OCR Text |
Show Motherlunge a novel 220 "I still go." Walter took a rattling breath in, narrowed his eyes. "Anyway," he said, "If I don't have at least three cups of their strong coffee, I can't take a shit." Eli put his hand on mine; I rubbed my eyes with my free hand. Underneath the overhead lamp, we sat in a circle like a Mongolian family in a yurt, while all of nature howled outside. We listened. Pavia said, "Thea. Remember that night of Eli's opening? The gallery exhibit?" She stroked Xavier's back as he nursed. "You were in the bathroom or something. And I was just standing there with him"-she dipped her chin-"and a guy, maybe mid-forties, kind of grizzled-comes up and stares at Xavier for minute. Then he looks at me and goes, 'Time and child molesters'." "I didn't know what he was talking about. 'Time and child molesters' he says again. And then he really looks at me. 'They're a mother's worst nightmare.'" Jack shook his head. "Jesus." "Yeah, I know. But no." Pavia's hand strummed and strummed across her son's back, the trapezius, the latissimus dorsi, the deltoids. "I know what he means. Look," she said, looking down at Xavier at her breast. "In a minute, he'll be gone." She smiled unhappily. Or rather-she smiled sorrowfully, full of understanding. "That's what your mother says now." Walter stood up slowly, reaching for his lighter on the table, pulling his cigarettes from his shirt pocket. "Dorothy says, 'it seems like yesterday when the girls were bom.'" |