“Sure,” Carla said and smiled. She gave him her hand.
His trembling continued while he held it. “There are plenty of black children there,” he said softly.
She kissed him goodbye on the cheek. She had never done that before; he looked startled. She felt wild and happy, eager to get on with her life. She hurried across the street and up to her apartment. It was just after lunch and she would have plenty of time to prepare a meal for Manny when he got home.
Only he was already home. She discovered him in the living room wearing his handyman’s work pants. His shirt was off. His thick powerful chest was almost hairless, the skin dark enough so that anyone might think he had a tan. He had a fifth of rum in his right hand, dangling there as if it were a soda bottle. It seemed to be half gone. She had never seen him drink anything other than beer and never more than two.
Manny looked at her as she stood in the doorway with a mild almost uncomprehending stare.
“Remember me?” she said, trying to be cheerful.
He grunted and took a slug from the bottle. Some of it ran down the side of his mouth.
“You’ll make yourself sick,” she said. “You don’t drink.” She went over to the couch and took hold of the bottle. Manny held on and stared at her.
“Bitch,” he said in a mumble.
“Okay,” she said and gently pulled the bottle away. She put it on the coffee table.
Manny spread his arms wide, resting them on the backrest of the couch. “We’re rich,” he said. He slurred the words. “We’re as rich as those fucking tenants I slave for.” Manny tried to laugh, but the sound he made was more like a moan. His head bobbed unsteadily. “That fucking lawyer called. They made some kind of mistake — I didn’t understand. But they offered more than—” Manny tried to get up. He lifted the upper half of himself off the couch but had to fall back. “We got half a million dollars.” He laughed. “Five hundred fucking thousand dollars.” He laughed again. Tears were in his eyes, his head weaved and bobbed, and he kept laughing, a sad giggling chortle. “Unfuckingbelievable. I’m a rich man,” he said and the laughter stopped. He gagged. She sat next to him, put her arms around his strong shoulders and was ready for him to be sick. Instead the gagging became sobs. “I’m so fucking rich,” he blubbered through the weeping. “I’m so fucking smart,” he mumbled and then again, “I’m so fucking rich. I’m so fucking smart.”
She hugged him and shushed him and kissed him. He didn’t cry for long. He smelled sickly sweet. After he had been quiet for a while he said in a croaked voice, “I love you.”
They were going to be all right. She coaxed him off the couch and guided him toward the bedroom. They passed his discarded shirt in the hallway.
“Stay with me,” he said as he sagged onto what used to be their marriage bed.
“I’m going to be with you from now on, Manny,” she said, sitting beside him.
“I want to have another son,” he said petulantly.
“Me too,” she said and knew that she would.
Max took his time washing and dressing to go home. He felt he was saying farewell to something in that hotel room, something more than just the sex — the unsafe sex — he and Carla had enjoyed. He felt as if he were saying goodbye to himself.
At the door, dressed and ready to go, he was afraid to leave. He tried to think of something that Americans weren’t afraid of. When he decided he couldn’t he left.
He took a cab to his apartment building. The day was cold and gray. New York’s buildings were chameleons to Max; they turned dull with cloudy skies and glittered white with the sun.
The doorman — David — seemed to be surprised to see him. “Your wife just went out,” he said after recovering from the shock.
Max went up in the elevator wondering about lunch, whether he should wait for Debby and take her out for a fancy meal. Cafe des Artistes was her favorite restaurant. Its campy design gave Max headaches, but to see her smile and feel at ease with him would be well worth it.
Jonah upset that plan. He was upstairs alone. He had felt ill at school and Debby had brought him home. She was out buying Tylenol. “I’ve got a hundred and one temperature,” Jonah said. He was very pale, dressed in a long New York Mets shirt, lying in his bed watching a game show on television.
Max shut the set off and sat beside Jonah. He brushed the hair off his boy’s forehead. He kissed his smooth brow. The skin radiated heat. They were quiet for a moment.
“Where were you?” Jonah asked fearlessly.
“I stayed in the Plaza Hotel last night. I got a room way up on a high floor and saw all of Central Park at night. It looked great. Spooky and grand.”
“Mom was scared,” Jonah said. “I overheard her calling everybody. She almost called the police!” Jonah’s face flushed at the effort of saying so many sentences.
“I’m here now. I’m not going anyplace. How’s your buddy Sam?” Max asked. Carla’s instructions about Jeff’s children had stuck with him.
Jonah shrugged. “He’s okay, I guess. He’s been kind of a pain, actually,” he said softly. He groaned and turned toward his pillow. “I’m tired,” he mumbled.
Max stroked his head. “When you’re better I’m going to show you and Sam a house his father and I did. The Zuckerman house. It was a pretty good design and Jeff had a nice idea about the patio. Anyway, I’m going to teach the two of you about architecture.”
Jonah rolled away to gain some distance on his father. He propped his pale head on a hand and blinked sleepily. “I don’t wanna learn about architecture,” he said.
“I’m teaching you anyway. I’m your father and I’m your teacher. It’s the only thing I know how to teach. You don’t have to be good at it. You don’t have to like it. You don’t have to do it when you grow up. But I have to teach it to you.”
Jonah watched his father for a moment or two. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Okay,” he said at last with a sigh. “You’re the boss.”
“That’s right,” Max said. He pulled the bed-sheet up to his son’s chin. He heard the front door opening.
“I’m back!” Debby called in. She entered Jonah’s room. She had no makeup on and she was still in her black cloak. She carried a narrow white bag from the pharmacy. She looked like a sickly child herself, pale and sad-eyed.
“I’m home, honey,” Max said to her. She had come to a halt just inside the door. She stared at him. “Peace?” he said with a smile.
Debby frowned. She threw the bag at him. “He needs this.”
Max gave Jonah a dose of Tylenol. Debby fussed around his bed, gathering used tissues, smoothing the sheets, drawing the shades. Jonah protested each action, moaning, “Just leave me alone. I’m fine.”
Max went to the kitchen and made himself coffee. Debby joined him eventually. She came in and poured herself a cup. She didn’t meet his eyes. Her mouth was tight, furious.
“I told Jonah,” Max said, “that when he’s better I want to show him and Sam the Zuckerman house.”
Debby looked at him sharply. Her eyes stared, shifting from rage to wariness. “Why?”
“I think Sam — I guess I should take Jake too, he’s old enough — they should see something their father made. I have to start spending more time with those boys. I have to spend more time with Jonah too. Teach him what I know. It’s not much, but that’s what fathers do, right?”
“Fathers stay home,” Debby said in a scolding voice. “Fathers are home to take care of their sons.”
“Not always,” Max said. “Not all fathers. You can’t expect that of every man. Jeff’s not going to be home with his children and he was a good father.”