by Pasha Malla
He just needs to get to know you, explained Sylvia.
The rest of the evening Womack spent at a distance observing the boy's routine: Sylvia fed her son, bathed him, eventually put him to bed. He admired her ease with the boy, the mechanical, almost instinctive acts of jeans being pulled off and a diaper being folded on, pajamas, and then the tenderness of her leaning over and stroking his face while he lay in bed and Womack stood in the doorway, dimming the lights. Motherhood, noted Womack. In the front hall, handing Womack his coat, she told him the following week he would be on his own, and did he feel comfortable doing it all himself?
Womack said, Sure, nodding a bit too vigorously.
When Womack got home, Adriane sat at the kitchen table before an offering of Styrofoam tubs. The Dictaphone sat nearby atop a pile of manila folders. She was reading a book - a travel guide: Southeast Asia on a Shoestring.
Planning a trip? Womack asked, taking his place at the table.
I wish. Adriane stood and began peeling lids off containers, revealing noodles, barbecue pork, and cashew chicken. Sitting back down, she added, I mean, I wish I could afford it.
Sure.
Anyway, I ordered Chinese. She gestured at the food. I didn't feel like cooking.
Fair enough, said Womack. He pulled apart a pair of chopsticks. Looks good.
While they ate, Womack detailed his afternoon spent with the boy. Adriane responded with single words muffled by mouthfuls of food: Yeah? Really? Uh-huh.
He's more ... he's sicker than I thought he would be. Like, he can't really do anything for himself. It'll be me doing pretty much everything - feeding him, giving him a bath, changing his diaper.
Adriane looked up. Like his mother does every day?
Oh, she's amazing. Can you imagine? You should see her with him.
Womack didn't know what else to say. What were the words for this? He could only think of cliches - the power of the human spirit, stuff like that. Adriane went back to her meal, chopsticks gathering, plucking. They ate silently, methodically, and when the Styrofoam containers had been emptied, Womack put down his chopsticks and looked across the table at Adriane, this woman he had lived with for five months, his partner. She was leaning over the last few scraps of chow mein, eyes on her travel guide.
So, he said, crumpling the empty food containers one by one under his palm, like a tough guy with beer cans. Southeast Asia.
Yep, she said.
Sounds fun.
Adriane speared a piece of pork with her chopstick, lifted it up, bit down, and sucked the meat into her mouth. Something to read, she said.
Just something to read?
Sure. She rolled her eyes. God, listen to me - sure - I'm starting to even talk the same as you.
Womack ignored this. Well, why not the newspaper? Why not a book? I've got lots of books. He could hear the crescendo of his own voice. You want to borrow a book?
A novel?
Womack paused. When he spoke, his tone was quiet, low, but something uneasy rippled through his voice: What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?
Oh, you know, big writer. You and your novel. She slurped a noodle into her mouth. It whacked against her cheek on the way in, leaving a brown stripe across her face. Am I in there? Is there a bitchy girlfriend character? Is she always nagging the hero to take out the garbage and pay the bills?
Since when do you care about my writing? said Womack, aware, immediately, of his own earnestness.
Adriane stared at him, chewing. The saucy stripe lay like a wound across her cheek. Since when do you care about my writing? she mimicked, standing, carrying her plate behind the kitchen counter, where she slid it among the dirty dishes piled in the sink. This is my day off, she told him. I have to deal with bullshit all week. I want to have my weekends to relax, not get into these stupid arguments about nothing.
Womack looked away. On the table before him, splayed open to a page titled "When to Go," sat the travel guide. Womack imagined Adriane surfing on a ratty shoelace along the river from Apocalypse Now, heads on spikes lining the shores, bullets whizzing through the air. All around, crumpled Styrofoam tubs sat like ruined sandcastles. Womack placed his hands over his ears, tightly. There was a dull echo inside his skull: the empty, hollow rumble of a stalled train.
