âAnyway, Max has a low fever and is on Motrin. Not too listless. Sarahâs at Graceâs. Iâll get her around five. Should we bring you anything?â
âNo, not with the fever.â He had a bowl of soup waiting for him in the departmentâs fridge, then he taught from six-thirty to nine, then he walked home. âIâll be fine.â
âOkay.â
He hung up. David Lazlo was a force of nature, all right. Martin feared, envied, and loathed him all at once. Fuck him, he thought. Just fuck him. He clicked on his e-mail. Buddies from graduate school sending their rants from Oregon, New York, Arizona: funds cut, classes underenrolled, tenure tracks dissolved, colleagues knitting nooses in their honor. Elizabeth wanting the cassette back. Martha telling him what kind of computer to buy for Sarah. âIâll call you soon,â he wrote Elizabeth.
From four to five his freshman advisees wandered in to review next semesterâs selections. It was hard for him to believe that he could be allowed to think about next semester, all that time eaten away, all that time survived. When the last of their unprepared faces had left, his head felt punched in from gazing at the computer and trying to determine which course after which course had any empty seats left while the little sons and daughters of bitches had just sat there without any plans or predilections at all, willing him to choose their futures. Outside his window the sun sank. There were still two and a half hours of disengaged and disinterested students to face. At least it made him hold off on his drinking. He felt a little delirious.
He was just getting up to go warm his bowl of soup when the door opened. Instinctively, he shrank from it. The children came giggling in in their pink and green overcoats, followed by Lauren with her arms full of Tupperware.
âI thoughtâ¦,â he said, plucking up Max and squeezing him, setting him down and hugging Sarah, who seemed torn between looking at him raptly and ignoring him altogether.
âWell,â Lauren smiled, âwe were going out anyway.â She set on his desk containers of rice, chicken, and broccoli. Always at least one antioxidant.
âThank you so much,â he said.
âAll right, children. Daddy has to work.â
She began to herd them back through the door; they were being ridiculously cheerful and well behaved. He just wanted to hold them all. But he had to work.
âGood-bye,â he called, his eyes glazing, all that weepy sentimentality lurking just below the surface. If he ever let it out, heâd need a bucket and a mop. âI love you,â he said.
âLove you,â Max called over his shoulder.
âBye, Daddy,â Sarah said.
The door shut behind them. They were gone.
He looked at all the Tupperware set on his desk. Whenever it was his turn with the children, he never did this. The fact was, Lauren had been nursing him on and off since Elizabethâs diagnosis had seemed to bury him in his own self-pity and fatalism. At first he could not will himself out of bed, and she took the children each morning until one of them had to go to work, and he could not remember what he said in class, he couldnât bear to talk on the phone to anyone except Elizabeth, he couldnât bear to do anything except scour the medical books and the Internet for her. In his obsession to do somethingâanythingâwhen everyone told him there was nothing to be done, heâd taken Lauren for granted. All gone. She was gone. She had taken the children. He had an hour in the darkening boxcar of an office until he had to teach. He was weepy, just weepy. He just loved her. He just loved them. He couldnât make all that love mean anything, because he couldnât express it satisfactorily. Beneath the complaint and the trauma they made him happy and glad and full. Why couldnât he say it, say it all, say it the right way? He
âNo, not with the fever.â He had a bowl of soup waiting for him in the departmentâs fridge, then he taught from six-thirty to nine, then he walked home. âIâll be fine.â
âOkay.â
He hung up. David Lazlo was a force of nature, all right. Martin feared, envied, and loathed him all at once. Fuck him, he thought. Just fuck him. He clicked on his e-mail. Buddies from graduate school sending their rants from Oregon, New York, Arizona: funds cut, classes underenrolled, tenure tracks dissolved, colleagues knitting nooses in their honor. Elizabeth wanting the cassette back. Martha telling him what kind of computer to buy for Sarah. âIâll call you soon,â he wrote Elizabeth.
From four to five his freshman advisees wandered in to review next semesterâs selections. It was hard for him to believe that he could be allowed to think about next semester, all that time eaten away, all that time survived. When the last of their unprepared faces had left, his head felt punched in from gazing at the computer and trying to determine which course after which course had any empty seats left while the little sons and daughters of bitches had just sat there without any plans or predilections at all, willing him to choose their futures. Outside his window the sun sank. There were still two and a half hours of disengaged and disinterested students to face. At least it made him hold off on his drinking. He felt a little delirious.
He was just getting up to go warm his bowl of soup when the door opened. Instinctively, he shrank from it. The children came giggling in in their pink and green overcoats, followed by Lauren with her arms full of Tupperware.
âI thoughtâ¦,â he said, plucking up Max and squeezing him, setting him down and hugging Sarah, who seemed torn between looking at him raptly and ignoring him altogether.
âWell,â Lauren smiled, âwe were going out anyway.â She set on his desk containers of rice, chicken, and broccoli. Always at least one antioxidant.
âThank you so much,â he said.
âAll right, children. Daddy has to work.â
She began to herd them back through the door; they were being ridiculously cheerful and well behaved. He just wanted to hold them all. But he had to work.
âGood-bye,â he called, his eyes glazing, all that weepy sentimentality lurking just below the surface. If he ever let it out, heâd need a bucket and a mop. âI love you,â he said.
âLove you,â Max called over his shoulder.
âBye, Daddy,â Sarah said.
The door shut behind them. They were gone.
He looked at all the Tupperware set on his desk. Whenever it was his turn with the children, he never did this. The fact was, Lauren had been nursing him on and off since Elizabethâs diagnosis had seemed to bury him in his own self-pity and fatalism. At first he could not will himself out of bed, and she took the children each morning until one of them had to go to work, and he could not remember what he said in class, he couldnât bear to talk on the phone to anyone except Elizabeth, he couldnât bear to do anything except scour the medical books and the Internet for her. In his obsession to do somethingâanythingâwhen everyone told him there was nothing to be done, heâd taken Lauren for granted. All gone. She was gone. She had taken the children. He had an hour in the darkening boxcar of an office until he had to teach. He was weepy, just weepy. He just loved her. He just loved them. He couldnât make all that love mean anything, because he couldnât express it satisfactorily. Beneath the complaint and the trauma they made him happy and glad and full. Why couldnât he say it, say it all, say it the right way? He
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