by Anna Bruno
Aside from the constant inflow and outflow of kegs and boxes of booze, nothing in the basement has changed in years. On the far side, there is an old washbasin sink, which is operational, and the toilet, which now has a brick on the lid and a handwritten note: DO NOT USE.
I run warm water over the towel Amelia gave me and wring it out. Jimmy stacks two boxes of booze, one on top of the other. He half sits so his face is at my shoulder level. I put the warm towel across his forehead, eyes, and cheeks. The blood soaks through it. I rinse and repeat.
With the exception of Jimmy holding me back from Yag, this is the closest I’ve ever been to him physically. We’ve never so much as hugged. Everything I feel for Jimmy—respect, friendship, love, even—exists in reference to Lucas. Without Lucas, Jimmy is unknowable to me.
I’m wearing a tank top and ripped jeans. Though I’m relatively small chested, cleavage shows at the top and at the side. My hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail.
If Jimmy is aware of a possibility of intimacy, he doesn’t show it. His gaze extends beyond me.
“It’s true. Yagla was there,” he says. “We both were.”
“Beers in the backyard—Lucas told me you were there. He just left out the part about Yag.”
“Martin was running his mouth like always. He gave Lucas a hard time for not wanting to party.”
“You mean do cocaine?”
“Or whatever. He asked Lucas if he ever wished he wasn’t tied down. Then he went on and on with his usual bullshit.” Jimmy pushes back his shoulders and mimics Yag running his hand over his head, as he always does before he makes some inane point: “We never have fun anymore, man. All for what? Baby talk? Diapers? You’re not even getting laid. What’s the point of having a wife if her hot ass is in another state? So she can call you and ask you what we’re doing? Force you to lie to her because you’re hanging out with me? Seriously, man, I don’t get it. What’s in it for you?”
“What’d Lucas say?” I ask.
“He said, ‘I’m in it for them.’ ”
“Think he ever second-guessed himself?”
“You and Lion were the only two things he didn’t question,” Jimmy says.
* * *
AT SUNSET, I LIKED to take Lionel outside to sit on the porch swing. As a newborn, the rocking soothed him, and as he grew, the change of scenery distracted him. We’d look out at the trees. I’d say, “This is the world,” and he’d stare, eyes wide open. One evening, I noticed a bolt, which fastened the swing onto the joist, was coming loose. Lucas reached up to the ceiling and pulled soft wood out with his bare hand.
Over the course of several weeks, Lucas and Jimmy rebuilt the roof over the porch, climbing out onto it through the window of Lionel’s room, hammer and nail in hand. They worked every weekend in the hot sun with their shirts off. I don’t think Lucas paid Jimmy, except in beer. I can only assume Jimmy did it for the same reason I obliged a nonstop series of DIY projects—he liked spending time with his friend.
After the last of the soffit board was nailed in, Lucas reattached the porch swing. I arrived home after nine that night, because I’d been away on business. Lionel was already asleep in his crib. The outside light was on, and Lucas sat on the top step, a glass of whiskey in his hand and Addie by his side: my welcome party. He told me to peek under the swing.
Lion had dipped his little hand in paint and left a print. Lucas handed me the paint tray where he’d saved some of the deep blue, the same color Lion used. He said, “Let’s add ours too. Then I’ll cover them with sealant.”
Those three handprints will be on the underside of that swing as long as the swing remains. Lucas made sure of it.
Neither of us said anything for a while. We let the happiness sink in.
Then Lucas said, “The only thing left to do is paint the trim on the roof.”
“I’ll help paint,” I promised.
“Okay,” he said. “We need to finish it before the temperature starts to drop.”
It was a promise I did not keep. Regret is a leaky faucet, drip, drip, dripping. I don’t know how to make it stop. In the old days, Lucas would’ve fixed it. If only I had helped paint as I said I would. If only. If only. At the time, saying I’d do something and not following through with it didn’t seem like such a big deal. But the thing about keeping a promise is you don’t need a crystal ball. You just do the thing you said you’d do, and karma takes care of the rest.