FEEDING THE BOY is easy; he eats mechanically, unquestioningly. Womack sits the boy in his wheelchair and scoops spoonfuls of pureed food into the boy's mouth, and the boy swallows. At the opposite end of the table sit the boy's mother and brother and sister with their plates of leftovers, but they are in a different world, apart. While Womack feeds the boy, Andrew shovels mashed potatoes and corn at his face, spilling most of it on the floor; Jessica eats demurely, telling stories about which boys at school she dislikes this week; Sylvia takes it all in, nodding, smiling, pushing her food around, hardly eating. Womack feels invisible, as if he were watching their meal through a two-way mirror - collecting evidence for a trial, a detective, or a spy.
IN THE MIDDLE of December, Womack surprised Adriane with dinner reservations at a Vietnamese restaurant. Adriane smiled at this. Encouraged, Womack kissed her on the cheek and took her hand in his as they walked down the street.
At the restaurant, a woman in a Santa hat seated them at a table for two and handed over menus they struggled to read in the dim light. Womack, squinting, made a few suggestions - What about number twenty-three? Or sixteen, the shrimp? - before the waitress arrived and Adriane ordered a bowl of soup.
Soup? said Womack. He looked apologetically to the waitress. Why don't we share a couple things?
I'm not that hungry, said Adriane. She gazed around the restaurant, up at the walls decorated with posters and maps of Vietnam, at the shelves of ornaments by the door. A few booths over, a couple were drinking with their arms entwined.
Womack decided on the shrimp dish for himself, plus a half-litre of house wine for the two of them, to share.
The waitress left, smiling. Womack looked at Adriane, then over at the romancing couple, then back at her. He rolled his eyes.
What's wrong with that? she asked.
Nothing, said Womack. Just a little cheesy.
They were silent until the food and wine arrived, and even then, their meal was only punctuated by Womack asking, How's your soup? to which Adriane responded, Good, how's your shrimp? to which Womack responded, Good, and then Adriane slurped her soup and Womack chewed his shrimp, which were not good at all but overcooked and rubbery, and when the meal was over Adriane put it on her Visa and they left the restaurant and walked home, Womack behind Adriane, single file.
Back in the apartment Adriane went directly to bed, and Womack, tipsy from all the wine he'd drunk alone, sat at his desk with the computer monitor off, staring at the blank screen.
WHEN HE IS full, the boy moans. Womack excuses himself from the table with the boy's dishes, rinses them in the sink, stacks them in the dishwasher, and then wheels the boy into his bedroom. Womack sits on the bed and tells the boy, You need to digest your food. The boy moans and rocks slightly in his wheelchair. Womack looks out the window of the boy's room, at the sun setting or the children's swing set in the backyard, and thinks about the novel he is writing. He has wanted for some time for this boy to become a character - someone tragic, his novel lacks pathos - but how to write about a dying child without resorting to sentimentality, to cliche?
THAT THURSDAY, two days before Mike and Cheryl's wedding, Adriane announced to Womack that she would only be able to make it to the reception.
There's this Hot Yoga class starting on Saturday afternoons, she told him over a dinner of fish sticks and peas. If I don't go to the first one, they won't let me sign up.
Hot Yoga? said Womack, stabbing at a single pea with his fork. Ade, these are two of my best friends.
Really? When was the last time you talked to them? Halloween?
Whoa, said Womack. The pea rolled away; he put down his fork.
I'll he there for the reception - that's what
matters. They won't even notice me missing at the ceremony. And you know how I feel about church and religion and all that.
I've cancelled volunteering for the day, Ade. You don't think you could just do your Hot Yoga some other time? He looked at her. What the fuck is Hot Yoga, anyway?
Sorry, she said, and reached across the table, unexpectedly, to squeeze Womack's hand. He felt something like warmth at this contact and hated himself for that.
At the wedding ceremony Womack sat at the end of a pew in the back of the church, the space beside him conspicuously empty. When Cheryl came up the aisle he turned with everyone else, beaming, trying to catch her eye. She stared ahead, some strange mix of terror and joy on her face, and walked deliberately through the middle of the congregation as though she were trying to ignore everyone there.
