pulls a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge.
“Are you angry about it? Why are you angry? They’ll put Stella to bed and probably go home early. It’s been so long since we’ve seen them.”
He pours water into a glass and chugs it.
“Thomas?” She dries her hands and puts them on his shoulders from behind. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m tired and confused and don’t have any particular interest in sitting around talking about literature and recipes while a two-year old races around makes a mess of everything,” he says somberly. “My father just died.”
She sighs. She sits on the edge of a chair. A short time passes before she says anything more. He thinks: She’s making an effort.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t think his death affected you all that much. I thought you were mostly relieved. But—”
“I am relieved!” Thomas has an uncontrollable urge to be left in peace. Schubert’s piano sonata worms into his brain in an unbearable way. She sets the scouring pad aside and removes her rubber gloves.
They sit opposite one another at the small, black-stained table; the water faucet drips, and large gray cloud formations flit swiftly across the sky. The sun disappears behind the clouds and the light in the kitchen changes, like a curtain closing on a stage.
“Do you want me to cancel?”
He shakes his head.
“We can invite Maloney to join us, if you want. And Jenny?”
“Hell no!”
Her eyes darken, and she looks down.
“I’m just not myself, Patricia. I can’t explain it. Weird things are happening.”
She props her elbows on the table and looks directly into his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” He fiddles with a box of matches, scratches at the sulfur. “But I’ll survive this dinner.” He attempts a smile. Takes a deep breath. The nape of his neck tingles unpleasantly. He thinks again of the money.
“Okay. I’ll do the shopping and make dinner. I thought we could broil a turbot in the oven. With melon and raspberries for dessert.”
He nods.
“Do you want to take a shower first?” He shakes his head. She squeezes his hand and leans across the table to put her free hand on his cheek. “You’re warm. You don’t have a fever, do you?”
He doesn’t have a fever. Still seated, he stares out the window listening to her clattering in the bathroom, blow-drying her hair, opening closets and cupboards in the bedroom. He sighs, thinking: “You should be drinking champagne and dancing on tables, you’re free, a free man. You’ve just inherited a considerable amount of money.” But he has no desire to dance. He stands up and turns off the music in the living room, crawls onto the couch, and pulls a blanket all the way up to his chin, still miffed about having dinner guests and Schubert, and he’s amazed at how his body instantly grows heavy as lead, how his breathing almost at once becomes slow and calm, how his lower lip relaxes, slips down, how a little drool trickles from his mouth and splotches the pillow, how the wet stain grows cold against his cheek. He wonders how his body can go from being agitated to being calm so quickly. Off in the distance he hears a train. A truck slowly and loudly—a kind of snort—rumbles down the street, and the whole time the wind, the wind: howling and whistling like a huge, unthinking creature racing through the world without knowing what it’s supposed to do.
It feels as though only a few minutes have passed before he hears the key in the door. Startled, he sits up. Patricia walks past the living room, bottles clink, water runs, something is plunked heavily on the table. He lies down again, closing his eyes. Wafting from the coffee table is the scent of oranges. Soon she enters the room carrying a bouquet of purple tulips in a vase, casual, relaxed, wearing a tight-fitting dress, her eyes are dark with makeup. She looks stately, mature, formidable. She sets the vase down on the low shelf, rearranges the flowers a bit, and then admires them. She stands stock-still, as if lost in thought. When he shifts slightly on the couch she turns, surprised. “Oh, you’re on the couch? I didn’t realize you were there.” Thomas takes a shower and gets dressed. Pulls a sweater over a white T-shirt. He slumps on the kitchen chair while Patricia prepares the fish and washes the lettuce. The radio plays pop music and commercials. They share a ham and mustard sandwich. Staring at him from the cornice is a dove. He runs his hand through his hair. Patricia sets the table in the living room and uncorks the wine. He promises to mix the drinks when the guests arrive. But he doesn’t want drinks. He gets to his feet, restless. “Is there anything I can do?” he asks. Patricia shakes her head. “Just sit down and relax.” Not long after that he removes his sweater, puts on a blue shirt, and thrusts his socked feet into a pair of black shoes. There’s still that crawling sensation under his skin, as if the rustle of the money has moved directly into his body; it’s unpleasant, a sweet tingling that makes him short of breath and hyper alert. His short nap has put the wheels in motion again, the swirl of his thoughts, the trembling, that feeling of the clear divide between himself and the room he’s in, hysterical joy, suddenly, but also a thick clump in his throat that he wishes he could spit out. The guests will be arriving any minute.
Back in the kitchen he pulls out the vodka and the cranberry-grapefruit juice. He removes some limes from the fruit drawer in the fridge. He prepares Sea Breezes. “But it’s not summer,” Patricia says. “Exactly,” he replies. The fish is in the oven, everything’s ready. Patricia pours him a glass of red wine, and it occurs to him that it’s been a long time since he had a smoke. Maybe he can get in a quick trip to the street before Tina and Jules arrive with their pampered tot. Patricia seems happier now. He kisses her neck (and hates himself for thinking: I’m kissing Patricia’s neck, it’s a gesture); she squeezes his arm with one hand while removing her apron with the other. “I’m going to put some music on,” she says. “But not Schubert,” he says. “No, not Schubert,” she says, smiling and disappearing into the living room. On the street the wind continues to blow, but not as strongly. The darkness is charcoal-gray, dense. It’s drizzling. The humidity’s rising again. He leans against the wall, sucking smoke deep into his lungs. The sharp, bitter taste of tobacco fills his throat. A couple leaves the building on the opposite side of the street; they seem to be in love, clinging to each other, laughing. Jules’s car rolls up to him. “You standing there poisoning yourself?” Tina waves from the backseat. And then they begin to unpack, the kid and all the things that are, apparently, needed to take a toddler out for a few hours: some kind of device that can be put on a chair so that the kid can reach the table, a diaper bag, another with baby bottles, a little blanket, another bag, an apron made of oil cloth. Thomas tosses his cigarette butt into the gutter.
Up in the apartment, they toast and converse and chase down Stella, who’s drawn to the bathroom, though her mother won’t allow her in there because the “floor is slippery, you could fall and hurt yourself.” They sit at the table and the guests praise the fish. “It’s just right, not at all dry. I love the herbs you used. Is it marjoram? Chili? Ginger?” and the wine is nice, and the big white plates, the silverware—“Is it new?”—and Patricia’s good taste when it comes to furnishing the apartment. “It’s impossible to keep the place in order when you have a child in the house,” Tina says, almost apologetically. “We pick up all the time and still it doesn’t help.” And Jules adds: “Hell, we might as well let it stay messy.” But Tina doesn’t agree. “Then you’re just giving up.” Patricia nods and smiles and takes a sip of wine, while Thomas drains his sea breeze.
“We
