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Show Motherlunge a novel 234 "Maybe not," he said, eyelashes glistening now with unshed tears, "But I'm getting a hard on." Eli bought me a ring in the museum gift shop that day, and it wasn't long before the skin under the band was paler than the rest, like a perforation separating us from before. When I typed at work, or washed the dishes at home, or reached out for Xavier during our Sunday dinners at Pavia and Jack's house, I liked to see the ring there on my hand. I liked the green plaque that eventually grew in its hammered crevices; I liked its stalwart, Old World shine. It was as if it had been in the family for generations, as if the generations were a wise and kindly group looking down on me from their sepia-toned heaven. Instead there was Dorothy calling late at night, reading aloud from her new book on vitamins. "E is1 good for your hair," she would tell me, "It's good for your eyes." "Everyone knows that," I said, moving the basal thermometer to the other side of my mouth. "I know it," she said. She took a drag on her cigarette; smoking is one of her episodic habits, like insomnia and pressured speech. "But not just that." Her voice was like a leak in a tire as she exhaled-steady, hushed, urgent- "Longevity." "Uh-huh," I said. "But Thea. Thea! Also fertility." |