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Show Motherlunge a novel 155 "Or Jack," I said approvingly and with a kind of cold relief. I gulped the sweet white wine in the cup until it was gone. "Is it time to feed Xavier?" Pavia reached under the harness and copped a feel of her breasts. She nodded. I looked over at Eli's klatch; over the Ampersand's creamy head he caught my eye and waved. I motioned toward the door and mouthed goodbye. I re-looped my arm around Pavia and her child and we made our way through the gallery-unfashionably conjoined and definitely downbeat-toward the door and out it. It was a warm evening and the city was just starting to throw a dome of light pollution into the air above us. The early stars were shoved away. We sat on a park bench across the street from the gallery. Pavia nursed X. for a few minutes while I watched people come and go across the street; the music gagged repeatedly as the gallery door opened and shut. When Pavia was done nursing I put the harness on and put X. in it. We walked to the comer stop and got on the subway toward home. As we rode, X.'s head moved around on its little stem as I held him against me. Pavia had her arms crossed in front of her. She was looking at the dirty floor of the subway car. When people/got on at each new stop-an Indian lady in a sari and sweater, an elegant older couple, the usual furtive kook in an army jacket-they each glanced at us and assumed that the baby was mine. They figured that / was the good and attentive mother and that Pavia was self-absorbed and unhelpful, the irresponsible one. At least that's what I remember assuming others were assuming. That night is not so clear for me now. It was a long time ago, before Pavia left. |