expert,” Gladys said.
“I’m going to call him.”
“How long will he take?”
“I don’t know. He probably needs to see the paper before he can give us an estimate.”
“At $150 an hour.”
“I can’t see it being more than a day.”
“A $1,200 day.”
“Look, Gladys, if this helps us find that money, it’s a small, an infinitesimally small price to pay. It’s not an expense. It’s an investment.”
His debt took issue with this and made its presence known, a sudden high-pitched squeal from a Dantean hog slaughterhouse.
NINE
P ERHAPS , H ARRY THOUGHT , as he drove north to visit her in her new place, his mother was simply part of the ongoing demographic lurch. The city was on the march, the tectonic shifting of a dozen immigrant cultures. The Italians had long cleared out of the east, and the Greeks had filled the empty space. The Jews kept moving north. The East Indians looked to the exurbs; the Chinese filled the fringes. In their wake, they left Chinatowns and Little Indias, and the owners of those stores and restaurants commuted in from the suburbs every morning. The rich had started the perverse migration away from the lake. Now the waterfront had been abandoned to generic condos, to childless couples with $3,000 bicycles. The carcinomic clusters of high-rises formed a wall between the water and the city, a bulwark against invaders, a wall too listless to declare its intent, to spell the actual words: Fuck You.
His mother’s apartment was larger than Harry had suspected from the outside. There were two bedrooms and a surprisinglyspacious living room. The building was built on a slope, and her apartment was at ground level at the back and opened up onto the cemetery, which appeared as a huge forest; both criminals and spirits could easily wander in. He had offered to manage the move, but his mother declined. Harry wanted to reassure himself that his mother was fine in her new place, the way parents wanted to make sure the university dorm their child was in was sufficient. Gladys was at her book club, and so Harry had invited himself over for dinner.
Felicia answered the door dressed in pants and a long cashmere cardigan that closed with a clasp. She took the flowers and wine that he’d brought. “Harold, I’m making myself a martini. Would you like one?”
“That would be good.” He guessed it was her second. Her deft, practised movements, shaking the gin and vermouth and ice in the silver shaker and pouring into two martini glasses.
“Santé,” she said, tipping her glass toward his. “To new beginnings. Take a look around. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”
Harry walked out the screen door and strolled up to the steel mesh fence of the cemetery. The trees were magnificent. Old-growth oaks, maples, birch, Japanese flowering cherries, elms, a dozen kinds of conifers. A two-hundred-acre park devoted to the dead. The perfect neighbour, though Dale was there, which couldn’t be a comfort. Felicia’s father was contained in a modest crypt. Harry had visited him when he was a child, holding his mother’s hand. His grandmother had been with them, in memory a crone no taller than young Harry.
His mother’s repudiation of her past life was even more complete than Harry had imagined. She told him she had gotten a library card, her first. She took the subway now. Harry suddenly wondered if she had given all her money to a batteredwomen’s shelter or a food bank. Her father had been a famous philanthropist; perhaps she wanted to continue his work.
As a child, Harry had spent a lot of time with his mother. He’d gone to camp for three weeks every summer, an expensive place with a Native name, bad food and a
Lord of the Flies
philosophy. The rest of the time he was at the cottage with his mother and sister. On weekends, Dale came up from the city, arriving on Friday night, the highway clogged with fathers smoking in their Buicks with the windows down. One Friday at midnight, Harry
“I’m going to call him.”
“How long will he take?”
“I don’t know. He probably needs to see the paper before he can give us an estimate.”
“At $150 an hour.”
“I can’t see it being more than a day.”
“A $1,200 day.”
“Look, Gladys, if this helps us find that money, it’s a small, an infinitesimally small price to pay. It’s not an expense. It’s an investment.”
His debt took issue with this and made its presence known, a sudden high-pitched squeal from a Dantean hog slaughterhouse.
NINE
P ERHAPS , H ARRY THOUGHT , as he drove north to visit her in her new place, his mother was simply part of the ongoing demographic lurch. The city was on the march, the tectonic shifting of a dozen immigrant cultures. The Italians had long cleared out of the east, and the Greeks had filled the empty space. The Jews kept moving north. The East Indians looked to the exurbs; the Chinese filled the fringes. In their wake, they left Chinatowns and Little Indias, and the owners of those stores and restaurants commuted in from the suburbs every morning. The rich had started the perverse migration away from the lake. Now the waterfront had been abandoned to generic condos, to childless couples with $3,000 bicycles. The carcinomic clusters of high-rises formed a wall between the water and the city, a bulwark against invaders, a wall too listless to declare its intent, to spell the actual words: Fuck You.
His mother’s apartment was larger than Harry had suspected from the outside. There were two bedrooms and a surprisinglyspacious living room. The building was built on a slope, and her apartment was at ground level at the back and opened up onto the cemetery, which appeared as a huge forest; both criminals and spirits could easily wander in. He had offered to manage the move, but his mother declined. Harry wanted to reassure himself that his mother was fine in her new place, the way parents wanted to make sure the university dorm their child was in was sufficient. Gladys was at her book club, and so Harry had invited himself over for dinner.
Felicia answered the door dressed in pants and a long cashmere cardigan that closed with a clasp. She took the flowers and wine that he’d brought. “Harold, I’m making myself a martini. Would you like one?”
“That would be good.” He guessed it was her second. Her deft, practised movements, shaking the gin and vermouth and ice in the silver shaker and pouring into two martini glasses.
“Santé,” she said, tipping her glass toward his. “To new beginnings. Take a look around. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”
Harry walked out the screen door and strolled up to the steel mesh fence of the cemetery. The trees were magnificent. Old-growth oaks, maples, birch, Japanese flowering cherries, elms, a dozen kinds of conifers. A two-hundred-acre park devoted to the dead. The perfect neighbour, though Dale was there, which couldn’t be a comfort. Felicia’s father was contained in a modest crypt. Harry had visited him when he was a child, holding his mother’s hand. His grandmother had been with them, in memory a crone no taller than young Harry.
His mother’s repudiation of her past life was even more complete than Harry had imagined. She told him she had gotten a library card, her first. She took the subway now. Harry suddenly wondered if she had given all her money to a batteredwomen’s shelter or a food bank. Her father had been a famous philanthropist; perhaps she wanted to continue his work.
As a child, Harry had spent a lot of time with his mother. He’d gone to camp for three weeks every summer, an expensive place with a Native name, bad food and a
Lord of the Flies
philosophy. The rest of the time he was at the cottage with his mother and sister. On weekends, Dale came up from the city, arriving on Friday night, the highway clogged with fathers smoking in their Buicks with the windows down. One Friday at midnight, Harry
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