some eggs and bacon in a diner under the elevated and went back to the hospital where Mellen was lying in bed crying and feeding his son, Augustus Sheridan, my father, who at the time weighed just under seven pounds, as befits a kid slightly premature…. I like to think Conn felt something, that he saw his son and felt something for the first time since Hadley turned him in…. But I don’t know if he did or not. Gus says he thinks Conn tried. But … what I know is that Mellen could never really see Gus the way new mothers are supposed to see new babies. He was an emblem of her sin. And from the day of his birth he never looked at her face and saw joy.”
1935
Conn
C onn lay quietly on his back on his side of the bed, his hands behind his head.
“We haven’t done it, since before Gus was born,” Conn said.
Mellen was in the bed beside him. It was a big bed. There was space between them.
“I know.”
“Kid’s three years old,” Conn said.
“I’m sorry,” Mellen said.
The ornamental tops of the bedposts always reminded Conn of asparagus tips. The posts themselves were shaped like fluted baseball bats. Conn used to think what fine bludgeons they would make, if you sawed them off.
“Sure you are,” Conn said. “So’s my pecker.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,” Mellen said.
“Or think like that,” Conn said without anger. “Or be like that.”
Mellen lay quite stiffly on her side of the bed, her face turned away from Conn. Her rosary beads lay in a neat gather on her bedside table.
“What we did before we were married was sinful,” she said. Her voice was flat.
“A couple of Our Fathers should take care of it,” Conn said, “a nice act of contrition.”
“Please,” Mellen said, “don’t mock the Church.”
“Hard not to,” Conn said. “All the pantywaist priests looking to diddle the altar boys.”
Mellen turned onto her side, away from Conn, and put her hands over her ears.
“May God forgive you,” she said. Her voice seemed frozen.
“He might,” Conn said quietly. “You won’t. You’ll never forgive me. Hell, you’ll never forgive yourself.”
“Our marriage is founded on mortal sin, Conn. Our son is the product of mortal sin.”
“And you won’t forgive him either, will you?”
With her back to him and her knees drawn up, Mellen was gracelessly angular under the covers. She clutched the bedspread about her shoulders, as if she were cold, though the June night outside their bedroom was very mild.
“What you can’t stand,” Conn said thoughtfully, as if he were talking to himself, “is that you liked it.”
She made no sound.
“That’s the dirty little secret,” Conn said musingly, “and I found it out. You like to fuck, saints-preserve-us. And I’m the guy knows it. And I’m the guy proved it to you. You’re married to me because you like to fuck.”
Mellen stayed rigidly on her side with her back to him, the spread held tightly around her.
“And Gus, the poor little bastard, reminds you every day that he’s here because you like to fuck.”
Mellen began to pray to herself in a soft flat voice.
“
Hail Mary, fall of grace
…”
“You can never fuck again, but it won’t go away,” Conn said.
“
The Lord is with thee
…”
“The feeling will always be there.”
“
Blessed art thou amongst women
…”
“The hot feeling down at the bottom of your stomach when you think about it.”
“
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus
.”
Conn had nothing else to say. He lay still on his back in the warm night and listened to his wife saying Hail Marys repetitively, and remembered his time with Hadley Winslow.
1942
Gus
C onn bought some sea worms and rented a rowboat and took Gus fishing in Pleasure Bay. The water was a hard, clear gray, as Conn rowed out from the dock. Occasionally there would be a thin iridescent oil slick, remote evidence of a tanker sunk in the North Atlantic. Gus was always excited by an oil slick.
1935
Conn
C onn lay quietly on his back on his side of the bed, his hands behind his head.
“We haven’t done it, since before Gus was born,” Conn said.
Mellen was in the bed beside him. It was a big bed. There was space between them.
“I know.”
“Kid’s three years old,” Conn said.
“I’m sorry,” Mellen said.
The ornamental tops of the bedposts always reminded Conn of asparagus tips. The posts themselves were shaped like fluted baseball bats. Conn used to think what fine bludgeons they would make, if you sawed them off.
“Sure you are,” Conn said. “So’s my pecker.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,” Mellen said.
“Or think like that,” Conn said without anger. “Or be like that.”
Mellen lay quite stiffly on her side of the bed, her face turned away from Conn. Her rosary beads lay in a neat gather on her bedside table.
“What we did before we were married was sinful,” she said. Her voice was flat.
“A couple of Our Fathers should take care of it,” Conn said, “a nice act of contrition.”
“Please,” Mellen said, “don’t mock the Church.”
“Hard not to,” Conn said. “All the pantywaist priests looking to diddle the altar boys.”
Mellen turned onto her side, away from Conn, and put her hands over her ears.
“May God forgive you,” she said. Her voice seemed frozen.
“He might,” Conn said quietly. “You won’t. You’ll never forgive me. Hell, you’ll never forgive yourself.”
“Our marriage is founded on mortal sin, Conn. Our son is the product of mortal sin.”
“And you won’t forgive him either, will you?”
With her back to him and her knees drawn up, Mellen was gracelessly angular under the covers. She clutched the bedspread about her shoulders, as if she were cold, though the June night outside their bedroom was very mild.
“What you can’t stand,” Conn said thoughtfully, as if he were talking to himself, “is that you liked it.”
She made no sound.
“That’s the dirty little secret,” Conn said musingly, “and I found it out. You like to fuck, saints-preserve-us. And I’m the guy knows it. And I’m the guy proved it to you. You’re married to me because you like to fuck.”
Mellen stayed rigidly on her side with her back to him, the spread held tightly around her.
“And Gus, the poor little bastard, reminds you every day that he’s here because you like to fuck.”
Mellen began to pray to herself in a soft flat voice.
“
Hail Mary, fall of grace
…”
“You can never fuck again, but it won’t go away,” Conn said.
“
The Lord is with thee
…”
“The feeling will always be there.”
“
Blessed art thou amongst women
…”
“The hot feeling down at the bottom of your stomach when you think about it.”
“
And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus
.”
Conn had nothing else to say. He lay still on his back in the warm night and listened to his wife saying Hail Marys repetitively, and remembered his time with Hadley Winslow.
1942
Gus
C onn bought some sea worms and rented a rowboat and took Gus fishing in Pleasure Bay. The water was a hard, clear gray, as Conn rowed out from the dock. Occasionally there would be a thin iridescent oil slick, remote evidence of a tanker sunk in the North Atlantic. Gus was always excited by an oil slick.
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