have a little think about.”
“And what might that be?” asked Diane.
“Just this,” said Walter. “Try doing this. Try seeing yourself, I don’t know, a year from now, then three, five, ten years out. Try asking yourself what things might look like.”
“What for?”
“It’s a good exercise. I do it all the time. Humor me, Diane. Bear with me.”
Diane shrugged her wonderful, girlish shoulders. “Ten years,” said Walter, “
snap
, like that. And now you’re twenty-six—okay?—with a ten-year-old kid in your life.”
“Is your point that you know how to add up, Walter?”
Walter threw up his hands, one of which had a cookie in it. “Is that what you want when you’re twenty-six? I’m thirty-four, and I can tell you, you don’t. What you want to do—what you tell me you want to do—is attend a good American college and really
make
something of your life.”
“That would be good, but—”
“Listen,” said Walter. “Do yourself a favor. Don’t decide anything at the moment, okay? Just do that, please. For your own good, Diane. Rest, watch TV, get a good night’s sleep, then let’s get together and have a talk about your future. A really good talk, you and me.”
She didn’t reply. She didn’t even look at him. “Diane,” he said, “you have to believe me when I say to you that, whatever you decide, you can count on my support. If it’s college, I’ll help. If it’s not, I’ll help, too. I’m not going to shirk my duties, believe that. I only want beautiful things for you.”
And how did she react to this? To this fresh reinforcement of his genuine sincerity? To his grasping, once again, at the straw of his own decency? She reacted by saying, “Not again, Walter.
Please
, not again.
Please
don’t feed me that stale line.”
The next day, to his overwhelming relief, Diane decided to stay the course. Who knew why? It didn’t matter why. Baby Doe, without a doubt,was going to be adopted, and he, Walter, was going to go home, like a sailor who’d been on a long sea voyage that included sharks, scurvy, pirates, a typhoon, and a broken mast en route.
“Diane,” he said, “I think you’re doing the right thing in a situation where, really, there’s no right thing, only lesser evils and greater evils, and that’s the problem with life, for me—it doesn’t always go the way I think it should, it’s not always under my control.”
He thought he was speaking to her from the same corner of the ring, or from a page they shared, but Diane held her gut as if sickened by his observations and said, “I don’t need a lecture, Walter.”
“Okay.”
“Your problem with life—it’ll have to wait.”
“I see that.”
“I’m incapable of talking about your problems right now.”
“Let’s not talk about them.”
“The deal is, Walter, you’re the definition of a wanker. You need to understand this:
you are a wanker
. Wanker, okay? What’s the American? Just look it up. Wanker.”
“I’ll look it up,” he said gruffly, and left.
Exhausted, he called Lydia from “Baltimore.” “I’m worn out,” he said, “and looking forward to getting home. I’m really, really looking forward to getting home.”
But he couldn’t go home. Not quite yet. There was one more night of this mire to be endured, and of watching motel television with a headache. He felt buoyed, though, because the whole thing was nearly over—all of it except for the blackmail part, the paying-through-the-teeth part, the arm-and-the-leg part that there was nothing to be done about. But the dangerous part, the heart-soul-and-life-rending part, Walter believed that was done.
That night, Walter dreamed. He dreamed he was standing in the Newborn Viewing Area watching Baby Doe through glass. Then a nurse appeared, plucked up Baby Doe, brought him to the window, and displayed him for Walter’s benefit. “The logical thing would be to kill him now,” she said through the pane.
In the morning,
“And what might that be?” asked Diane.
“Just this,” said Walter. “Try doing this. Try seeing yourself, I don’t know, a year from now, then three, five, ten years out. Try asking yourself what things might look like.”
“What for?”
“It’s a good exercise. I do it all the time. Humor me, Diane. Bear with me.”
Diane shrugged her wonderful, girlish shoulders. “Ten years,” said Walter, “
snap
, like that. And now you’re twenty-six—okay?—with a ten-year-old kid in your life.”
“Is your point that you know how to add up, Walter?”
Walter threw up his hands, one of which had a cookie in it. “Is that what you want when you’re twenty-six? I’m thirty-four, and I can tell you, you don’t. What you want to do—what you tell me you want to do—is attend a good American college and really
make
something of your life.”
“That would be good, but—”
“Listen,” said Walter. “Do yourself a favor. Don’t decide anything at the moment, okay? Just do that, please. For your own good, Diane. Rest, watch TV, get a good night’s sleep, then let’s get together and have a talk about your future. A really good talk, you and me.”
She didn’t reply. She didn’t even look at him. “Diane,” he said, “you have to believe me when I say to you that, whatever you decide, you can count on my support. If it’s college, I’ll help. If it’s not, I’ll help, too. I’m not going to shirk my duties, believe that. I only want beautiful things for you.”
And how did she react to this? To this fresh reinforcement of his genuine sincerity? To his grasping, once again, at the straw of his own decency? She reacted by saying, “Not again, Walter.
Please
, not again.
Please
don’t feed me that stale line.”
The next day, to his overwhelming relief, Diane decided to stay the course. Who knew why? It didn’t matter why. Baby Doe, without a doubt,was going to be adopted, and he, Walter, was going to go home, like a sailor who’d been on a long sea voyage that included sharks, scurvy, pirates, a typhoon, and a broken mast en route.
“Diane,” he said, “I think you’re doing the right thing in a situation where, really, there’s no right thing, only lesser evils and greater evils, and that’s the problem with life, for me—it doesn’t always go the way I think it should, it’s not always under my control.”
He thought he was speaking to her from the same corner of the ring, or from a page they shared, but Diane held her gut as if sickened by his observations and said, “I don’t need a lecture, Walter.”
“Okay.”
“Your problem with life—it’ll have to wait.”
“I see that.”
“I’m incapable of talking about your problems right now.”
“Let’s not talk about them.”
“The deal is, Walter, you’re the definition of a wanker. You need to understand this:
you are a wanker
. Wanker, okay? What’s the American? Just look it up. Wanker.”
“I’ll look it up,” he said gruffly, and left.
Exhausted, he called Lydia from “Baltimore.” “I’m worn out,” he said, “and looking forward to getting home. I’m really, really looking forward to getting home.”
But he couldn’t go home. Not quite yet. There was one more night of this mire to be endured, and of watching motel television with a headache. He felt buoyed, though, because the whole thing was nearly over—all of it except for the blackmail part, the paying-through-the-teeth part, the arm-and-the-leg part that there was nothing to be done about. But the dangerous part, the heart-soul-and-life-rending part, Walter believed that was done.
That night, Walter dreamed. He dreamed he was standing in the Newborn Viewing Area watching Baby Doe through glass. Then a nurse appeared, plucked up Baby Doe, brought him to the window, and displayed him for Walter’s benefit. “The logical thing would be to kill him now,” she said through the pane.
In the morning,
Similar Books
