possibility, as the beard was so clearly linked to his firing, to the strange new arrangement in their house. It was the opposite of sexy. It was impotent.
“No. He looks like a fisherman.”
“Fishermen can be sexy.”
Ana shook her head from side to side and raised her eyebrows, as if considering this possibility.
Finn was sitting with his legs out in front of him, staring up at the TV, where a cartoon someone named Peep and a cartoon someone named Chirp were running through a stream. Finn had a large red ball in his lap, ignored.
Sarah sipped her coffee. She was barefoot, like Finn, both of them optimistic of the spring. Ana wore tall, slim boots over her jeans. In Sarah’s house, she never felt the need to take off her shoes.
“Did Marcus ever have a beard?” asked Ana.
“Oh, God, yeah. He went through a whole proletarian thing in his mid-twenties. He was breaking from his parents for good. Bought a van and went west, worked in a national park.”
“You’re kidding.” Ana couldn’t see this, picturing Marcus in his plain black sweaters and wire-framed glasses that made her think of German architects. “Where were you during that time?”
Sarah stretched one arm over her head, groaned a little. “Probably backpacking, or screwing around or something. We weren’t so serious then,” she said. “Really, it was only a summer, when I think about it. I guess he hasn’t had too many beards, actually.”
The credits of the television show moved across the screen.
“Mommy, more TV. TV on,” said Finn, not taking his eyes from the screen.
“Sure, tomorrow,” said Sarah. “Can you press the Off button now?”
Finn stood up and pressed the button.
“Good job, Finny! Good job!” said Sarah, clapping. His jeans had little loops on the side, like he might be doing carpentry later. They were about an inch too short.
“I can’t seem to get the sizes right,” said Sarah as Ana glanced at the pants. She opened her arms for her son to run into. “Everything he owns is either way too big or way too small.” The boy took a kiss on the head, then disentangled himself and ran toward a pile of blocks in the center of the room, beginning to stack only the blue ones. Ana wondered if Finn learned these things at daycare—stacking and sorting. She couldn’t imagine him at daycare three mornings a week, away from Sarah, though apparently he went. She had never seen them apart.
“Did you notice how I didn’t say n-o to him when he asked about the TV?” said Sarah in a low voice. Ana nodded. “I’ve been reading up. You say: Yes, later, or yes, tomorrow, instead of n-o-t now. It’s a tactic. It confuses them, offsets the meltdown.”
Ana felt a little sorry for Finn, unwitting citizen of a country of deferred pleasure. The block tower teetered.
“I think James might be depressed,” said Ana. “He reminds me of my mother these days.”
“What, is he drinking?”
“No, it’s something else. He’s just not”—Ana struggled—“alive to the world like he used to be. Does that make sense? James has never had any bad luck.”
“Do you think it’s only bad luck?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but James has a kind of … certainty that might be hard to work with,” said Sarah carefully. “You know what I mean. I mean, we love James because we know him, but I wonder, in a workplace, if that could be …”
Ana felt a touch defensive on James’s behalf, but she knew that Sarah was right, and the certainty she referred to was, in fact, arrogance. James had left the university when he became a hot young pundit, in high demand after a seminar he designed on the decline of masculinity made him an expert on men. He had a national newspaper column and a radio show by thirty, and then ten years on TV, hosting this and that, called upon to air his views on any subject. James always had an opinion: the return of debauchery, the need for a new waterfront, why
“No. He looks like a fisherman.”
“Fishermen can be sexy.”
Ana shook her head from side to side and raised her eyebrows, as if considering this possibility.
Finn was sitting with his legs out in front of him, staring up at the TV, where a cartoon someone named Peep and a cartoon someone named Chirp were running through a stream. Finn had a large red ball in his lap, ignored.
Sarah sipped her coffee. She was barefoot, like Finn, both of them optimistic of the spring. Ana wore tall, slim boots over her jeans. In Sarah’s house, she never felt the need to take off her shoes.
“Did Marcus ever have a beard?” asked Ana.
“Oh, God, yeah. He went through a whole proletarian thing in his mid-twenties. He was breaking from his parents for good. Bought a van and went west, worked in a national park.”
“You’re kidding.” Ana couldn’t see this, picturing Marcus in his plain black sweaters and wire-framed glasses that made her think of German architects. “Where were you during that time?”
Sarah stretched one arm over her head, groaned a little. “Probably backpacking, or screwing around or something. We weren’t so serious then,” she said. “Really, it was only a summer, when I think about it. I guess he hasn’t had too many beards, actually.”
The credits of the television show moved across the screen.
“Mommy, more TV. TV on,” said Finn, not taking his eyes from the screen.
“Sure, tomorrow,” said Sarah. “Can you press the Off button now?”
Finn stood up and pressed the button.
“Good job, Finny! Good job!” said Sarah, clapping. His jeans had little loops on the side, like he might be doing carpentry later. They were about an inch too short.
“I can’t seem to get the sizes right,” said Sarah as Ana glanced at the pants. She opened her arms for her son to run into. “Everything he owns is either way too big or way too small.” The boy took a kiss on the head, then disentangled himself and ran toward a pile of blocks in the center of the room, beginning to stack only the blue ones. Ana wondered if Finn learned these things at daycare—stacking and sorting. She couldn’t imagine him at daycare three mornings a week, away from Sarah, though apparently he went. She had never seen them apart.
“Did you notice how I didn’t say n-o to him when he asked about the TV?” said Sarah in a low voice. Ana nodded. “I’ve been reading up. You say: Yes, later, or yes, tomorrow, instead of n-o-t now. It’s a tactic. It confuses them, offsets the meltdown.”
Ana felt a little sorry for Finn, unwitting citizen of a country of deferred pleasure. The block tower teetered.
“I think James might be depressed,” said Ana. “He reminds me of my mother these days.”
“What, is he drinking?”
“No, it’s something else. He’s just not”—Ana struggled—“alive to the world like he used to be. Does that make sense? James has never had any bad luck.”
“Do you think it’s only bad luck?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but James has a kind of … certainty that might be hard to work with,” said Sarah carefully. “You know what I mean. I mean, we love James because we know him, but I wonder, in a workplace, if that could be …”
Ana felt a touch defensive on James’s behalf, but she knew that Sarah was right, and the certainty she referred to was, in fact, arrogance. James had left the university when he became a hot young pundit, in high demand after a seminar he designed on the decline of masculinity made him an expert on men. He had a national newspaper column and a radio show by thirty, and then ten years on TV, hosting this and that, called upon to air his views on any subject. James always had an opinion: the return of debauchery, the need for a new waterfront, why
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