* * *
RAINWATER SEEPS THROUGH THE old stone foundation, creeping toward the drain at the lowest point, turning dirt to mud. Jimmy and I are on the dry side, closest to the stairs.
“After we finished the primer coat on the trim, we went out back for beers,” Jimmy says.
“I know. Lucas told me,” I reply. I think, Please stop. Then I think, Keep going We must keep going.
“Lucas was so happy after he put Lionel down,” he says. “Lionel called him Dadda. He said, ‘Dadda, pen, pen!’ He said it three or four times.”
“He had started to form sentences,” I say.
Jimmy nods. “It was the first time he called Lucas Dad. Lucas thought he wanted the door left open so Addie could run in and out.”
“But you don’t think that’s what he meant?”
“Yag and I were in the backyard. Lucas came out and told us that Lionel kept saying pen. We were drinking beers and cracking jokes about Lucas raising a writer. We didn’t put it together.”
Jimmy’s wound cracks open again because of the way he’s contorting his face. I hand him the towel and he wipes blood and tears and snot.
“You think Lion was talking about the open window.” I know two things immediately. One: Lucas also believes this. And two: it is ridiculous.
I consider the bright-red peony that appeared on my belly right before I went into labor: Lionel’s ambition manifest. It wasn’t Lion who tried to warn me. It was my own body. The rash was mine, not his.
Lion was an adventurous child, not a careful child. He wanted to go everywhere he wasn’t supposed to go. He wanted to touch everything he wasn’t supposed to touch. He wanted to taste everything he wasn’t supposed to taste.
He was a sneaky child. When he could, he hid his explorations from us, only letting Addie in on his secrets. I found objects I thought were out of his reach under the sofa and down in the cushions. In his diaper, I found a tiny gold pendant from one of my necklaces, which I didn’t even know he’d gotten hold of, let alone swallowed and passed.
And he was bold. He waited until I was busy sorting three different puzzles dumped in a pile with a couple of dog KONGs, or Lucas went down to the basement to grab the laundry, and then, right under our noses, he swiped a cracker or a piece of cheese from the coffee table, putting one in his mouth and giving the other to Addie. I only caught him once, but I always noticed when all the cheese was gone.
It was not in Lion’s nature to tip us off.
* * *
THE NIGHT BEFORE I left for Cambridge, Lucas and I argued.
From the couch, he watched me pull my noise-canceling headphones out of the drawer and place them in my suitcase. Lionel was in the middle of a long crying spell. We were still trying to break the bad habit of letting him fall asleep in our bed before Lucas carried him to the crib. He was thirteen months—old enough to fall asleep on his own. We needed our own time, adult time—drinking time and TV time and conversation time. So we put Lion down on his own and let him cry himself to sleep.
My mother had given me a couple pieces of Rimowa luggage. German quality. Quite pricey. Addie hated it. She stood in the middle of the floor next to it and leered. I could always tell when she felt sad because she’d just stand there, frozen, which was different from when she felt physically ill, which would drive her under the coffee table. When she felt good, which was most of the time, she’d either carry her ball around, goading us to play, or curl up on the couch like a love bug. The suitcase depressed her. She knew what it meant. Her tribe would be forced apart for some
period of time that was mysterious to her, only discernable, perhaps, by some vague sense of circadian rhythm or sublimated memory of prior encounters with the suitcase, an approximate recalling of daily runs, or lack thereof, or an accounting for meals—two days, four meals. In the human sense (hands on a clock) time was a mystery to the dog, but in a metaphysical sense (fundamental reality) she understood perfectly: the amount of time I’d be gone was too long.
As Lucas watched me, I read his thoughts. “The headphones don’t work on crying.”
He smiled. “Maybe I need them to drown you out.”
I pointed to my suitcase. “Well, you’ll have some peace for two days.”
Addie sulked; she moved away from my suitcase and rested her head on the floor between her paws.
Lucas pulled me toward him. He remained seated on the couch, and I stood over him. “How many more stops on this tour?” he asked.
“It’s not a tour anymore,” I said. “The book has been out for a year.”
