something rich on the stereo, an old, bluesy Ella Fitzgerald album found in vinyl at Ackerman’s second-hand downtown, withMozart and Brahms and Gershwin and Patsy Cline in the wings. It was long, lingering
New Yorker
articles on obscure cartoonists who died tragically, on forensic geology and charting fashion trends by obsessively reviewing store-security videotapes.
Since Matthew was the odd smell of stale milk on her breasts. It was dribbling from her front in the middle of the afternoon when he’d slept too long. It was staring down at him on the changing table through blurry, sleep-deprived eyes while he wiggled, gurgled, played with her hair, then fountained his pee straight into her downturned face as soon as she’d loosened his pins. It was phoning the diaper service in a panic when their delivery was an hour and a half late and she had no extras on hand. It was rubbing him with talcum powder and playing with his toes in the bathtub, then hauling him out after a sudden and hilarious shit. It was reading him “Jack and the Beanstalk” four hundred and seventeen thousand times, morning, noon, and night, bugging her eyes out whenever she said, “Fresh boys on toast!” just like the giant.
Since Matthew was making love mechanically, after the news and before collapse, once every few weeks if she could remember. It was feeling her body go cold as a milkbag. It was only wanting to wear the same tired sweatsuit, not wanting anyone but Matthew to touch her breasts, to make any physical demands. It was letting the hair grow on her legs and underarms, as if in permanent winter, and getting it cut on top that once quite short. It was lying on the couch with Matthew asleep, drooling on her shoulder, and floating on a sticky, warm, milky current of love that made her want to memorize every dimple of his fat elbows, caress him endlessly, fall into his eyes, closed or otherwise, they were utterly endearing either way. It was going on endlessly to bored friends about trivialities, the feel of his hair, a little wool sweater for sale at thesecond-hand store, hand-knit by someone’s grandmother, with elephants and monkeys and teddy-bear buttons and what a little mister he looked like when he wore it. It was endless sodden wool in her brain so that she could stare for hours at a book of colours and not be able to make a decision one way or the other. To not
care
, really, except on a rudimentary level wanting to stop the physical nausea brought on by the ugliness and disrepair of the kitchen.
“Matthew!” she said, because he had somehow climbed on top of the end table in the living room and was poised to hurl a steel pot-lid at the antique cabinet of crystal figurines moved from her mother’s house. “
Matthew, get down!”
She moved towards him. The floor man was going to come at any moment and she’d accomplished nothing, had been unable to don a decent set of clothes, had failed to run a brush through her hair, which was growing out again now, needed attention she was unprepared to give it.
“
Get down now
!” she said to Matthew, “
or there’s no Dormy
!”
“Yes
, Dormy!” Matthew said. He had wonderful balance and a strong arm and he wanted everything exactly
when
he wanted it.
The lid left his hand, but Julia caught his arm before the follow-through, so the projectile merely dinked off the cabinet door then fell to the floor. Matthew laughed as he twisted.
“Bad!”
Julia said and shook him once before she regained control of herself. “Oh, Matthew!” she said, trembling with anger even as she hugged him. “Just for once,
please
obey me!”
Matthew patted her back gently. He really could be a gentle boy. He said, “There, there,” and put his hand inside her sweatshirt.
“Not now,” she said. The kitchen man was coming any minute.
“Yes now!” Matthew said. Fiddling with her bra, trying to pull her loose. “Nubbies now!” he said and tweaked her left nipple with his soft little fingers.
New Yorker
articles on obscure cartoonists who died tragically, on forensic geology and charting fashion trends by obsessively reviewing store-security videotapes.
Since Matthew was the odd smell of stale milk on her breasts. It was dribbling from her front in the middle of the afternoon when he’d slept too long. It was staring down at him on the changing table through blurry, sleep-deprived eyes while he wiggled, gurgled, played with her hair, then fountained his pee straight into her downturned face as soon as she’d loosened his pins. It was phoning the diaper service in a panic when their delivery was an hour and a half late and she had no extras on hand. It was rubbing him with talcum powder and playing with his toes in the bathtub, then hauling him out after a sudden and hilarious shit. It was reading him “Jack and the Beanstalk” four hundred and seventeen thousand times, morning, noon, and night, bugging her eyes out whenever she said, “Fresh boys on toast!” just like the giant.
Since Matthew was making love mechanically, after the news and before collapse, once every few weeks if she could remember. It was feeling her body go cold as a milkbag. It was only wanting to wear the same tired sweatsuit, not wanting anyone but Matthew to touch her breasts, to make any physical demands. It was letting the hair grow on her legs and underarms, as if in permanent winter, and getting it cut on top that once quite short. It was lying on the couch with Matthew asleep, drooling on her shoulder, and floating on a sticky, warm, milky current of love that made her want to memorize every dimple of his fat elbows, caress him endlessly, fall into his eyes, closed or otherwise, they were utterly endearing either way. It was going on endlessly to bored friends about trivialities, the feel of his hair, a little wool sweater for sale at thesecond-hand store, hand-knit by someone’s grandmother, with elephants and monkeys and teddy-bear buttons and what a little mister he looked like when he wore it. It was endless sodden wool in her brain so that she could stare for hours at a book of colours and not be able to make a decision one way or the other. To not
care
, really, except on a rudimentary level wanting to stop the physical nausea brought on by the ugliness and disrepair of the kitchen.
“Matthew!” she said, because he had somehow climbed on top of the end table in the living room and was poised to hurl a steel pot-lid at the antique cabinet of crystal figurines moved from her mother’s house. “
Matthew, get down!”
She moved towards him. The floor man was going to come at any moment and she’d accomplished nothing, had been unable to don a decent set of clothes, had failed to run a brush through her hair, which was growing out again now, needed attention she was unprepared to give it.
“
Get down now
!” she said to Matthew, “
or there’s no Dormy
!”
“Yes
, Dormy!” Matthew said. He had wonderful balance and a strong arm and he wanted everything exactly
when
he wanted it.
The lid left his hand, but Julia caught his arm before the follow-through, so the projectile merely dinked off the cabinet door then fell to the floor. Matthew laughed as he twisted.
“Bad!”
Julia said and shook him once before she regained control of herself. “Oh, Matthew!” she said, trembling with anger even as she hugged him. “Just for once,
please
obey me!”
Matthew patted her back gently. He really could be a gentle boy. He said, “There, there,” and put his hand inside her sweatshirt.
“Not now,” she said. The kitchen man was coming any minute.
“Yes now!” Matthew said. Fiddling with her bra, trying to pull her loose. “Nubbies now!” he said and tweaked her left nipple with his soft little fingers.
Similar Books
