Infinite Home by Kathleen Alcott Page B

visitor, Edward had taken a rare stroll in Manhattan, determined to find the city that had once embraced him, and ended up on an old friend’s doorstep. He and Martin had told stale stories and drank most of a fifth of whiskey, and Martin insisted, in a maudlin show of brotherhood, that Edward sleep on the couch. So Edward had not been there when his neighbor came to the door in his Santa-red full-body pajama suit with buttons up the back, at which point Paulie had called his sister, who had not answered. Paulie then set to fort building, hanging blankets over couches and tables and layering pillows on cushions, and told himself out loud not to worry. The winter moonlight that managed to slip into his creation was a wonder, and the fact he’d managed to construct himself any kind of new home had cheered him, but it hadn’t been enough.
    In the hospital six hours later, Claudia hung from her chair with guilt and told her husband, Drew—who had offered brightly that pneumonia fatalities were nearly nonexistent in the Western world—to go fuck off to the vending machines. At Paulie’s side she followed panicked thoughts in circles until she settled, after a long exhale, on a conclusion: Paulie would live with them, and if her husband didn’t like that, she would move in with Paulie.
    Drew, whom she’d met and married within the dim year that followed Seymour’s death, had told her he wanted to be her family. Slowly, with a feeling like coming home and realizing she’d been robbed, she had understood that he meant:
me, and no one else
. He treated her brother like a feral animal, cautiously tousling Paulie’s hair and then hurrying to the bathroom to scrub his hands. They had eloped at a rambling Victorian resort that straddled the Catskills, sat out on rocking chairs that faced the lake and giggled with the splashes of oversized trout who seemed haughty and bored by performing. “Do you see how simple things can be?” he had said.
    Underfed and sleep-deprived in the hospital, Claudia began to picture the elaborate dinners she would cook Paulie: pork chops with apricots and red wine vinegar, fried chicken with orange zest batter, salads with Brie and spinach washed in the coldest, cleanest water. Looking down at the perforated plastic bracelet on his wrist, the paper gown, she thought of his tendency to eat with slapdash enthusiasm, food ending up in his eyebrows and hair, and she began to cry with such force that several nurses gathered in the backlit doorway to watch her body refill and empty. She passed the rest of the morning like that, and when she finally rose, fastening her hair at the nape of her neck, the shadows on the bleach-scented tiles were lengthening rapidly, trying to reach something up ahead. “I’ll be back so soon,” she whispered to Paulie, who napped with a hand placed demurely on his cheek, as if hosting a tea or judging a dog show.
    She found Drew in the cafeteria, where a few nurses took mid-shift breaks, bringing cartons of orange juice to their lips with gold-ringed hands and tapping at their phones with artificial nails.
    “Hi!” he said, rising from the plastic table, his arms spread to catch her. “Are we ready to go?”
    She sat and he followed. She put one hand on his and another over her eyes.
    “It depends on who you mean when you say ‘we.’”
    “Oh. Well, how much longer do they need to keep him?”
    “Oh! Well! I guess I’m not only talking about
today
, Drew.” She had meant to conserve her anger, spread it as a foundation, but instead she had shown herself immediately.
    “What is it now, Claudia? Huh? I came here with you, I held your hand, I waited here in this godforsaken cafeteria—”
    “I need to be with him—”
    “And he’s going to be fine, as I said he would. Very soon he’ll be calling you at all hours again to read you the weather report—”
    “We need to find a bigger place, one where we can all be comfortable.”
    “And then what, Claudia?