Jack grunted, clearly disappointed.
Becker tried again. “Or when she farts in the soup.”
Jack liked that one. “Or when she farts in the milk,” he added.
“Now how is she going to fart in the milk?”
“She has to sit on the cow.” Jack said, delighting himself with the sudden burst of inspiration.
Becker laughed aloud in appreciation, then looked up to see Karen standing in the living room, glowering at them like naughty children. Jack saw her, too, and continued to laugh. Becker took the tube from Jack and put it to his ear and pointed it at Karen. Jack laughed harder.
“Cute,” said Karen.
Becker looked at Jack, shrugged as if he couldn’t hear anything, then handed the tube to the boy. Jack imitated
Becker, leaning to listen to his mother.
“Nice influence, John.”
“It’s a magic trick,” Becker said. He pulled from the center of the tube and transformed the newspaper into a five-foot length of fringed pillar. “It’s a eucalyptus tree,” he said. “Or whatever suits your fancy.”
“Real talent. Bedtime, Jack.”
The boy exited promptly but returned after a moment and took the tube from Becker’s hand.
“Good night,” he said.
“Good night,” said Becker. “Nice talking to you.”
“Nice talking to you,” the boy said. He paused for a fraction, seemed to consider saying more, then hurried out.
“Nice with the shit jokes,” Karen said when she returned from putting her son to bed.
“I did my best.”
“He thinks you’re a scream. He was aiming that damned newspaper thing at me the whole time I was reading to him.”
“He’s a funny kid once he loosens up.”
“He’d probably say the same about you.”
“He doesn’t see many adults, does he?”
“Adults? Or men?”
“Men, I guess.”
“Well, his father, of course. I don’t entertain much, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“I’m not driving at anything,” Becker said. “I just meant that he seems very, very shy, and I supposed it was because he isn’t exposed to people like me very often. I mean friends of the family, social friends, that kind of thing. Uncles. Cousins.”
“No uncles, no cousins. When you get home at seven and have to cook and feed your child and get him into bed by nine, you don’t entertain a whole lot.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“The baby-sitter is here by eight in the morning and I have to get to work by nine. Every other weekend, when Jack is with his father. I’m working, trying to catch up on what I would have done if I didn’t have to be home by seven. On the weekends when Jack is with me, I devote myself to him.”
“Um.”
“What does that mean?”
“It sounds rather grim having someone devote herself to you.”
“Jesus H. Christ, Becker, is there anything about me you do like? You criticize the way I raise my son, you make fun of my cooking… ”
“Your cooking?”
“I heard what you said about the ragout. ‘That stew thing with the chicken and tomatoes.’ ”
“That wasn’t criticism,” Becker protested. “I liked the stew.”
“Then you mock me in front of Jack with all that farting business. I hate that word.”
“We weren’t mocking you…”
“Farting in the soup is your idea of showing respect?”
“I was just trying to befriend him. I thought that’s what you wanted.”
“Why would I want that?”
“I’m not sure, but you certainly set us up that way. You were hiding in the kitchen for half an hour.”
“I was doing the dishes, then I was cleaning up. I happen not to like a messy kitchen, if that’s all right with you, although I gather it isn’t. Apparently nothing about me is all right with you. I’m sorry if you were subjected to such an ordeal.”
“It wasn’t an ordeal… What are you so mad about?”
“I’m sorry if you think I’ve deprived my son of an adult male role model, which I happen to think he can get along without very well, thank you, especially considering the kind of role models that seem to be available.”
“What are we talking about?”
“I don’t know… Oh, it’s just too hard, it’s too damned hard.”
“What?” Becker asked.
“Getting along.”
“With me?”
“Who else are we talking about?”
“Sorry.”
“Oh, don’t look so woebegone. It’s not just you, it’s men. They’re such a waste. I mean, really, John, you’re all such a waste. You never say anything supportive, you don’t seem to have a clue how hard I work or how difficult it is to raise a child by yourself and still hold down a full-time job and all I hear is criticism…”
“I think you’re doing a terrific job at everything.”
“I know what you think of me as a parent. You’ve made it equally clear you don’t think I’m much of an agent, either… ”
“You’re a very good agent…”
“You think I’m a soup farter in everything I do. Maybe I am…”
“I think you seem to have lost your sense of humor a little bit
…”
“Not funny enough for you either,” she said. “You see, everything I do falls short.”
“I think…”
She dropped heavily onto the sofa.
“Who gives a shit what you think, Becker? Why don’t you just go home.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You drove me here. I don’t have a car.”
Karen slumped into the cushions, all the fight gone. “Oh, why don’t you stay then,” she said. “I just don’t have the energy to fight you.”
“You were doing a pretty good job.”
She dropped her head to the back of the sofa. Her face stared at the ceiling.
“I am such a bitch sometimes.”
Becker sat beside her on the sofa, but she continued to stare upward.
“The hardest part is right at the end. The last fifteen, twenty minutes before I say good night to him. I’ve had the whole day’s work, the commute both ways, the hassle with the couple dozen agents who think they’re a better man for the job than I am, fixing dinner, doing the dishes, cleaning up. I’m so damned tired, all I want to do is sit in front of the television and glaze over for an hour, then collapse on my bed, but instead I have to sit with him and read a story, then go through this ritual of saying good night in just the right way. If I’m impatient, he knows it. If I try to cut it short, he jumps on me for that. I’ve got to do it all just right or else do it over again, and he’s watching me every step of the way to make sure I’m not faking it. Kids are so superstitious. Putting him to bed is absolutely the toughest part of the day-and yet it’s my favorite part, too. I see so little of him and then for these few minutes we’re completely alone together with no distractions, and I love him so much and he needs me like I’m his next breath. If I do say everything just right, he’ll feel safe and secure and he’ll be able to sleep through the night. God, how can I ever be impatient about that? I am such a bitch. I’m not fit to be a mother.”
“From what I’ve seen, you’re a great mother.”
“Do you really think so?”
“He’s a nice kid, Karen. You’re doing a good job.”
“He’s a great kid… And I’m doing a terrible job.” She turned and looked directly at Becker. “John, he doesn’t sleep. He’s so afraid.”
“Of what?”
“He can’t tell me, or he won’t tell me. Sometimes he talks about robbers getting into the house, but that’s not it; it can’t be that simple. Some nights he won’t let me go. He grabs hold of me and just won’t let me leave the room. He says he’s afraid I’m going to die.”
“What do you say to him?”
“I tell him I’m not going to die, what else can you say? Oh, I word it a little better than that. I tell him everyone dies eventually, but it will be so long from now that he’ll have his own grandchildren by then, blah-blah, but what can you really say? How can you promise anyone you won’t die?”
“Is he worried because of your work?”
“My work? I’m not in any danger because of my work. Most of the time I’m in an office.”
“Except for this case.”