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Show Motherlunge a novel 160 Xavier. I mean, as a family." Here's the steeple, said his index finger. He shook his head slightly, looked up at me. "That's not the same thing as needing room, is it?" "Boundaries, space...." With my two hands I weighed them in the air. The space hand was heavier; it was the hand holding the beer. Jack sat back in the booth. The bottom lids of his pale eyes sparkled suddenly with heavy-looking, unshed tears. He blinked. Tears fell. "I've never understood what the fuck this separation was all about in the first place," he said! "Fuck." He wiped his face with the back of his hand. I put my beer down and placed my palms flat on the table like a seer. "Neither have I." "What should I do?" He reached over to my hand, squeezed it. I looked down; his hand on mine like the image on a sympathy card. I waited. "You should keep your expectations low," I told him. This was fair advice for all of life, I reasoned with myself, fair play. "And be there for Xavier, of course." Jack looked as if X.'s name was physically painful to hear. Then the Irish music started up on the speakers overhead after all, and I winced, too. "Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays," Jack said bitterly, raising his voice over the music. "Others by appointment, I guess." Jack was still gripping my hand; I squeezed back hard. "She does want you there," I said. He shook his head. "Last summer she asks me to leave; I do. Then I find out she's pregnant, we're still talking all the time, seeing each other, she has the baby..." -he |