The Giant's House by Elizabeth McCracken Page B

Caroline. “He said he’d be home by nine.”
    The sleeves of Mrs. Sweatt’s coat covered her hands; the smoke threatened to cover her face. Her skirt was longer than the coat and bunched up in flowered folds around her calves. She stood still for a minute, considering, then silently went to the table and sat down and ground the cigarette out on the edge of a plate.
    â€œPeggy, come to the kitchen with me,” said Caroline. “Help me cut your beautiful cake.”
    Caroline turned on the faucet and washed her hands.
    â€œAn after-dinner walk doesn’t sound so bad to me,” I said, rubbing my stomach. “Nice to take the air after a meal.”
    â€œMissus doesn’t want to walk,” said Caroline. “She wants to spy.”
    In the dining room, Mrs. Sweatt sat rigidly on her chair. “It’s cold outside.”
    Oscar looked through the window at a thermometer attached to the outside sill. “Forty-one. Not too bad. Missus, why don’t you take off your coat.”
    She undid the toggles slowly, top to bottom, then slipped out of it one arm at a time. It flopped over the back of her chair.
    â€œHere,” said Oscar. “Let me help you.” He stood up and walked behind her.
    Mrs. Sweatt took hold of one of the sleeves of the coat as if it were the arm of a favored suitor. “I might go out after.”
    â€œJust stand up a minute.”
    She did, and Oscar pulled out the coat and draped it over the back of her chair. “That better?” he asked.
    She nodded.
    Oscar picked up the plate with the cigarette. “Missus has started smoking again.”
    â€œI picked it up from some friends in the hospital,” she said.
    Caroline passed around slices of cake. The white frosting was gritty with sugar.
    â€œWhy, it’s chocolate,” said Oscar. “Sort of a surprise. Eat your cake, Missus.”
    â€œI don’t want to get fat,” she said.
    â€œYou!” Caroline leaned back to display her tiny gut. “I myself feel like the
Titanic
.”
    â€œBe careful of icebergs,” said Mrs. Sweatt. “I have it on good authority that it’s a terrible thing to sink.”
    Then the front door rattled, and James stepped in, his hair blown back by the wind, his cheeks tweaked pink by the cold. Mrs. Sweatt stood up. Her chair fell back in a dead swoon.
    â€œJim,” she said. She went to him, tugged on the lapels of his coat as if she were getting him ready to go back out again. She was tiny next to him, tiny and voluptuous.
    â€œHow are you feeling, Mom?” He set his hand on her head. Well, maybe he had been avoiding her, but the loving concern on his face was so clear it pained me, and then I was disgusted with myself for envying a boy’s love for his mother.
    â€œI’m okay,” she said. “Here.” She helped him off with his coat. Her hands went all around him, patting his chest, reaching up to touch his shoulder, his cheek. It was as if she wanted to check whether he’d grown while out of her sight, the way some mothers check for cigarette smoke or whiskey breath—though, of course, she was the one likely to smell of either. “Did you have a good time?” she asked. “Did you get supper?”
    â€œStuart’s dad has a darkroom,” said James.
    â€œI
thought
so,” she said. “You smell like chemicals. Go wash.” But she wouldn’t let him go. His glasses had fogged up in the sudden heat of the living room, but he didn’t take them off to clear them, just stood still and let his mother straighten his shirt, feel his hands for chill, smooth his cuffs. Finally she took the glasses from his face—he had to bend down to let her reach—and wiped them on the bottom edge of her sweater.
    She handed them back. “You go ahead now,” she said as he put them back on. “Wash your hands.”
    â€œFirst come say hello,” Caroline