very careful when you drive to work tomorrow, Charles.”
“I will,” he says.
“Bring my fitch coat when you come tomorrow,” Clara says to Pete.
“Yes, sir,” he says. “Mommy’s going home in style.”
“In the meantime, in between time, ain’t we got fun?” Clara says.
“What’s that?” he says.
“Another song!” she says, delightedly.
“I remember that one,” Mrs. DeLillo says. “Not so long ago, huh?”
“Do you remember that one?” their mother says to Charles.
“Sure,” Charles says.
“No,” Susan says.
“Mommy knows her music,” Pete says. He looks at his watch. “Mommy,” he says, “if we don’t leave on time they come around, you know. Shall we say goodnight?”
“My Pete,” she says. “And my Charles and Susan.”
“Good-bye, Mom,” Susan says, kissing her. “I’ll be home in a while. I have to leave tomorrow.”
“Be careful in rush-hour traffic,” she says, pressing Susan’s hand.
“I’ll see you soon,” Charles says.
“I know you will,” she says, pressing his hand. “And my Pete.”
“Tomorrow,” Pete says. “Good night, honey.”
“My family,” she says.
In the corridor, Pete says, “What do you think?”
“Is she weak, is that why she’s acting so strange?”
“What do you think?” Pete says. “She took herself a dozen laxative tablets. She’s still not on solid food. Only soup and milk.”
They walk past the guard’s desk. “All clean,” Pete says, flashing the inside of his overcoat. The guard does not smile. Charles glances at the book on the guard’s desk: Seventeenth Century Poetry . Probably the only job the guard could get.
“I guess my asking you for a drink is getting to be a joke,” Pete says. “I guess you wouldn’t have a drink with me after I called and said that you were a son of a bitch.”
“Sure I would,” Charles says. “Maybe I should get Susan home, in case Mark is there, and meet you somewhere.”
“Couldn’t you come for a short drink?” Pete says to Susan.
“Sure I could.”
“You mean you’re both coming?”
“Sure,” Charles says. Pete looks surprised. He smiles—the same smile he gave when he came to the hospital to visit Charles and saw his plastic pillow in use.
“Well, where do you get a drink around here?” Pete asks.
“I think there’s a place a couple of streets over.”
“Walk?” Pete says. “Do you mind walking?”
“No,” they both say.
“That’s good. My skin’s still crawling.”
“The place seemed pretty sedate tonight,” Susan says.
“That woman in the room with Mommy is a dog killer. Cat killer. She had a house full of cats and dogs and killed all of them. I don’t know the details. I said to Mommy, ‘You never know. Keep on the good side of her.’ ”
They are walking together in stride, Susan breaking step occasionally to keep up.
“Oh man, when is this winter ever going to end?” Pete says. “This morning, driving down to the hospital I was tempted to take my credit card—did you kids know I have a BankAmericard?—over to the airport and fly to Florida. Three years I’ve been wanting to fly to Florida, get the hell in the sun. I thought to myself, you’re freezing; you’re sixty-three years old and you’ve never done anything exciting in your life.”
“There’s not much exciting to do,” Charles says. The Paris McDonald’s.
“Florida, hell, you might not call that exciting, but you know what I mean: to be where it’s warm. It’s colder than I ever remember it here this winter.”
“I can’t keep up with you,” Susan says.
“Sorry, honey,” Pete says. They slow down a little.
“Another thing I thought about was getting a Honda Civic. Your mother thinks the things are too small to ride around in. She says we’ll be killed. I said, ‘What the hell. We don’t have kids. We don’t have any big dog. We can get us a little car.’ You know your mother.” Pete blows his nose, drops the tissue on the sidewalk.
“I will,” he says.
“Bring my fitch coat when you come tomorrow,” Clara says to Pete.
“Yes, sir,” he says. “Mommy’s going home in style.”
“In the meantime, in between time, ain’t we got fun?” Clara says.
“What’s that?” he says.
“Another song!” she says, delightedly.
“I remember that one,” Mrs. DeLillo says. “Not so long ago, huh?”
“Do you remember that one?” their mother says to Charles.
“Sure,” Charles says.
“No,” Susan says.
“Mommy knows her music,” Pete says. He looks at his watch. “Mommy,” he says, “if we don’t leave on time they come around, you know. Shall we say goodnight?”
“My Pete,” she says. “And my Charles and Susan.”
“Good-bye, Mom,” Susan says, kissing her. “I’ll be home in a while. I have to leave tomorrow.”
“Be careful in rush-hour traffic,” she says, pressing Susan’s hand.
“I’ll see you soon,” Charles says.
“I know you will,” she says, pressing his hand. “And my Pete.”
“Tomorrow,” Pete says. “Good night, honey.”
“My family,” she says.
In the corridor, Pete says, “What do you think?”
“Is she weak, is that why she’s acting so strange?”
“What do you think?” Pete says. “She took herself a dozen laxative tablets. She’s still not on solid food. Only soup and milk.”
They walk past the guard’s desk. “All clean,” Pete says, flashing the inside of his overcoat. The guard does not smile. Charles glances at the book on the guard’s desk: Seventeenth Century Poetry . Probably the only job the guard could get.
“I guess my asking you for a drink is getting to be a joke,” Pete says. “I guess you wouldn’t have a drink with me after I called and said that you were a son of a bitch.”
“Sure I would,” Charles says. “Maybe I should get Susan home, in case Mark is there, and meet you somewhere.”
“Couldn’t you come for a short drink?” Pete says to Susan.
“Sure I could.”
“You mean you’re both coming?”
“Sure,” Charles says. Pete looks surprised. He smiles—the same smile he gave when he came to the hospital to visit Charles and saw his plastic pillow in use.
“Well, where do you get a drink around here?” Pete asks.
“I think there’s a place a couple of streets over.”
“Walk?” Pete says. “Do you mind walking?”
“No,” they both say.
“That’s good. My skin’s still crawling.”
“The place seemed pretty sedate tonight,” Susan says.
“That woman in the room with Mommy is a dog killer. Cat killer. She had a house full of cats and dogs and killed all of them. I don’t know the details. I said to Mommy, ‘You never know. Keep on the good side of her.’ ”
They are walking together in stride, Susan breaking step occasionally to keep up.
“Oh man, when is this winter ever going to end?” Pete says. “This morning, driving down to the hospital I was tempted to take my credit card—did you kids know I have a BankAmericard?—over to the airport and fly to Florida. Three years I’ve been wanting to fly to Florida, get the hell in the sun. I thought to myself, you’re freezing; you’re sixty-three years old and you’ve never done anything exciting in your life.”
“There’s not much exciting to do,” Charles says. The Paris McDonald’s.
“Florida, hell, you might not call that exciting, but you know what I mean: to be where it’s warm. It’s colder than I ever remember it here this winter.”
“I can’t keep up with you,” Susan says.
“Sorry, honey,” Pete says. They slow down a little.
“Another thing I thought about was getting a Honda Civic. Your mother thinks the things are too small to ride around in. She says we’ll be killed. I said, ‘What the hell. We don’t have kids. We don’t have any big dog. We can get us a little car.’ You know your mother.” Pete blows his nose, drops the tissue on the sidewalk.
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