says. “That’s all. I wanna do the interrogatory thing. With you.”
Fitz has enough questions to fill up one of those long legal sheets. He could go and on.
“Questions,” his father says. “Like?”
“Like, what happened? With you and Mom? With you and me.”
Out of nowhere, Fitz feels himself choke up. He doesn’t think his father notices, but it’s those words, simple as that,
you and me
. The two of them stuck together like that. He turns away, looks out the window. He can’t cave now. He didn’t come all this way to go soft and blubber.
He can find his edge. He touches his backpack on his lap, feels the hard outline of the gun. He can compel. He remembers when he got in the car that morning, all snarly and full of attitude, his father thinking he was getting jacked.
“Come on,” Fitz says. “One day you’re thinking there’s no one like her, and next thing, you’re mailing it in from St. Louis. What’s up with that? Something happened. Tell me what happened. That’s all I’m asking.”
His father’s hand is on the shift but he hasn’t put the car in gear.
“I wanna hear it,” Fitz says. “The whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
“All right,” his father says. “You wanna hear about that? Fine. I can tell you that story.”
27
“
You were a good baby , a beautiful baby,” that’s how he starts. That’s his once-upon-a-time. He says that Fitz was healthy, bright-eyed, curious. He had amazing blue eyes. It’s just that he didn’t sleep, at least not for long stretches. Two hours max, that’s how long he’d stay down, often less than that, and then he’d be wide awake, demanding attention. Sometimes he’d be down for just a few minutes, then go off like a fire alarm, crying so hard that his face, even his head, turned red. Singing, rocking, jostling, walking—nothing seemed to help.
Annie was beyond exhausted, his father tells Fitz. “She was sleep-deprived. People say the words, but the real thing, it’s hard to comprehend. How bad it is.”
“Like torture,” Fitz says.
“Exactly,” his father says.
She wasn’t getting a lot of help either. Her brother came over when he could. He had a good heart and a talent for goofy faces, but he was a teenager, his real world was somewhere else—the next date-dance, homework, hockey practice. One of hergirlfriends from the diner used to stop by. But just like Dunc, she had a life outside of Annie’s apartment.
“Annie never asked her dad to help, and he never offered,” his father says.
Fitz could believe it. His grandpa was old-school. He couldn’t imagine that he’d do diapers. You weren’t going to catch him warming a bottle. From listening to his mom and uncle talk, Fitz could tell that his parenting style, if that’s what you’d call it, wasn’t suited for babies. He had the no-nonsense manner of an Army sergeant, which is what he’d been. They used to hold out their plates and he’d scoop food onto them. He called washing dishes KP. He wrote their names on cups and on every article of their clothing. Fitz knew that wouldn’t work with a baby. Babies didn’t care about keeping everything shipshape; they didn’t come with a field manual; they showed no respect for standard operating procedure.
“What about you?” Fitz asks. “Were you still going out?”
“There’s no going out with a baby,” his father tells him. He says that he would stop by every couple of days, usually in the early evening before heading off to the library to study. He was trying his best to keep his head above water academically. He had finals and then, after that, the bar exam. He was sending out résumés. Still, he wanted to do the right thing.
But the baby scared him a little. He was so small, so delicate—so alien somehow. He’d hold him, but as often as not, as soon as he picked him up, the baby’s lips would quiver and he’d start to cry. He was nervous and self-conscious, Annie watching his every move.
“I
Fitz has enough questions to fill up one of those long legal sheets. He could go and on.
“Questions,” his father says. “Like?”
“Like, what happened? With you and Mom? With you and me.”
Out of nowhere, Fitz feels himself choke up. He doesn’t think his father notices, but it’s those words, simple as that,
you and me
. The two of them stuck together like that. He turns away, looks out the window. He can’t cave now. He didn’t come all this way to go soft and blubber.
He can find his edge. He touches his backpack on his lap, feels the hard outline of the gun. He can compel. He remembers when he got in the car that morning, all snarly and full of attitude, his father thinking he was getting jacked.
“Come on,” Fitz says. “One day you’re thinking there’s no one like her, and next thing, you’re mailing it in from St. Louis. What’s up with that? Something happened. Tell me what happened. That’s all I’m asking.”
His father’s hand is on the shift but he hasn’t put the car in gear.
“I wanna hear it,” Fitz says. “The whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
“All right,” his father says. “You wanna hear about that? Fine. I can tell you that story.”
27
“
You were a good baby , a beautiful baby,” that’s how he starts. That’s his once-upon-a-time. He says that Fitz was healthy, bright-eyed, curious. He had amazing blue eyes. It’s just that he didn’t sleep, at least not for long stretches. Two hours max, that’s how long he’d stay down, often less than that, and then he’d be wide awake, demanding attention. Sometimes he’d be down for just a few minutes, then go off like a fire alarm, crying so hard that his face, even his head, turned red. Singing, rocking, jostling, walking—nothing seemed to help.
Annie was beyond exhausted, his father tells Fitz. “She was sleep-deprived. People say the words, but the real thing, it’s hard to comprehend. How bad it is.”
“Like torture,” Fitz says.
“Exactly,” his father says.
She wasn’t getting a lot of help either. Her brother came over when he could. He had a good heart and a talent for goofy faces, but he was a teenager, his real world was somewhere else—the next date-dance, homework, hockey practice. One of hergirlfriends from the diner used to stop by. But just like Dunc, she had a life outside of Annie’s apartment.
“Annie never asked her dad to help, and he never offered,” his father says.
Fitz could believe it. His grandpa was old-school. He couldn’t imagine that he’d do diapers. You weren’t going to catch him warming a bottle. From listening to his mom and uncle talk, Fitz could tell that his parenting style, if that’s what you’d call it, wasn’t suited for babies. He had the no-nonsense manner of an Army sergeant, which is what he’d been. They used to hold out their plates and he’d scoop food onto them. He called washing dishes KP. He wrote their names on cups and on every article of their clothing. Fitz knew that wouldn’t work with a baby. Babies didn’t care about keeping everything shipshape; they didn’t come with a field manual; they showed no respect for standard operating procedure.
“What about you?” Fitz asks. “Were you still going out?”
“There’s no going out with a baby,” his father tells him. He says that he would stop by every couple of days, usually in the early evening before heading off to the library to study. He was trying his best to keep his head above water academically. He had finals and then, after that, the bar exam. He was sending out résumés. Still, he wanted to do the right thing.
But the baby scared him a little. He was so small, so delicate—so alien somehow. He’d hold him, but as often as not, as soon as he picked him up, the baby’s lips would quiver and he’d start to cry. He was nervous and self-conscious, Annie watching his every move.
“I
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