After the vows and photos and everything else, and the two hundred-person congregation had shifted to the community centre across town, Womack found his seat at a table with strangers, right near the front of the reception hall. The folded card on his plate read Womack + Guest. The room began to fill, and Womack kept asking the woman on the other side of the empty chair between them what time it was, before, finally, just as the head groomsman was about to give his speech, Adriane came breezing in. She was dressed in black pants and a black sweater, and her hair was still wet from the shower.
Thanks for showing up, whispered Womack as she sat down.
Adriane shook out her napkin and laid it across her lap. That was some hot yoga.
Right, said Womack, and pulled away.
The speeches began. They were long. Adriane sat there, her back to the stage, staring into space. Womack drank a few glasses of wine and began to feel disappointed that he hadn't been asked to speak. He would have been good. He was a writer, for fuck's sake.
Then the speeches were over and Cheryl was standing up at the front with a big white bouquet, back to the crowd, and a cluster of women were gathered jostling at the front of the hall. The deejay got on the microphone and everyone joined in the countdown, and at Zero! Cheryl launched the bouquet upwards over her head, and even before it landed, Womack could trace the trajectory, could see in horror that it was coming toward his table. When it smacked down on Adriane's plate he could only stare into all those flowers, the ivory gloss of them. He was aware vaguely of Adriane saying something like, Oh, fucking fantastic, and felt nothing when they got home later and her first move was to the kitchen, where she stuffed the entire bouquet into the trash underneath the sink.
AFTER THE Boy digests dinner it is time for his bath, and Womack fills the tub and strips the boy down and lifts him up and eases him into the water, which Womack takes great care to ensure is the right temperature. The water sloshes around and Womack struggles for a simile to describe it to himself in his head, but the boy is floundering about in the water and needs calming, so Womack abandons similes and instead attempts to soothe the boy by putting his hands over the boy's ears. The boy's thrashing subsides; he sinks down into the water with Womack's hands on his face, smiling, laughing. Then Womack sponges the boy down and shampoos his hair, and when the boy is pink and rosy and clean, Womack lifts him out of the tub and towels him off.
TWO WEEKS BEFORE Christmas Womack decided to buy a turkey. At the supermarket he scooped one from the deep freeze and brought it home on his bicycle in his backpack. When Adriane came home that evening from yoga, after she turned off his music and reappeared in the kitchen, Womack opened up the refrigerator door and displayed it to her, proudly, as if it were something he himself had constructed or laid.
Better keep it in the freezer, said Adriane.
Yeah?
Well, it's not going to keep in there forever.
Doesn't it look delicious?
Adriane eyed the turkey, a pinkish lump nestled between the milk and pickles. It looks like a dead bird, she said.
Womack slammed the fridge door. For fuck's sake, Ade.
What? She was laughing at him.
Can you get excited about anything?
A turkey? You want me to get excited about a turkey?
Well, something.
Adriane shook her head and went into the den. Womack followed her and stood in the doorway, watching her remove the Dictaphone from her pocket, place it softly on the coffee table, then pick up Southeast Asia on a Shoestring and start reading.
So when are we going? he asked.
Adriane laughed, turning the page. You think you could afford it?
Womack faltered. He could feel what was coming, knew it from so many bad TV shows, the script of The Couple's Fight.
What is this? he asked her finally.
What is what?
This. You. Never home. And when you are, acting like I don't exist - not talking, disappearing into that book, going to bed.
Don't you ever get tired of just sitting around? There was something tired and pleading in Adriane's eyes. Womack did his best not to read it as pity.
You want to take a vacation? he demanded. Take a vacation. Go. I'm not stopping you. I'll lend you an extra shoestring if you want.
Oh, put it in your novel, writer. Adriane sighed, closed the book, and flopped back on the couch. She was silent. Womack was silent. Then there was a loud click from the Dictaphone. They both looked down at it sitting almost guiltily on the coffee table.
