“Is that a new nightgown?”
“No.”
“It looks great on you.”
He purses his lips for a kiss. Instead, she kisses a finger and lightly taps the corner of his mouth. He tastes the minty flavor of her oily hand cream.
“I’m going to bed,” she says. “You should, too.”
“Oh?”
“Not like that. I’m tired.”
He folds his chin into his neck like a wounded anhinga. And for a moment he seems to have pinned her reclusive tenderness, because instead of marching straight inside as she often does, she lingers by a second set of sliding glass doors, this one leading to their bedroom.
“Thaddeus?” Her tone, if not outright sweet, is at the very least significantly less guarded. “Tomorrow, promise me you’ll behave? It’s a very nice thing Steven and Peter are doing, letting us stay with them.”
For the first time all night (for the first time in many nights) there’s softness in her voice, and, thrilled, he smiles at her, gives her his fullest attention. It’s that simple, he thinks, a kind word. An acknowledgment. What any man would want from his wife. But just as quickly the softness hardens into a trembling anxiety bordering on anger.
“I think Steven’s finally ready to move on. When I think of all the time we’ve wasted—”
“Remember when we built this pool?” He knows to interrupt her when she tenses. He doesn’t have many tricks, but he has this one and it usually works. “Stevie got so mad because we had to rip out that... that tree—what was it called?”
“Kumquat,” she says cautiously.
“Kumquat. Right.” He takes a large bite of the sandwich and struggles with it for a minute. Crumbs catch in his stubble. “We’ll be fine,” he says, smiling. “No big deal.”
“Promise me you’ll behave. Please.”
He nods. “Stevie’s a good kid.”
A sudden breeze sets the palm fronds chattering and she clutches her gown at the throat. “Just be yourself tomorrow, huh? Only maybe a little more subtle.”
“I should do something special for them. To thank them for the hospitality. Maybe I’ll buy them a boat. You remember how much Stevie loved fishing when we went to the Keys.”
“He’s never liked fishing.”
“Sure he did! He loved it.”
She rubs her temples. “Where are they going to keep a boat? They don’t live on the water. Stop inventing things. Besides, you already bought Gertie that doll.”
He scratches his chin. “Those were good times. You remember.” He smirks at the memory. “Something really great.”
“You’ve done enough. Just be nice. That’s the only thanks anybody needs right now.” As if closing a box, she folds her hand and turns to enter the house. “And don’t stay up too late. It’s getting cold.”
He wishes her good night, but she’s already inside, so he finishes his sandwich and wine before digging around in a terra cotta planter for his stash. Cheryl always hides it in the same place for him, so it’ll be easy to find.
The pipe isn’t much to look at, just a heavy piece of glass a little bigger than his palm, the bowl chipped and darkened from years of use. He’s had better pipes, but he likes this one best because it was a gift from Stevie. It might have been a souvenir from someplace Stevie visited in college. He seems to recall a foreign name, long faded, painted alongside the carburetor. Who remembers the particulars? The important thing is that it was a gift, and he often imagines sitting here with his son, their feet dangling in this pool, passing this pipe back and forth like greedy friends stealing a sliver of midnight for themselves, something to hoard just between the two of them. If only they could, then perhaps the decades of animosity would fade away. Perhaps then they could move past the minefield of being father and son and instead be simply two men together in their commonality.
But that won’t be tonight. And tomorrow is for Gertie, he thinks as he inhales. The sky flattens. For a moment he imagines snowfall. It’s not unheard of—rare, yes, but not unheard of. Do they have snow in the country where she’s from? Cambodia? Vietnam? China? He doesn’t know. He blinks and the snowflakes disappear. At any rate, there’s not a lot around these parts. He drifts off, dreams a bit about dolls and weed and Cheryl and Stevie, comes back and drifts off again, repeating the cycle as the temperature drops then rises. And continues to rise and rise.
YOU SHARPEN THE KNIVES. THERE ARE SEVEN. MONDAY through Sunday, an ambitious purchase made before you truly understood the way to work. In that way you were naive. In that way even seduced by the capitalist drive, the allure of a better life through acquisition. The fluorescent light above your head flickers. Light then dark. Light then dark. That will need to be fixed before the open house tomorrow. You make a note, then return to the knives. Occasionally, a blade slips off the whetstone and you nick the granite counter.
You won’t use the knives. That exquisite boy with the cornrows showed you a better way. You took to the visceral bond of a tight grip like ink takes to paper. But the act of whetting a blade remains important. The rhythmic skill brings you peace, prepares you for the night. In this way, you are a fisherman or a hunter caring for your tools. It’s a ritual and rituals are important.
You’re not unusual in any outward way. You could be anyone as you slip into an old pair of high-top sneakers. Your black hair, while habitually dull, drapes across your brow conventionally. Your legs are a bit too long for your trunk, maybe, but that’s nothing a vertical stripe can’t fix. You bite your nails. Realistically, this is a fault. A bad one. Your fingers are unattractive. They catch on fabrics. Streamers hang from the ragged edges, which are a liability in your line of work. You must stop biting them.
Wool is out of the question. You grapple with the closet. The door slips off its track again (that’s something else you’ll fix). A velvet blazer will do. It’s creased from how it was folded in your pack. No big deal. Slip it on.
Keys are next.
Find them. Clip them above the left pocket. Your jeans are tight.
Cologne. Watch. Kefia. The remainder, too, follows an order. Perhaps it’s fetishistic of you to exhibit this penchant for order, for exactitude. How silly to care. How uninspired. Outside the clubs, they are careless: they spit; they laugh—
But they die.
People think they know you, that they know everything. Yet they understand nothing.
Can you feel it? Of course you can. A chilly current flows through the air, a variety rare enough in Orlando. Tonight is certainly a night for a sallow, fidgety boy with a stutter, most likely blond. Someone translucent, like the clarity of winter in the City Beautiful.
Pick a location.
Already, you feel the spring of hardwood beneath your feet, the banal conversations between songs. You dance. You will dance.
Location.
Parliament House is impossible. You went there last Friday.
