yellow sponge, he did not. They disputed it—do you save the best 'til last or plunge straight in for what you like. He said the best should always come last; she laughed, shook her head, and breast-fed while she ate and smoked, dropping cake crumbs on Henry's forehead.
“When we go,” she said, tapping her cigarette into the ashtray, “I want to live in an old house in the country. I want us tofind our favourite place there, somewhere in the house, and whenever I stand in that place I want you to notice me.” She stirred her coffee without looking away from him. “When you stand there I'll notice you. I'll say, ‘There's Jake, my husband, my Jake.' When we stand there together we'll make sure we look each other in the eye. The first time we find that place we'll make love there. We'll leave a stain. No one will know it's there, just us.”
He smiled and held her gaze. “I thought you didn't want to go.”
“I don't. I'm watching that cherry tree there.” With her cigarette she gestured out of the window behind him. “It's very early in bloom. It made me think—I don't know.” She shrugged and looked beyond him, but not at the tree. “It just made me think, what's the point? What's the point in holding on.”
“We can come back.”
“No, we can't think of it that way. When we go, we go. We find our place in the house and we act as if it was ours all along.”
Having just inhaled a ball of smoke he let it out quickly in anticipation, almost excitement. “That's how I feel, Helen. We go. We stay. We make it home. To Henry it will always be home.”
She rested her cigarette in the ashtray, finished her cake, and took Henry from her breast, smoothing down her blouse.
“And they took their journey from Succoth, and encamped in Etham, in the edge of the wilderness,”
he said, leaning back, waiting for her response. “It's from Exodus, Helen. From the Bible.”
She raised her brows. “You think I don't know that?” she teased. “I don't like the sound of
the edge of the wilderness
very much. Couldn't you have remembered a different quote?”
“We'll leave this great sprawling city of Succoth behind, and on the edge of the wilderness we'll find a cherry tree—”
“And it won't be a wilderness anymore.”
“It will be ours.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” She picked up the cigarette, and looking at it distrustfully, took one last drag and put it out.
Instead of taking the Underground they took the bus back through the city so that they could see it one last time. He wanted to look hard at the new world of tower blocks, eructations of concrete, structures escaping the sky.
“Did you see how those monkeys looked at us?” Helen said as they moved along. “Did you see how perceptive they are? They see everything, they see us truly.”
He nodded. “Yes, they're uncanny.” He formed rings around his eyes with his fingers. “Their eyes are like this, can you imagine human eyes being like this? Terrifying.”
“The first monkey has just come back from space alive, did you know that?” Helen said. “And there are some images of the earth taken on that space mission. If nothing else,” she tucked her hair behind her ear, “mankind's existence is utterly justified by this gift it will give to earth, the gift of sight, a sort of consciousness.”
Eventually he rested his head back and let the motion of the bus carry a Buddy Holly tune through his mind, eroding the words and thoughts: thoughts of Helen and how she had excited him just then in the café by the mere fact that they had
agreed
on something vital. It was such a powerful state, to be inagreement, like two streams meeting to form a river. Thoughts also of how strange it was, getting to know her. They had married so fast and unthinkingly, not so much through passion but through mutual and unspoken logic. What was the point in two people being alone? He desperately did not want to be alone. And now he would have to justify their
“When we go,” she said, tapping her cigarette into the ashtray, “I want to live in an old house in the country. I want us tofind our favourite place there, somewhere in the house, and whenever I stand in that place I want you to notice me.” She stirred her coffee without looking away from him. “When you stand there I'll notice you. I'll say, ‘There's Jake, my husband, my Jake.' When we stand there together we'll make sure we look each other in the eye. The first time we find that place we'll make love there. We'll leave a stain. No one will know it's there, just us.”
He smiled and held her gaze. “I thought you didn't want to go.”
“I don't. I'm watching that cherry tree there.” With her cigarette she gestured out of the window behind him. “It's very early in bloom. It made me think—I don't know.” She shrugged and looked beyond him, but not at the tree. “It just made me think, what's the point? What's the point in holding on.”
“We can come back.”
“No, we can't think of it that way. When we go, we go. We find our place in the house and we act as if it was ours all along.”
Having just inhaled a ball of smoke he let it out quickly in anticipation, almost excitement. “That's how I feel, Helen. We go. We stay. We make it home. To Henry it will always be home.”
She rested her cigarette in the ashtray, finished her cake, and took Henry from her breast, smoothing down her blouse.
“And they took their journey from Succoth, and encamped in Etham, in the edge of the wilderness,”
he said, leaning back, waiting for her response. “It's from Exodus, Helen. From the Bible.”
She raised her brows. “You think I don't know that?” she teased. “I don't like the sound of
the edge of the wilderness
very much. Couldn't you have remembered a different quote?”
“We'll leave this great sprawling city of Succoth behind, and on the edge of the wilderness we'll find a cherry tree—”
“And it won't be a wilderness anymore.”
“It will be ours.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” She picked up the cigarette, and looking at it distrustfully, took one last drag and put it out.
Instead of taking the Underground they took the bus back through the city so that they could see it one last time. He wanted to look hard at the new world of tower blocks, eructations of concrete, structures escaping the sky.
“Did you see how those monkeys looked at us?” Helen said as they moved along. “Did you see how perceptive they are? They see everything, they see us truly.”
He nodded. “Yes, they're uncanny.” He formed rings around his eyes with his fingers. “Their eyes are like this, can you imagine human eyes being like this? Terrifying.”
“The first monkey has just come back from space alive, did you know that?” Helen said. “And there are some images of the earth taken on that space mission. If nothing else,” she tucked her hair behind her ear, “mankind's existence is utterly justified by this gift it will give to earth, the gift of sight, a sort of consciousness.”
Eventually he rested his head back and let the motion of the bus carry a Buddy Holly tune through his mind, eroding the words and thoughts: thoughts of Helen and how she had excited him just then in the café by the mere fact that they had
agreed
on something vital. It was such a powerful state, to be inagreement, like two streams meeting to form a river. Thoughts also of how strange it was, getting to know her. They had married so fast and unthinkingly, not so much through passion but through mutual and unspoken logic. What was the point in two people being alone? He desperately did not want to be alone. And now he would have to justify their
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