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Show Motherlunge a novel 109 Years earlier, at a pancake house in Supernal one Sunday morning with Walter and Dorothy and me and Pavia, Jack had announced his and Pavia's wedding plans. "Merger," he'd said, and he had brought his wide hands together gently, his eyes and eyelashes gummy with unshed tears. Now there I was again in one of life's bigger moments, watching my brother-in-law push food into his mouth with a fork. But this time I sat next to my enlarged sister, feeling the radiating heat of her gestation, understanding-better than Jack would have, certainly-what her obstetrician had meant by the word "effacement" And I felt solid this time, weirdly entitled, the way you do when you watch a young businessman-someone about your age, maybe-trying to catch4he bus in which you're riding as it begins to move from the stop. This businessman is sprinting in his good shoes through the curb slush. His tie is streaming behind him and his briefcase is banging against his once-muscular thigh. He makes a fist to hit the moving bus; his eyes meet yours through the window glass. The bus driver will stop for him or he won't, but there's nothing you can do. For this you are grateful. You hate to think how eagerly you'd watch the man's face as the bus pulled away. "Baby'11 be co-branded, then?" I asked, resting my wrists on the edge of the table. "A nice hyphenated last name? Bewixt and between?" Pavia looked at Jack, who looked at back at her uncertainly. What are you looking at? I said turning to Eli, except I didn't actually say anything. |