What the hell? he asked, moving across the room.
Adriane stood. Don't, she said.
But Womack was already there, the recorder in his hand, hitting the Eject button, popping the cassette out of the recorder. What's this? You're taping our conversations?
Adriane was reaching toward him, a nervous expression on her face.
Give that to me.
Womack slid the cassette back into the Dictaphone, hit Rewind for a few seconds, then Play.
From the speaker, his own voice - tinny, but audible: Can you get excited about anything?
And then Adriane's: A turkey? You want me to get excited about a turkey?
His, more incredulous and desperate than he remembered: Well, something.
And so on, their voices, back and forth. Finally, Adriane's, Oh, put in your nov- was cut off, and the tape began to whine before snapping to a stop.
Womack stood for a moment, silent, gazing at the Dictaphone in his hand as if it might speak up and offer an explanation. Adriane sat down on the couch.
How long have you been doing this? Womack asked, his back to her.
Adriane said nothing.
He rewound the cassette, farther this time, letting the counter wind backwards a few hundred digits. He pressed Play.
Here he was: I guess so, yeah. This was followed by hiss, the odd clank of something metallic. Chewing. Womack watched the wheels of the cassette turn, waiting. Then, himself again: So, Southeast Asia.
Yep, she said.
Sounds fun.
A pause. Her: Something to read.
Just something to read?
Womack hit Stop. Christ, he said. You're messed up, you know that? He took the cassette out of the recorder, turned it over in his hands.
There was a sigh from the couch, but Womack refused to look over. He wiggled his finger into the empty space at the base of the cassette, hooked it under the tape, and began pulling, pulling - not angrily, but purposefully, the wheels spinning, however many of their recorded arguments unravelling into piles of glistening black ribbon at his feet.
AFTER BATHING THE boy, Womack has to get a diaper on him, which is always a struggle. With one hand Womack lifts the boy's legs and holds them together at the ankles, knees bent, while with the other he hoists up the boy's backside and attempts to wedge the diaper underneath. Occasionally the diaper ends up the wrong way on, but by then Womack is often so exhausted he says, Fuck it, to himself, and pulls the boy's pajamas on over the backward diaper and gives him some pills. The boy might at this point again be moaning. Womack does the hands-on-the-ears thing. It has become a reflex. The boy grins, gurgling, cooing.
With his hands cupped over the boy's ears, Womack looks down at him, at the boy lying on the bed in his pajamas, something like delight on his face, and he tries not to think the expected thoughts of fortune and misfortune, chance and fate.
TWO NIGHTS AFTER the incident with the Dictaphone, Womack and Adriane had another argument that, with Adriane in bed and him sitting before his computer, filled Womack with shame and embarrassment. He recalled himself screaming things like, Will you think of someone other than yourself, for once? and Adriane crying and screaming back, When was the last time we did anything fun?
As Womack sat there, from behind the curtains in the bedroom came the light whistle of a snore, the creak of bedsprings as Adriane turned in her sleep. Womack pictured her, wrapped in the covers - but the image included him, lying next to her, staring into her face as she slept. A hard knot rose in his throat. Womack sighed deeply, rose from the uncomfortable chair, pushed through the curtains, and stood looking down at Adriane, her eyes closed, mouth half open, hair splayed across the pillow.
Hey, he said.
A pasty, smacking sound from her mouth.
He sat down on the bed, reached out, and prodded her with his fingertips. Hey.
Adriane rolled over. What time is it?
Ade, this isn't right. Us sleeping in the same bed.
What? She sat up.
Us, like this. I can't do it, act like nothing's wrong, lie down next to you. I can't sleep like that. Like, physically, I can't sleep.
Okay?
So maybe one of us should sleep on the couch. Like we could take turns, or whatever.
Look at you, she said. Her mouth was a crescent-shaped shadow in the dark.
Me?
Making decisions. I'm impressed.