like the aftermath of a frat party in there, clothes and sweatshirts, empty bottles and dirty dishes. He sent a thought out to his daughter, then, to Layla far away, to say,
Not for you, not this, let you be spared this
. It was not just dirt and disorder that he saw here but concentrated misery, the answer to the question
What would happen if I just let go?
This, RL thought. This is what happens.
Momma’s fine, Betsy whispered. Momma’s going to be just fine.
The children clung to her. Betsy was in her space now, her corner of the kitchen: a soft space. Fabric all around and scraps of cotton wool, a soft light from the big window, a big worktable and a drawer full of scissors, needles, skeins of wool. Everything in reach, everything in control. The chair itself was oak with woven, Mexican-looking cushions, worn threadbare to white in places and the wood scarred and stained. Everything within reach had been worn smooth with touch, and RL wondered if that was what had happened to her son, too, that half-formed, half-finished look …. In the soft light from the window they all looked beautiful but unreal, like somebody’s idea or a scene from a movie. Betsy was weeping but trying to stop. The girl looked angry. The boy looked like nothing at all, like water.
Betsy said, There’s a beer in the refrigerator, I bet.
RL just wanted to leave. This whole business—bringing her here, this whole trip—was a mistake. Abandoned to her own life.But somebody needed to bring her here; she couldn’t drive herself.
Thanks, he said, and opened the refrigerator door: mustard, celery, some half-empty jars of jam and a half-gallon of milk that RL was certain was empty. And beer, plenty of beer, at least half of a case left in the bottom. Milwaukee’s Best. RL took one anyway, opened it and took the first rank draft.
Do you want anything?
No, no, she said. I’m fine.
RL went to the window and looked out upon the sweeping vista, miles of sky and aching white peaks. This was what he meant to do, anyway, but found himself looking instead at the collection of streaks and smears on the inside of the window, remembering the essential grubbiness of kids, the mysterious ability Layla had always had to get filthy in no time at all in a clean house, doing nothing in particular. Here it would be easier. When did it change? Again he thought of his daughter, somewhere out there on the tundra, alone …. Now she was neat as anything, three days on the river and she still could look pretty and put together. He was lonely without her.
When he turned away from the window, Betsy had composed herself and was pushing her children at him. This is Adam, she said, and this is Ann. Say hello to Robert.
The boy mumbled a greeting but the girl spoke clearly, long-necked, her face open and curious. She was not yet a beauty but she was on the verge, still a child but not for long. She didn’t knowwhat to do with her hands. Suddenly one of them darted out, and RL took it and shook hands with her in an oddly formal businesslike way.
Thank you for taking care of my mother, she said.
Suddenly in the half-light he saw Ann and her mother’s faces next to each other, and he saw the length of her and the fineness of her bones, her long soft girl’s hair, and in the two of them he saw Betsy as she had been at nineteen when he had first met her, at twenty when he had slept with her: long, delicate, pretty. Looking back from Ann to her mother, he saw—an optical illusion, it felt like, some kind of trick—the girl’s face and the woman’s at the same time, Betsy at nineteen, the annihilating work of time, some furious sandstorm blowing through and obliterating everything in its path. The features blunted, then erased. The Sphinx. The sadness that rushed through him was not just feeling sorry for himself, for her, for all of them but a certainty that she should have been with RL all along. He would have taken better care of her, would have been a father to
Not for you, not this, let you be spared this
. It was not just dirt and disorder that he saw here but concentrated misery, the answer to the question
What would happen if I just let go?
This, RL thought. This is what happens.
Momma’s fine, Betsy whispered. Momma’s going to be just fine.
The children clung to her. Betsy was in her space now, her corner of the kitchen: a soft space. Fabric all around and scraps of cotton wool, a soft light from the big window, a big worktable and a drawer full of scissors, needles, skeins of wool. Everything in reach, everything in control. The chair itself was oak with woven, Mexican-looking cushions, worn threadbare to white in places and the wood scarred and stained. Everything within reach had been worn smooth with touch, and RL wondered if that was what had happened to her son, too, that half-formed, half-finished look …. In the soft light from the window they all looked beautiful but unreal, like somebody’s idea or a scene from a movie. Betsy was weeping but trying to stop. The girl looked angry. The boy looked like nothing at all, like water.
Betsy said, There’s a beer in the refrigerator, I bet.
RL just wanted to leave. This whole business—bringing her here, this whole trip—was a mistake. Abandoned to her own life.But somebody needed to bring her here; she couldn’t drive herself.
Thanks, he said, and opened the refrigerator door: mustard, celery, some half-empty jars of jam and a half-gallon of milk that RL was certain was empty. And beer, plenty of beer, at least half of a case left in the bottom. Milwaukee’s Best. RL took one anyway, opened it and took the first rank draft.
Do you want anything?
No, no, she said. I’m fine.
RL went to the window and looked out upon the sweeping vista, miles of sky and aching white peaks. This was what he meant to do, anyway, but found himself looking instead at the collection of streaks and smears on the inside of the window, remembering the essential grubbiness of kids, the mysterious ability Layla had always had to get filthy in no time at all in a clean house, doing nothing in particular. Here it would be easier. When did it change? Again he thought of his daughter, somewhere out there on the tundra, alone …. Now she was neat as anything, three days on the river and she still could look pretty and put together. He was lonely without her.
When he turned away from the window, Betsy had composed herself and was pushing her children at him. This is Adam, she said, and this is Ann. Say hello to Robert.
The boy mumbled a greeting but the girl spoke clearly, long-necked, her face open and curious. She was not yet a beauty but she was on the verge, still a child but not for long. She didn’t knowwhat to do with her hands. Suddenly one of them darted out, and RL took it and shook hands with her in an oddly formal businesslike way.
Thank you for taking care of my mother, she said.
Suddenly in the half-light he saw Ann and her mother’s faces next to each other, and he saw the length of her and the fineness of her bones, her long soft girl’s hair, and in the two of them he saw Betsy as she had been at nineteen when he had first met her, at twenty when he had slept with her: long, delicate, pretty. Looking back from Ann to her mother, he saw—an optical illusion, it felt like, some kind of trick—the girl’s face and the woman’s at the same time, Betsy at nineteen, the annihilating work of time, some furious sandstorm blowing through and obliterating everything in its path. The features blunted, then erased. The Sphinx. The sadness that rushed through him was not just feeling sorry for himself, for her, for all of them but a certainty that she should have been with RL all along. He would have taken better care of her, would have been a father to
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