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Show Motherlunge a novel 148 "Listen," Pavia said, nodding at Jack. "Bar-ry White, Bar-ry White, Bar-ry White. That's what the pump sounds like." "Hmm." Jack smiled, inclined his head toward his wife. "Or fis-cal year, fis-cal year, fis-cal year.... No, wait It's Uruguay, Uruguay, Uruguay." He smoothed the fine black hairs over X.'s forehead with one finger. "Should we go there someday, Pavia? Uruguay?" Pavia looked down at the bounty gathered around her chest-infant, apparatus, familiar hand of estranged husband-and smiled like the Sun Maid raisin girl with her tray. "Maybe," she said. She sighed and closed her eyes; she chanted, "Barry White, Barry White, Barry White." Each morning during this newborn period, I left similar dimly lit, affectionate, and confusing scenes, and each evening I returned to them. Calling Pavia from work I would imagine her still sitting on the couch where I'd last seen her, waving to me as breastmilk wet the front of her t-shirt and tears streamed slowly down her cheeks: "No, we're fine! Jack is here! All we need is more orange juice!" The townhouse was a fluid underworld, with Jack always there like a shadow across the surface, and I felt by contrast grotesquely solid and concrete, heavy. I was now the main dog-walker in the family, and as I trudged behind General each morning in the stink of early spring-yards and parks full of thawing trash and |