everything the past few days had been building towards that revelation, and also vaguely aware that it wasn’t the kind of insight likely to be true if ushered in by such a fanfare of feeling. Nevertheless, she repeated it silently to herself, that Saturday afternoon: From this moment on I will be happy – as the three of them went shopping at the second-hand stores around St Mark’s Place. And waited for Jack and Charles to meet up with them for supper in town when they finished their round of golf.
‘I can’t believe it’s already your last night,’ she said, holding her mother around the waist, and stepping awkwardly to keep stride behind her.
Joanne turned round and took her daughter’s face in her hands. She gave Amy a hard look. ‘You won’t miss us. I know you girls. And such a nice young man.’
‘It means so much to me to hear you say that. I don’t trust anything I think when you’re not here.’
‘I know you girls,’ Joanne repeated. ‘You’ve got a real nice set-up here, if you don’t mind my saying.’
It wasn’t quite what Amy expected to hear, but close enough that she could ignore the difference.
*
It was pretty clear from the start something had gone wrong. First of all, Jack and Charles were almost an hour late to the restaurant, a small French bistro somewhere by Gramercy Park. Andy had drunk two glasses already from the bottle they ordered, and seemed quietly detached. Amy finished the basket of bread and asked for another. They came in at last looking worn out, though Charles put on a better show and kissed Joanne before sitting down. Perhaps, Amy thought, they’ve had a fight over something, or one of them lost badly, embarrassing both. But if anything, they seemed rather complicitousthan otherwise. The mad notion ran through Amy’s head that they’d gone to a whore house together, but it didn’t strike her as the kind of thing Charles would get up to. She realized then, with a shock, that she could be led to believe almost anything about her father at that point. She had been cut off from the family secrets, and now everything seemed possible.
It surprised her they weren’t more apologetic. Charles said something about catching rush hour coming through the tunnel, and they wanted to drop off his clubs and freshen up before going downtown. Still, he looked tired. There was a drift of pink in the corners of his eyes, and the evening stubble, which usually suited him so well, had grown too long, and curled lightly around the line of his jaw. It gave him a traveller’s appearance: the air of a man indifferent to present circumstances. Yet he made an effort. His eyes were bright, and the skin across his cheeks had the taut sheen of a forced expression or a fever. He chattered more than anyone at dinner, often amusingly, humbly recounting the misfortunes of his play. He had had the yips, he said, and explained, that the yips was what you got when you thought you could play a game and you couldn’t, and were trying to account for the discrepancy. The yips was a way of getting from A to Z without ever getting close to B. But that wasn’t all he had: and listed, in the manner of physical ailments, slices, hooks, fliers, and, by way of symptoms, roughs, sandtraps, water hazards, and a variety of lesser known birds. Handicaps didn’t come into it. There were some things you couldn’t put a number on.
Amy’s heart went out to him. She imagined saying to Charles afterwards when they were alone, or perhaps whispering to him over the phone that night, when she took the receiver into the bathroom with her, that last nights were always long and dull, no matter how you tried to cheer them up, and she couldn’t say how grateful she felt to him for doing his best. Jack ate hungrily though without much sign of pleasure – out of pure appetite it seemed. He complained ofone of their playing partners, a little Jewish guy, Reuben Kranz. ‘A real piece of work. Kept telling me how much
‘I can’t believe it’s already your last night,’ she said, holding her mother around the waist, and stepping awkwardly to keep stride behind her.
Joanne turned round and took her daughter’s face in her hands. She gave Amy a hard look. ‘You won’t miss us. I know you girls. And such a nice young man.’
‘It means so much to me to hear you say that. I don’t trust anything I think when you’re not here.’
‘I know you girls,’ Joanne repeated. ‘You’ve got a real nice set-up here, if you don’t mind my saying.’
It wasn’t quite what Amy expected to hear, but close enough that she could ignore the difference.
*
It was pretty clear from the start something had gone wrong. First of all, Jack and Charles were almost an hour late to the restaurant, a small French bistro somewhere by Gramercy Park. Andy had drunk two glasses already from the bottle they ordered, and seemed quietly detached. Amy finished the basket of bread and asked for another. They came in at last looking worn out, though Charles put on a better show and kissed Joanne before sitting down. Perhaps, Amy thought, they’ve had a fight over something, or one of them lost badly, embarrassing both. But if anything, they seemed rather complicitousthan otherwise. The mad notion ran through Amy’s head that they’d gone to a whore house together, but it didn’t strike her as the kind of thing Charles would get up to. She realized then, with a shock, that she could be led to believe almost anything about her father at that point. She had been cut off from the family secrets, and now everything seemed possible.
It surprised her they weren’t more apologetic. Charles said something about catching rush hour coming through the tunnel, and they wanted to drop off his clubs and freshen up before going downtown. Still, he looked tired. There was a drift of pink in the corners of his eyes, and the evening stubble, which usually suited him so well, had grown too long, and curled lightly around the line of his jaw. It gave him a traveller’s appearance: the air of a man indifferent to present circumstances. Yet he made an effort. His eyes were bright, and the skin across his cheeks had the taut sheen of a forced expression or a fever. He chattered more than anyone at dinner, often amusingly, humbly recounting the misfortunes of his play. He had had the yips, he said, and explained, that the yips was what you got when you thought you could play a game and you couldn’t, and were trying to account for the discrepancy. The yips was a way of getting from A to Z without ever getting close to B. But that wasn’t all he had: and listed, in the manner of physical ailments, slices, hooks, fliers, and, by way of symptoms, roughs, sandtraps, water hazards, and a variety of lesser known birds. Handicaps didn’t come into it. There were some things you couldn’t put a number on.
Amy’s heart went out to him. She imagined saying to Charles afterwards when they were alone, or perhaps whispering to him over the phone that night, when she took the receiver into the bathroom with her, that last nights were always long and dull, no matter how you tried to cheer them up, and she couldn’t say how grateful she felt to him for doing his best. Jack ate hungrily though without much sign of pleasure – out of pure appetite it seemed. He complained ofone of their playing partners, a little Jewish guy, Reuben Kranz. ‘A real piece of work. Kept telling me how much
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