this?”
She blinked big and slow, like a baby doll. “I’m not the one who has to worry about making money,” she said quietly.
“What? Can you say that a little louder, please?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?” he yelled.
“Not everybody wants to make lots of money.” She said, in a too-soothing voice, an imitation-maple-syrup voice, “Some of us
would rather have less money and more integrity,” softly, with too much sincerity, and he felt the weight of his empty pockets
and empty wallet, and he felt last night’s alcohol rise, he heard his own words come out with a wisp of slur, he watched her
slump and make herself small like a feeble little animal, watched her seal her mouth in a tiny, fake smile.
“You’re still just a little mouse. Look at you, skinny little mouse. You were supposed to be the strong one.”
Eliza wobbled a little as she stood. She worked her lips into a wavering smile. She was still frail, and she looked afraid,
but he hadn’t noticed how tall she was, how she towered over him as he sank into the couch.
“Welcome home,” she said, and she turned and went into the kitchen. He heard Eliza and Nora mumble in conspiracy, heard Nora
laugh and Eliza make those murine, sad sounds of hers.
Belly rose, rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms, massaged the scars on his hips. He wound his way upstairs and to the bathroom.
He turned on the water and tested with his hand until the temperature was just right. He slipped out of his boxers and tried
to climb over the rim of the clawfoot tub, but his hips would not allow it, so he sat on the porcelain ledge and carefully
swung one leg over and then the other, trying to ignore the fact that he was old. He lifted his arms and turned like a ballerina
once under the spray, then turned the water off and stepped out and shook himself like a dog. He estimated the whole operation
took under fifteen seconds.
Money or time, his grandfather always told him, a man can have money or time. He had no assets now, bank accounts depleted,
pockets empty, and the days stretched out before him endlessly, punctuated here and there with a few minor appointments. He
had three or four days in which to find a job, to find an answer to the inevitable question that would be posed to him Sunday
at Stevie Ray’s confirmation: What now?
He knew Loretta had his money, and he knew she was still somewhere in his town. He could feel it.
He walked up one more flight to the stifling attic, took out a clean pair of jeans and another white button-down shirt. One
of the things you long for in prison is to wear your own clothes, and now he saw his wardrobe contained replicas of the same
outfit, day after day in a kind of no-man’s uniform.
His wife, Myrna, used to read the same book to the girls every night, a big red hardcover they’d taken out of the library
and never returned. It was called something like
When I Grow Up,
and the one night a week he was there at bedtime, he always read it to them. It showed a Mexican fireman, a white lady-doctor,
a black policeman, and a black lady-teacher. He knew it was supposed to show the girls that they could have any kind of job
they wanted—black or white, man or woman, it didn’t matter—but somehow the book had shut off his imagination: now, when he
tried to summon up some vision of his future employment, the only choices before him were those four.
He made his way downstairs and to the kitchen, where Nora was waiting for him, and he told her, “I’ve decided to be a Mexican
fireman.”
She said, “Great. Let’s go. Your appointment’s in fifteen minutes.”
“Where’s Eliza?”
“Work,” she said, lifting up the baby in her arms. “Work. Heard of it?”
“What about the boys?”
“Swimming at the Radcliffes. Let’s go.”
He watched the strip malls flicker like a TV screen along the highway as they drove to Ballston Spa. The town’s Main
She blinked big and slow, like a baby doll. “I’m not the one who has to worry about making money,” she said quietly.
“What? Can you say that a little louder, please?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?” he yelled.
“Not everybody wants to make lots of money.” She said, in a too-soothing voice, an imitation-maple-syrup voice, “Some of us
would rather have less money and more integrity,” softly, with too much sincerity, and he felt the weight of his empty pockets
and empty wallet, and he felt last night’s alcohol rise, he heard his own words come out with a wisp of slur, he watched her
slump and make herself small like a feeble little animal, watched her seal her mouth in a tiny, fake smile.
“You’re still just a little mouse. Look at you, skinny little mouse. You were supposed to be the strong one.”
Eliza wobbled a little as she stood. She worked her lips into a wavering smile. She was still frail, and she looked afraid,
but he hadn’t noticed how tall she was, how she towered over him as he sank into the couch.
“Welcome home,” she said, and she turned and went into the kitchen. He heard Eliza and Nora mumble in conspiracy, heard Nora
laugh and Eliza make those murine, sad sounds of hers.
Belly rose, rubbed his eyes, stretched his arms, massaged the scars on his hips. He wound his way upstairs and to the bathroom.
He turned on the water and tested with his hand until the temperature was just right. He slipped out of his boxers and tried
to climb over the rim of the clawfoot tub, but his hips would not allow it, so he sat on the porcelain ledge and carefully
swung one leg over and then the other, trying to ignore the fact that he was old. He lifted his arms and turned like a ballerina
once under the spray, then turned the water off and stepped out and shook himself like a dog. He estimated the whole operation
took under fifteen seconds.
Money or time, his grandfather always told him, a man can have money or time. He had no assets now, bank accounts depleted,
pockets empty, and the days stretched out before him endlessly, punctuated here and there with a few minor appointments. He
had three or four days in which to find a job, to find an answer to the inevitable question that would be posed to him Sunday
at Stevie Ray’s confirmation: What now?
He knew Loretta had his money, and he knew she was still somewhere in his town. He could feel it.
He walked up one more flight to the stifling attic, took out a clean pair of jeans and another white button-down shirt. One
of the things you long for in prison is to wear your own clothes, and now he saw his wardrobe contained replicas of the same
outfit, day after day in a kind of no-man’s uniform.
His wife, Myrna, used to read the same book to the girls every night, a big red hardcover they’d taken out of the library
and never returned. It was called something like
When I Grow Up,
and the one night a week he was there at bedtime, he always read it to them. It showed a Mexican fireman, a white lady-doctor,
a black policeman, and a black lady-teacher. He knew it was supposed to show the girls that they could have any kind of job
they wanted—black or white, man or woman, it didn’t matter—but somehow the book had shut off his imagination: now, when he
tried to summon up some vision of his future employment, the only choices before him were those four.
He made his way downstairs and to the kitchen, where Nora was waiting for him, and he told her, “I’ve decided to be a Mexican
fireman.”
She said, “Great. Let’s go. Your appointment’s in fifteen minutes.”
“Where’s Eliza?”
“Work,” she said, lifting up the baby in her arms. “Work. Heard of it?”
“What about the boys?”
“Swimming at the Radcliffes. Let’s go.”
He watched the strip malls flicker like a TV screen along the highway as they drove to Ballston Spa. The town’s Main
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