“What is that, Milo?”
“Yevgeny Detmeyer’s on his way out — to Chicago, I think. At least I got that much.” Through the door I saw him spit. “Good riddance to the bastard.”
“Oh, honey, I wonder if that’s why it happened so suddenly.”
“Suddenly? I left fifteen years ago, Helena.”
Paulie said, “Are we moving or aren’t we? Mom, what happened?”
“Your father and I will have to discuss it.”
“Oh, no we won’t.”
“Of course we will. We can talk about it after dinner. But right now we want to hear your thoughts about it, kids.” She turned. “Tell us what you think of the news.”
“It’s not news, Helena.” He strode back to the table and pulled out his chair. “I like it fine right here. That’s the news. One crappy last-minute offer from a washed-up tyrant doesn’t change one goddamn thing. I’m fine right where I am.”
“I am, too, but—”
“It’s too late, Helena.”
“Of course it’s not.”
“It is.”
“Milo. Please.”
“Helena, I already said no to them.” Then he sat down, took another bite of pork, and said, “So, kids, what do you think of that news?”
Thomson’s Lamp
I FOLLOWED THE sound up the bed of the creek. It wasn’t coming from the beaver marsh. As I moved upstream, it grew louder. A dull, steady cracking, like the unhurried blow of a hammer. The sun had just risen, and I was a half hour into my dose. I’d taken a strong one.
At the peak of a rise, I climbed into a pine tree. When I reached a certain height, I saw him. He was a short way ahead in the clearing, swinging a branch against a tree. After one of the blows, the branch flew from his grip, and he picked it up again, stumbling. He swung it against the next tree, falling over when it hit. Again it flew into the brush. Again he rose, stumbling, and set off after it.
—
THAT NIGHT AT dinner, the sign above my mother’s head read:
I HAVE BEEN WOUNDED
I looked over at Bernie, who was crowded into the corner on his mat. He wouldn’t meet my eye. I turned to Paulie, who took no notice. Mom had made hamburgers. My sister was eating hers the way she always did, as though she’d never tasted one before. After each bite, she opened the bun and looked inside.
“So, Paulie,” I said. “How was your day?”
She looked up curiously. “What?”
“How was your day?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how was your day?”
She glanced at my mother. “Did something happen to him?”
My father was examining me, too, tearing off bites of his burger and eyeing me across the table like a cop deciding whether to pull his handcuffs.
That’s when my mother made a sound — a single high-pitched gulp that might not have been so startling if it had been included among wails or sobs, or even among a string of odd laughs. But it wasn’t. It stood there alone, a solitary, warbling gasp like the call of a loon. She took a sip of water and kept the glass at her lips.
“What on earth was that?” said my father.
“Just be quiet, Dad,” said Paulie.
He tore off another bite of burger. “Was it Princeton?”
“Come on, Dad.”
“Is that what you’re crying about? About Princeton University? Well, I’ll tell you”—he looked around the table—“I’ll say it again. Fuck. Princeton. University.”
My mother set down her glass. “Do you really feel that way?”
“I feel exactly that way.”
“Why, Milo?”
“Because it’s the truth. It’s all a waste.”
“What is, Milo? What exactly is a waste?”
He dropped the burger onto his plate. Like a stage direction, an arrow of ketchup appeared on the tablecloth, pointing at me. He looked down at it. “My son, for one. He’s wasted his entire life.”
Bernie barked. At the sound, my roll breathed in. “Ah,” I said. “Interesting.”
“You,” he said, thrusting his chin at me. “You’re going to throw everything away.”
There was a silence. I watched his words drift down like snow in a paperweight.
“Well,” I said mildly. “I’m not sure what any of that means.”
My father’s face reddened. “I know all about you, you lazy little fuck. Do you hear me?”
“What?” said my mother.
“What exactly do you know, Dad?”
“I know that you’re never going to make anything out of yourself, for one. That, I know for goddamn sure.”
“What?” said my mother. “How can you say that to your son, Milo?”
“Because it’s the truth, Helena. Because someone around here has to tell him the goddamn truth for once in his life. He’s a fucking waste of talent. Do you all hear me? Waste of brains. Waste of life. Waste of everything I’ve ever given him, right down a hole.”
“What on earth, Milo?”
“Every fucking thing I ever gave him. Which is all he goddamn has.”
Mom rose. “What in God’s name have you ever given him besides your — oh, you’re some kind of creature.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” I said.
“No, it’s not,” said Paulie.
My mother said, “My Lord, why I ever — what on earth have you been doing out there in that shed, Milo?”
“Why you ever what, Helena?”
Paulie said, “Married you.”
“Oh, is that it?” Dad rose now. “Is that what you were going to say, Helena?”
My mother didn’t answer.
Inside me, a crack opened.
“Well, you’re right,” he said. “You should never have married me. You should have stuck with someone at your own level.”
“Please,” I said. “Both of you — why don’t we all stop? Let’s just sit back down and eat these burgers.”
“You two stay out of it,” said Mom. She was pulling on the cord of the floor lamp now so that the light was going on and off. “You mean, I should have stuck to someone on a civilized level? Instead of some egomaniac—”
“Hold on, everybody,” I said.
“No. Go on, Helena. Please, absolutely — go on. Some egomaniac, who what? Whose work has never amounted to one fucking thing. Is that what you were going to say?”
“Children,” said my mother. “Outside now, please — both of you.” She turned to him. “How dare you?”
Paulie said, “We’re staying right here, Mom.”
“You little cunt,” said my father.
“Oh, my God,” said my sister.
“Oh, that’s great,” said Mom. “Another brilliant one, Milo. Milo Andret, Ph.D. After fifteen years, that’s what you come up with?”
“You were never smart enough, were you? You wanted everyone at Princeton University to think you were halfway uncommon. Then everybody at Fabricus College for Women. Now everybody in the stinking fucking woods of central fucking Michigan. Sweet little good-hearted Helena Pierce. But you’re not. You’re—”
Paulie said, “She married you because she felt sorry for you.”
Right, I thought: of course.