A whole trove of cockamamie theories deserved another look. Perhaps, for example, Lena had told me I was only moderately talented because she felt compelled to speak the truth. Maybe Maura still desired me but for her own sanity could stay in our marriage only if I chose to confront my rage and resentment. There was even a chance happiness had something to do with acceptance, and something to do with love.
No, this was ridiculous. These notions were all part of the trick, the scam. The asks had me nailed from the get-go, ever since they installed the selfware, back in Milo Year Zero. That's how the whole long con got started.
The conference room felt smaller than it had on my coronation the day before. A berry spritzer tallboy sat half collapsed on the conference table.
Another dented can.
Somehow Vargina and I ended up seated beside each other, the way some couples arrange themselves in restaurants. I'd never understood the appeal, though now I wondered if Maura and I should have given it a whirl. Maybe it granted you a whole new perspective on coupledom, or at least served as a welcome breather from having to look each other in the eye, glimpse all that mutilated hope.
Vargina re-angled her chair.
"This is weird," she said.
"You mean how we're sitting?"
"No, what I need to tell you. Your computer isn't broken, Milo."
"That's what I was trying to tell Horace. I was just thinking that…"
The truth sank in as I spoke. I tried my best to resemble a man in whom the truth had just been sunk, to the hilt. I owed Vargina that much, if only for elevating this encounter with use of the conference room.
"I'm fired again," I said.
"This time there's severance."
"Why? Why now?"
"I don't know the full story, Milo. Call came in from Cooley about it. Your absence was necessary for certain things to go forward."
"That's a nice way of putting it."
"I'm a craftswoman. And don't feel too bad. Sometime next month there's going to be a big bloodletting. Our endowment is in worse shape than anybody will admit."
"So, I'd be fired in a month anyway?"
"Probably."
"I can't do this anymore," I said.
"That's what we're saying."
"Sleep tight, you world, you motherfucker."
"Are you finished?"
"Yes," I said.
"You'll be okay, Milo," said Vargina. "Here."
Vargina pushed an index card across the table. It was a recipe for egg salad.
"I watched my husband make it. He can never know. Nobody can ever know."
"Thank you, Vargina."
"No more turkey wraps, Milo. They're gross."
"I see that now," I said.
Twenty-eight
I still had the key to the life I'd been evicted from, and the next morning I took the train out to Astoria, let myself into the apartment. Life was doing fine without me. There was Maura, jabbing at her laptop, always this, the work before work. It wasn't her fault. It was how they had us. There was Bernie on the sofa, watching his favorite show, the one where children mutated into gooey robots, sneered. It was like a parable from a religion based entirely on sarcasm. I'd seen the program before, tried to ban it. But there was no banning it. This wasn't China. This was dead America. If Bernie lucked out, he'd only be as warped as Horace. I could live with that. Assuming I could live.
"Bernie," said Maura. "Put on your velcros. Daddy's taking you to school. I'll see you at pickup."
There were not too many school days left. It would be another summer on Christine's concrete apron: blood and corn dogs.
I gathered up Bernie's sandals, slipped them on his feet.
"I want to see this show," he said. "Daddy, are you crying?"
"I have something in my eye," I said.
"Both eyes?"
"Yes, Bernie."
I walked into the bedroom, threw a few things into a knapsack. I took the money Purdy had given me, peeled off some for my wallet, wadded up the rest with a rubber band.
I dropped the wad next to Maura's laptop.
"What's this?"
"I don't know," I said. "Child support?"
"Do you need to be so dramatic? This is still your home. We're still your family. We're in a rough patch. We're taking a break."
"Rough patch? That's kind of a worn image, isn't it? I'm not sure what it means. Is it a driving thing? We're driving over a patch that's rough? Or is it like a patch on your coat? A smooth coat except for this little rough flap you ironed over a rip in the elbow? Or maybe the elbow skin is rough. Remember that time you said my elbow skin was like an elephant's? Is that what this is about? Is that what it's always fucking been about?"
"Language," said Maura.
"Indoor voice," said Bernie.
"Let's just patch up this rough patch now," I said. "I can't take this anymore. I want us all together."
"You seem really strung out, Milo. You need some rest. Aren't you getting rest at your mother's house?"
"Yeah," I said. "Nothing but rest."
I walked Bernie down Ditmars toward his new school. His little hand slid around in my palm.
"Daddy, are you sick?"
"No, I'm fine. Why?"
"You look funny."
"I'm just tired."
We passed a souvlaki cart and just beyond it a man with a chapped face slept sitting up on a bus bench. A pint of gin stuck out of his sweatpants.
"That's Larry!" said Bernie. "He must be back from Elmira. I wonder if Aiden knows."
I pushed Bernie past the bench.
"Bernie," I said. "I want you to be a good boy."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why do you want me to be a good boy?"
"Because that's the best thing to be."
"That's stupid."
I took a knee on the sidewalk, clasped Bernie by the shoulders. I'd seen fathers kneel like this in movies, standard posture for the rushed essentials, the Polonius rundown. A little too in love with itself, Don might judge this moment, but that didn't diminish its necessity. Bernie might not understand what I told him today, but he would carry the words with him forever, and with them, me.
"Listen," I said.
"Yes, Daddy?"
"Squander it. Always squander it. Give it all away."
"Give what away? My toys?"
"No, yes, sure, your toys, too. Whatever it is. Squander it. Do you understand?"
"Not really."
"Don't save a little part of you inside yourself. Not even a scrap. It gets tainted in there. It rots."
"What does?"
"I can't explain right now. Someday you'll know. But promise me you'll squander it."
"I promise. What's squander?"
"You don't need to know that yet. Here's what you need to know: The boy can walk away from the ogre's castle. He doesn't have to knock. Some people will tell you that it's better the boy get hurt or even die than never know whether he could have defeated the ogre and won the ogre's treasure. But those are the people who tell us stories to keep us slaves."
"Daddy?" said Bernie.
"Yes?"
"Can I have a stegosaurus cake for my birthday like Jeremy got?"
"Yes, of course. For your birthday."
I yanked him to me, buried my face against his strong, tiny neck.
"I love you, Bernie."
"Will I ever see you again?"
"Yes," I said. "Later today."
"Will you be dead?"
"No."
"Will I?"
"No."
"Can it be a brontosaurus cake instead?"
"Yes."
"With an asteroid flying into his face?"
"Sounds wonderful."
"Let's go to school."