a slow roller, for show. When I was a kid, I used to imagine Carter could see me. Not in a crystal ball or anything, but in his mind. I reasoned that, because I had half his genetic juice, maybe he had the ability to check in. Not that he would ever do it, that he would care. But whenever I lied to my mother, or shoplifted gum, or did any of the dumb shit requisite of youth I always sort of thought Carter would know. So I acted different. I sat up straight even when no one was looking. Ever since I got to Menamon I’ve been doing this again. Alternately trying to look cool, like I don’t give a damn, and trying to look sad, so he’ll feel guilty.
I spot Billy Deep shuffling down the wharf. He has one hand in his jacket pocket and he’s holding a burlap sack. His knit cap is pulled low and he keeps his head down as he walks.
“Hey,” he says, and as he gets closer I see he’s shifty-eyed.
“What’s in the bag?” I say. The burlap wriggles.
“A cat,” he says.
“The fucking proverbial cat of lore? What really?”
“It’s a damn cat, Quinn, would you lower your voice?” He speaks in the hushed tone of the guilty. A mrowling from the bag confirms this.
“All right,” I say, lower. I look up and down the deserted waterfront. “What are you doing with a
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