“So, indefinite?”
“The money is good,” I said.
My agent had been scheduling me for a talk a week, more or less, since the book tour ended. I’d spoken at Facebook and Google and Stanford and Wharton—places like that. Honestly, the speaking engagements weren’t about the money, which was nothing compared to the fees Grace and I stood to earn from the fund (2 percent of total assets, 20 percent of profits).
I liked being in front of audiences. Lucas didn’t know it, because he’d never seen me give a talk, but I was good at it. I was dry and funny and self-deprecating, and best of all, I made people feel like they were worthy and capable of change. It was the holy grail of self-help.
Lucas abhorred fighting, having always preferred to eat his rage, so we almost never did. But something made him ask me not to go on this trip.
He looked tired because he’d done more than his share, taking care of Lionel and working on the house. Either because of this or in spite of it, I had all the power.
“Addie misses you when you leave,” he said.
Addie sniffed around the coffee table, attracted by a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup wrapper, remnants of Lion’s bedtime treat. Her manner was slow and cautious. She tested us, baiting us to say no. Then she lifted it delicately and ducked under the table to lick whatever essence of peanut butter was left behind.
“Not Lionel?” I pulled away from Lucas and busied myself with picking up Lionel’s blocks and putting them back in the box.
“Not as much.”
“Because you let him sleep in the bed with you. And then I come home and he cries and cries when his mean mom puts him in that crib. Why do you always make me the bad guy?”
Lucas didn’t respond for a minute. He fidgeted with a rubber band. “Remember how you were so proud of yourself for not marrying your dad?”
“Yeah, I married for looks instead.” I laughed. Lucas either missed the joke or didn’t find it funny.
He continued, “You’re always talking about how fucked up he is and how he doesn’t even know his own daughter and how he gave that horrid speech at our wedding about something you said when you were ten because that was the last time he had a conversation with you.”
“That’s all true.”
Lionel wailed upstairs. Lucas looked at his watch. It’d been about fifteen minutes since we’d put him to bed. On the road, I exhausted my mind thinking about how much I missed Lucas, Lionel, and Addie, but I actively avoided thinking about Lucas’s role at home—feeding Addie and Lion in the wee hours of the morning, taking them out for a walk, dropping Lion off at his mom’s on the way to a jobsite, picking Lion up on his way home: feeding, changing diapers, soothing, petting, bathing, crying, crying, crying.
“All I’m saying is maybe he’s not such a bad guy. Maybe his priorities are just a little screwed up because he’s rich.”
“It’s not about being rich, Lucas. This isn’t a class thing. He was a shitty father.”
“You promised you’d help paint the trim.” He got up from the couch, walked into the kitchen, and poured himself a bowl of cereal. There was a time when he would have stepped outside for a cigarette instead, but he had kicked the habit after Lionel was born. Then he stood and ate at the counter instead of carrying the bowl back into the living room.
“I talked to Cal about it,” I said. “He’s coming by to help tomorrow and Friday.”
“You talked to Cal about it?”
“Yeah, I told you I’d help and I can’t, so this is how I’m helping. It’s all paid for. It’s done.”
“I’ll call Cal in the morning and tell him I’ll do it myself.”
“I already paid for it, Lucas.”
“He’ll give us our money back.” He spoke with a mouth full of cereal.
“Cal does this for a living.”
“I’ll do a better job myself. Jimmy will help if I need it.”
“Okay, how about you do it with Cal? That way you can make sure he does it right.”
“I want to make sure you do it right.”
“I’m sorry, Lucas.”
“Sorry about what?”
“Look, I paid Cal a thousand dollars. He needs the money. Harvard’s paying me more than that, after taxes. Do the math.”
“Nice after-tax analysis,” he said. “What about everything else?”
“Taxes are relevant.”
“Listen to yourself, Emma. What about doing something together? How do you value shooting the shit?” He fell silent for a minute. Then he added, “If you really want to do the math, make sure you factor in all that money your dad has dropped on Harvard over the years.”
