kind of you to come see me.”
“Let me in, Mother. We need to talk.” He sounds more like Arthur with each passing day, down to the threatening growl and the petulant, clipped syllables his father trots out whenever he feels he’s not being shown proper deference. “It’s freezing out here.”
His head swings to Alex and he falls silent for a moment as he studies him. “So this is your new tenant, I suppose? How convenient. He’s one of the main things we need to discuss.” He continues scrutinizing the boy for some time with an odd expression on his face.
I make no move to allow him in the house. “I’m really not in the mood for company today, Paul. Why don’t you run along home, and come back again in the spring?”
He leans one beefy paw on the door frame and towers over me. “I don’t have time for this. Are you going to allow me in, or not?”
I pick some sleep residue out of the corner of my eye with a pinky finger. “That depends. Can you keep a civil tongue in your head?”
He pauses. “You have the gall to speak to me about civility?”
I motion for Alex to stand back and I begin shutting the main door. “Wrong answer.”
Paul rears back in disbelief. “For God’s sake, Mother.” His breathing quickens. “Don’t you dare close this …”
The rest of his sentence is lost and Alex and I stare at each other in the entryway. He looks uneasy. There’s a second of silence, then Paul begins beating on the door and cursing.
“Goddammit, Mother!” His words are somewhat muffled through the wood, but still easy to make out. “I will not be treated like this! Open this fucking door this moment!”
“He knows full well it’s unlocked, and he could barge right in if he wanted to,” I tell Alex. “But of course, being Paul, he’d rather make a scene on the porch for the entire neighborhood to see.”
BAM BAM BAM! “Mother!” BAM BAM! “Goddammit!” BAM BAM BAM! “Let me in, right now! You’re behaving like a four-year-old!”
BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM!
The noise abruptly stops.
Alex crosses his arms over his chest and clears his throat nervously. “Is he going to leave now?” he asks.
“Wait,” I whisper.
A minute passes. Suddenly a soft knock sounds on the curtained panel window to the left of the door. I raise the curtain and Paul’s forehead is pressed against the glass. He says something I can’t hear.
I raise my voice to carry. “What, dear?” I cup my hand to my ear. “Say that again, will you?”
He grimaces but stays silent.
Alex shuffles his feet. “I think he said, ‘Please, Mother,'” he mumbles.
“Really?” I pull the door open and beam at Paul. “I’m so proud of you, dear. You’ve learned some manners! Who’s been tutoring you? Annie Sullivan? Goodness, first Helen Keller, now you.”
He eyes me with distaste. “Very amusing. Are you done playing games now?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Paul.” I let the smile fall from my face. “I’m having far too much fun to stop, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t answer. For an instant there’s a flash of something in his eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time—a deep, aching sadness I remember noticing quite often when he was a child. Pain flares momentarily in my chest in response, but I push it away.
“Well, don’t just stand there.” I step back and wave him in. “Welcome home, son.”
On the night he turned sixteen, Paul wandered into the kitchen, long after Jeremy and Caitlin had gone to bed. Arthur was out of town on tour, and Paul, who’d spent the bulk of the evening practicing in the music room with the new—and ludicrously expensive—Hill and Sons cello bow we’d bought him for his birthday, took a break around midnight and came to find me as I was finally getting around to cleaning up the supper things in the sink.
“Want help?”
“Of course.”
I washed and he dried, and we had the radio on as we worked. It was semi-dark in the kitchen, with the only light in the room
“Let me in, Mother. We need to talk.” He sounds more like Arthur with each passing day, down to the threatening growl and the petulant, clipped syllables his father trots out whenever he feels he’s not being shown proper deference. “It’s freezing out here.”
His head swings to Alex and he falls silent for a moment as he studies him. “So this is your new tenant, I suppose? How convenient. He’s one of the main things we need to discuss.” He continues scrutinizing the boy for some time with an odd expression on his face.
I make no move to allow him in the house. “I’m really not in the mood for company today, Paul. Why don’t you run along home, and come back again in the spring?”
He leans one beefy paw on the door frame and towers over me. “I don’t have time for this. Are you going to allow me in, or not?”
I pick some sleep residue out of the corner of my eye with a pinky finger. “That depends. Can you keep a civil tongue in your head?”
He pauses. “You have the gall to speak to me about civility?”
I motion for Alex to stand back and I begin shutting the main door. “Wrong answer.”
Paul rears back in disbelief. “For God’s sake, Mother.” His breathing quickens. “Don’t you dare close this …”
The rest of his sentence is lost and Alex and I stare at each other in the entryway. He looks uneasy. There’s a second of silence, then Paul begins beating on the door and cursing.
“Goddammit, Mother!” His words are somewhat muffled through the wood, but still easy to make out. “I will not be treated like this! Open this fucking door this moment!”
“He knows full well it’s unlocked, and he could barge right in if he wanted to,” I tell Alex. “But of course, being Paul, he’d rather make a scene on the porch for the entire neighborhood to see.”
BAM BAM BAM! “Mother!” BAM BAM! “Goddammit!” BAM BAM BAM! “Let me in, right now! You’re behaving like a four-year-old!”
BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM!
The noise abruptly stops.
Alex crosses his arms over his chest and clears his throat nervously. “Is he going to leave now?” he asks.
“Wait,” I whisper.
A minute passes. Suddenly a soft knock sounds on the curtained panel window to the left of the door. I raise the curtain and Paul’s forehead is pressed against the glass. He says something I can’t hear.
I raise my voice to carry. “What, dear?” I cup my hand to my ear. “Say that again, will you?”
He grimaces but stays silent.
Alex shuffles his feet. “I think he said, ‘Please, Mother,'” he mumbles.
“Really?” I pull the door open and beam at Paul. “I’m so proud of you, dear. You’ve learned some manners! Who’s been tutoring you? Annie Sullivan? Goodness, first Helen Keller, now you.”
He eyes me with distaste. “Very amusing. Are you done playing games now?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Paul.” I let the smile fall from my face. “I’m having far too much fun to stop, aren’t you?”
He doesn’t answer. For an instant there’s a flash of something in his eyes that I haven’t seen in a long time—a deep, aching sadness I remember noticing quite often when he was a child. Pain flares momentarily in my chest in response, but I push it away.
“Well, don’t just stand there.” I step back and wave him in. “Welcome home, son.”
On the night he turned sixteen, Paul wandered into the kitchen, long after Jeremy and Caitlin had gone to bed. Arthur was out of town on tour, and Paul, who’d spent the bulk of the evening practicing in the music room with the new—and ludicrously expensive—Hill and Sons cello bow we’d bought him for his birthday, took a break around midnight and came to find me as I was finally getting around to cleaning up the supper things in the sink.
“Want help?”
“Of course.”
I washed and he dried, and we had the radio on as we worked. It was semi-dark in the kitchen, with the only light in the room
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