the rich scent of child-sleep. Instead, I set out the milk for him, get him a bowl and a spoon, tell him of course Mike can come over. I relish these small returns to normality. I’ll be wonderful to Mike. “Wow, your mom’s cool,” Mike will say, lying on Travis’s bed with his shoes on, about which I will say nothing, not one word. “Yeah, I guess,” Travis will answer, full of pride.
Travis fixes his cereal, then heads for the family room and the television. He’ll turn on MTV, I know, and I feel the usual stab of regret that he’s not watching
Sky King
or
Fury
instead of women’s breasts shoved into leather brassieres, ravaged-looking young men howling out sociopathic lyrics while they walk around sets that look like Armageddon. I’ve decided to let Travis watch occasionally instead of making it more alluring by disallowing it. Anyway, as he has repeatedly pointed out, everyone else watches it. He
has
to. When he told me that, I imagined him sitting in the lunchroom at school with other boys who were discussing the latest videos. “You see Madonna air-humping?” I imagined one boy saying, and Travis answering, “Yeah!” and giving the thumbs-up sign. This depressed me, so I revised the scene to have Travis respond by saying, “Air-humping? What’s that?” and then finishing the lunch I made him, all of it.
Lydia folds the personals, drinks the last of her tea. “I’d better get moving. Katherine and I are going over to the mall to do a little shopping.” She goes to the sink to wash her cup, dries it, and puts it back in the cupboard. I put my mug in the dishwasher, then go to pick up the message on the machine. It is Jonathan, confirming our date for the evening, telling me that the restaurant he decided on is pretty fancy, just so I know what to wear. I hate this.
I call King, leave him a message telling him what time to come over. He’s going to baby-sit for Travis—Lydia won’t be home and David is out of town on business. Probably not alone.
“Dad has a girlfriend,” Travis told me, last time he came back from spending the weekend with David.
“Really?” I asked, and Travis nodded.
“Did you meet her?”
“Yeah. That’s how I know.”
“What’s she like?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, what does she
look
like?” I asked, to which Travis again replied, “I don’t know,” in an irritatingly dreamy voice that made me feel like shaking him.
“Does she have blond hair?”
He thought for a moment, then said, “Red. It’s long.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, that’s all right. It’s all right, don’t you think? For him to have a girlfriend?”
Travis didn’t answer. And I didn’t ask any more questions.
13
A T FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON , I HEAD FOR T RAVIS ’ S ROOM TO tell him it’s time for Mike’s mother to come, they’d better wait downstairs, she’d called saying she was in a hurry. Outside the door, I hear the sound of muffled giggling. I smile, wait. I want to eavesdrop a little. Sometimes I write down the good stuffin a journal I’ve been keeping since Travis was born.
Apparently they are on the phone with someone. “Tell her you’ll meet her at the movie,” Travis says, and I hear Mike say, “Okay, so why don’t I meet you right outside the movie. Seven o’clock tonight.” He hangs up and the boys begin giggling louder.
Oh, what is this?
I think.
They’re too young for dating!
Then I hear Travis say, “How long do you think she’ll wait?”
“Probably about five hundred hours,” Mike says. They laugh again, louder, little hyenas; and I understand that Mike has no intention of going, that whoever the girl is will be standing there, holding her plastic purse and not looking around anymore after a while, just standing there. I push the door open, announce brusquely to Mike that his mother is coming, he should get downstairs and wait for her. Then, pointing to a Baggie full of chocolate-chip cookies, “Are those the cookies
Travis fixes his cereal, then heads for the family room and the television. He’ll turn on MTV, I know, and I feel the usual stab of regret that he’s not watching
Sky King
or
Fury
instead of women’s breasts shoved into leather brassieres, ravaged-looking young men howling out sociopathic lyrics while they walk around sets that look like Armageddon. I’ve decided to let Travis watch occasionally instead of making it more alluring by disallowing it. Anyway, as he has repeatedly pointed out, everyone else watches it. He
has
to. When he told me that, I imagined him sitting in the lunchroom at school with other boys who were discussing the latest videos. “You see Madonna air-humping?” I imagined one boy saying, and Travis answering, “Yeah!” and giving the thumbs-up sign. This depressed me, so I revised the scene to have Travis respond by saying, “Air-humping? What’s that?” and then finishing the lunch I made him, all of it.
Lydia folds the personals, drinks the last of her tea. “I’d better get moving. Katherine and I are going over to the mall to do a little shopping.” She goes to the sink to wash her cup, dries it, and puts it back in the cupboard. I put my mug in the dishwasher, then go to pick up the message on the machine. It is Jonathan, confirming our date for the evening, telling me that the restaurant he decided on is pretty fancy, just so I know what to wear. I hate this.
I call King, leave him a message telling him what time to come over. He’s going to baby-sit for Travis—Lydia won’t be home and David is out of town on business. Probably not alone.
“Dad has a girlfriend,” Travis told me, last time he came back from spending the weekend with David.
“Really?” I asked, and Travis nodded.
“Did you meet her?”
“Yeah. That’s how I know.”
“What’s she like?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Well, what does she
look
like?” I asked, to which Travis again replied, “I don’t know,” in an irritatingly dreamy voice that made me feel like shaking him.
“Does she have blond hair?”
He thought for a moment, then said, “Red. It’s long.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Well, that’s all right. It’s all right, don’t you think? For him to have a girlfriend?”
Travis didn’t answer. And I didn’t ask any more questions.
13
A T FIVE IN THE AFTERNOON , I HEAD FOR T RAVIS ’ S ROOM TO tell him it’s time for Mike’s mother to come, they’d better wait downstairs, she’d called saying she was in a hurry. Outside the door, I hear the sound of muffled giggling. I smile, wait. I want to eavesdrop a little. Sometimes I write down the good stuffin a journal I’ve been keeping since Travis was born.
Apparently they are on the phone with someone. “Tell her you’ll meet her at the movie,” Travis says, and I hear Mike say, “Okay, so why don’t I meet you right outside the movie. Seven o’clock tonight.” He hangs up and the boys begin giggling louder.
Oh, what is this?
I think.
They’re too young for dating!
Then I hear Travis say, “How long do you think she’ll wait?”
“Probably about five hundred hours,” Mike says. They laugh again, louder, little hyenas; and I understand that Mike has no intention of going, that whoever the girl is will be standing there, holding her plastic purse and not looking around anymore after a while, just standing there. I push the door open, announce brusquely to Mike that his mother is coming, he should get downstairs and wait for her. Then, pointing to a Baggie full of chocolate-chip cookies, “Are those the cookies
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