mouthful, he clawed the air, cheeks puffed with rage, until small hands appeared on his shoulders and pulled him back inside. A few seconds later, Myrna replaced him in the window: frazzled and frizzy-haired, her drowsy eyelids beating weakly, but kind-countenanced as always—a cartoonist’s rendition of the archetypal grandma face.
She said flatly, “Christopher, you gotta work tomorrow,” adding, “and where’s your hat?”
“Me and Doc just having some fun,” he replied.
She brightened. “Dr. Cross?”
Reluctantly, Elwin moved out of the shadows, where he’d been cowering ever since Christopher had demanded an ass-bite.
“Oh
hello,
Dr. Cross.” A church-supper smile. Or Rapunzel greeting suitors. “How are
you
tonight?”
This question didn’t normally require contemplation, yet, for several intensely awkward, spotlit moments, Dr. Cross found himself wholly incapable of an answer. How was he tonight? Excellent question . . . other than being trapped in an absurdist nightmare which had begun, so far as he could track its course, when Maura had left him for the liberating sexual tactics of the Chef, and which was now culminating, here, in the blood-spattered, trash-strewn snow, in this dizzying, freakish alternate universe he’d tumbled into when the deer flashed into his headlight beams and his conscience subsequently unraveled him, and
especially
in these last few innocent moments that remained while Big Jerry’s plump, shaking fingers dropped bullets into a gun barrel for the filicidal cataclysm to come, he was fine. Fine. Of course. This almost made him laugh. He was fine.
“Fine,” he lied, with a cheery wave.
“Well,
good,
” she called back. Despite her smile, Elwin could see her waving a hand sideways, with hot insistence, to shoo Big Jerry, whose shadow was violently roaming the bedroom walls. “Will you send Christopher inside, please? He has to work tomorrow, you know.”
“I’ll let him know,” said Elwin, standing five feet behind him.
“Thank you. Well, goodnight, Dr. Cross.”
“Goodnight,” he called back.
Her tone chilled. “Christopher, you need a hat,” she said, before sliding down the window sashes. In fierce, spasmodic slants, the miniblinds came tumbling down behind them.
Immediately, Christopher asked, “You see my beer anywhere?” But his voice was quavery, fissured with hairline cracks. Shaking his head no, Elwin slipped his hands into his pockets. Despite his age, he felt small and childish beneath the window’s rebuke, though not nearly so small and childish as Christopher now appeared, absently kicking at the snow while combing a hand through his gel-spiked hair—subconsciously, or so it seemed, feeling for a nonexistent hat. Christopher’s meager, spindrift mustache, which had previously struck Elwin as foppish, struck him now as something sadder: a failed attempt to challenge Big Jerry’s burly gray one, to defy his father’s croaky, bullying manhood (and, perhaps, that of his twin brother, with his new used boat and fleshy girlfriend) by exerting his own nascent manliness, follicle by tender follicle. From that weedy mustache to his legacy job at Jersey Central, to the beer-drinking to the boat-collecting, it was imitation as insurrection, a simmered bid to defeat his father at his own game. Standing there, in his distressed low-slung jeans and rap-star parka, with a gold-plated chain rung around his neck and dandruff-like snow flecking the coifed black cactus topping his head, he bore the doughy stink of oppression, of undue kneadings and poundings. Elwin suppressed the desire to say something to him, something consoling and avuncular, partly because he knew it would be batted down hard—you didn’t air shit like this, not in Jersey; better yet, you didn’t
think
it—but also because he was oh for two on dispensing wisdom.
Things will work out
didn’t cut it. Clearly, his powder was wet.
Finally, he said, “Thanks for all the help,”
She said flatly, “Christopher, you gotta work tomorrow,” adding, “and where’s your hat?”
“Me and Doc just having some fun,” he replied.
She brightened. “Dr. Cross?”
Reluctantly, Elwin moved out of the shadows, where he’d been cowering ever since Christopher had demanded an ass-bite.
“Oh
hello,
Dr. Cross.” A church-supper smile. Or Rapunzel greeting suitors. “How are
you
tonight?”
This question didn’t normally require contemplation, yet, for several intensely awkward, spotlit moments, Dr. Cross found himself wholly incapable of an answer. How was he tonight? Excellent question . . . other than being trapped in an absurdist nightmare which had begun, so far as he could track its course, when Maura had left him for the liberating sexual tactics of the Chef, and which was now culminating, here, in the blood-spattered, trash-strewn snow, in this dizzying, freakish alternate universe he’d tumbled into when the deer flashed into his headlight beams and his conscience subsequently unraveled him, and
especially
in these last few innocent moments that remained while Big Jerry’s plump, shaking fingers dropped bullets into a gun barrel for the filicidal cataclysm to come, he was fine. Fine. Of course. This almost made him laugh. He was fine.
“Fine,” he lied, with a cheery wave.
“Well,
good,
” she called back. Despite her smile, Elwin could see her waving a hand sideways, with hot insistence, to shoo Big Jerry, whose shadow was violently roaming the bedroom walls. “Will you send Christopher inside, please? He has to work tomorrow, you know.”
“I’ll let him know,” said Elwin, standing five feet behind him.
“Thank you. Well, goodnight, Dr. Cross.”
“Goodnight,” he called back.
Her tone chilled. “Christopher, you need a hat,” she said, before sliding down the window sashes. In fierce, spasmodic slants, the miniblinds came tumbling down behind them.
Immediately, Christopher asked, “You see my beer anywhere?” But his voice was quavery, fissured with hairline cracks. Shaking his head no, Elwin slipped his hands into his pockets. Despite his age, he felt small and childish beneath the window’s rebuke, though not nearly so small and childish as Christopher now appeared, absently kicking at the snow while combing a hand through his gel-spiked hair—subconsciously, or so it seemed, feeling for a nonexistent hat. Christopher’s meager, spindrift mustache, which had previously struck Elwin as foppish, struck him now as something sadder: a failed attempt to challenge Big Jerry’s burly gray one, to defy his father’s croaky, bullying manhood (and, perhaps, that of his twin brother, with his new used boat and fleshy girlfriend) by exerting his own nascent manliness, follicle by tender follicle. From that weedy mustache to his legacy job at Jersey Central, to the beer-drinking to the boat-collecting, it was imitation as insurrection, a simmered bid to defeat his father at his own game. Standing there, in his distressed low-slung jeans and rap-star parka, with a gold-plated chain rung around his neck and dandruff-like snow flecking the coifed black cactus topping his head, he bore the doughy stink of oppression, of undue kneadings and poundings. Elwin suppressed the desire to say something to him, something consoling and avuncular, partly because he knew it would be batted down hard—you didn’t air shit like this, not in Jersey; better yet, you didn’t
think
it—but also because he was oh for two on dispensing wisdom.
Things will work out
didn’t cut it. Clearly, his powder was wet.
Finally, he said, “Thanks for all the help,”
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