Having never attended college himself, my father was an atypical university benefactor. At the age of eighteen, when I set foot on Harvard’s campus for the first time as an incoming freshman, I was taken aback by his name recognition there. He didn’t have his name on a building, or anything as gauche as that. But, upon introducing myself to an upperclassman at a bar, he said, “Oh, like the fund.” My dad had endowed an equity portfolio, which was managed by select Harvard MBAs under the supervision of an advisor. Harvard named the fund after him. I’m sure my father’s reasons for never mentioning this to me had to do with protecting my ego.
When I graduated, he told me, “No one can ever take this away from you,” and he was right in some ways: the benefits of the Harvard pedigree, a BA and, later, an MBA would follow me in the form of assumed intelligence at every turn—nothing would change that—but he was wrong too: he took it away from me, or at least he took away my perception of it as my own, the naive assumption that I prevailed in a meritocracy.
My dad continued to donate to Harvard long after I graduated. A couple of times a year, he flew up to Boston on his company jet and met with Harvard MBAs who wanted careers in private equity. This was not a recruiting exercise on behalf of his firm. He did it for himself.
“Don’t diminish my accomplishment,” I said, and then, because I wanted to win, “It’s not like I work for him.”
The funny thing is I thought I didn’t care about money. Lucas and I had chosen to live a simple life, in an affordable town. What I found when I made money wasn’t so much that I cared about it, felt the need to spend or hoard it, but that it simply changed my relationship to one thing: time. Deep down, I began to believe my time was more valuable than other people’s time, more valuable than Lucas’s time. And that changed everything. Because being a wife and a mother, being a human being, has everything to do with time.
“Why are you doing this?” Lucas asked.
“Doing what?”
“The constant travel. Bailing on everything. Missing our son grow up.”
“I’m not missing Lion grow up.”
“He changes every day. You’re missing it.”
I thought for a minute about what he was saying, wondered how he knew to say the thing that would hurt. “I’m doing this because I want to be somebody. Because I don’t want to be Ivan Ilyich.” Immediatel
y, upon uttering these words, I realized that what I was doing, the travel, the focus on money in and money out, was what Ivan Ilyich would have done, and what Lucas was doing, building a life, was what happy people did.
Lucas placed his bowl on the floor for Addie to lick clean. Then he picked it up and put it in the sink without bothering to rinse off her drool. Together, they moseyed back into the living room and flopped down on the couch. Lucas bent his knees so Addie could sprawl out at his feet.
Lionel had finally stopped crying. I imagined his tiny face, the way his lips parted ever so slightly as he slept, how his hands curled around his monkey’s tail. In the old days, I would have been lying with Lucas on the other side of the L-shaped couch, our heads meeting in the corner, pressed against each other. I would have stayed in that position for as long as I could, even when his snoring drowned out the TV.
“It’s ironic,” he said.
“What?”
“You were so proud of yourself for not marrying your dad. Turns out I married him.”
“Well then, I guess it’s time for my affair.”
Addie stirred and got up. She stepped over Lucas on the couch and stopped in front of me. She licked my hand, looking for pets. “Thanks for the lick, Boogers.” I spoke directly to her. “You know I’d never do that, right?”
Discharge collected around her eyes, probably due to allergies. By contrast, Lion’s snot and other bodily fluids had always been more responsibility than amusement.
What I wouldn’t give now to wipe his face again! What deal I wouldn’t make so that I could hold him still as he squirmed. How happy I’d be to let his nose get all crusty if that’s the way he preferred it.
The truth was I always yearned for an adult child. Even before Lionel was born, I knew I was playing the long game. Some women love babies and nursing and holding tiny, little bodies against their skin. And some women love their children’s affection, the endless stream of questions, the wide-eyed wonder. And some women love soccer games and piano lessons, I suppose. It’s not that I didn’t like these things, or that I wasn’t looking forward to them. It was that the thing I really wanted, the reason I had a baby in the first place, was to have a relationship with my adult child. I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to see his father in him, and perhaps some of myself. I wanted him to be a good person, kind and respectful. I wanted him to be whip smart, smart like Lucas, smarter than me. And funny.