gaze, even though they’d met a hundred times, then looked at his mother, all itchy, thin shoulders bouncing.
“You said,” Patrick said to his mother. “I need help.”
“All right. Let me finish talking to Bob here.”
“You said, you said, you said. I need help. I need it.”
“And, honey?” Moira closed her eyes for a brief moment then opened them. “I said I’d be right there and I will. Just show me like we talked about, that you can work by yourself a couple more minutes.”
“You said, though.” Patrick bounced from one foot to the other in the doorway. “You said.”
“Patrick.” Moira’s voice was tight with warning now.
Patrick let loose a howl, his face an unattractive blend of fury and fear. It was a primal sound, a zoo sound, a wail at limited gods. His face turned the red of a sunburn and the cords in his neck stood out. And the howl unfurled and went on and on. Bob looked at the floor, looked out the window, tried to act natural. Moira just looked tired.
Then the kid clamped his mouth shut and ran away down the hall.
Moira unwrapped a stick of gum and put it in her mouth.
She offered the pack to Bob and he thanked her as he took one and they sat there in silence and chewed gum.
Moira jerked her thumb at the doorway where her son had stood. “Rardy would tell ya that’s why he drinks. They told us Patrick has HDHD? And/or ADD. And/or cognitive disso-something-something. My mother says he’s just an asshole. I dunno. He’s my kid.”
“Sure,” Bob said.
“You okay?”
“Me?” Bob sat back a bit. “Yeah, why?”
“You’re different.”
“How?”
Moira shrugged as she stood. “I dunno. You’re taller or something. You see Rardy? Tell him we need 409 and Tide.”
She went to see her son. Bob let himself out.
NADIA AND BOB SAT on the swings in the empty playground in Pen’ Park. Rocco lay at their feet in the sand, a tennis ball in his mouth. Bob glanced at the scar on Nadia’s neck, and she caught him as he looked away.
“You never ask about it. Only person I ever met didn’t ask about it in like the first five minutes.”
Bob said, “Not my business. It’s yours.”
Nadia said, “Where are you from?”
Bob looked around. “I’m from here.”
“No, I mean, what planet?”
Bob smiled and shook his head. He finally understood what people were talking about when they said “tickled pink.” That’s about how she made him feel—from a distance, in his mind, or, like now, sitting close enough to touch (though they never had)—tickled pink.
He said, “People used to use the telephone in public? They went into a booth, they closed the door. Or they talked as softly as they could. Now? People talk about their, ya know, their bowel movements while they’re having them in a public restroom. I don’t understand.”
Nadia laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing. No.” She raised a hand in apology. “I’ve just never seen you get worked up. I’m not even sure I follow. What’s a pay phone have to do with my scar?”
“No one,” Bob said, “respects privacy anymore. Everyone wants to tell you every fucking thing about themselves. Excuse me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that word. You’re a lady.”
She smiled an even broader smile. “Keep going.”
He raised a hand by his ear and didn’t notice until he had. He lowered it. “Everyone wants to tell you something—anything, everything—about themselves and they just go on and on and on. But when it comes time to show you who they are? Their shit is weak, Nadia. Their shit is lacking. And they just cover it up by talking more, by explaining away what can’t be explained away. And then they go on talking more shit about someone else. That make sense?”
Her big smile had turned into a small one, curious and unreadable at the same time. “I’m not sure.”
He caught himself licking his upper lip, an old nervous habit. He wanted her to understand. He needed her to understand. He’d never
“You said,” Patrick said to his mother. “I need help.”
“All right. Let me finish talking to Bob here.”
“You said, you said, you said. I need help. I need it.”
“And, honey?” Moira closed her eyes for a brief moment then opened them. “I said I’d be right there and I will. Just show me like we talked about, that you can work by yourself a couple more minutes.”
“You said, though.” Patrick bounced from one foot to the other in the doorway. “You said.”
“Patrick.” Moira’s voice was tight with warning now.
Patrick let loose a howl, his face an unattractive blend of fury and fear. It was a primal sound, a zoo sound, a wail at limited gods. His face turned the red of a sunburn and the cords in his neck stood out. And the howl unfurled and went on and on. Bob looked at the floor, looked out the window, tried to act natural. Moira just looked tired.
Then the kid clamped his mouth shut and ran away down the hall.
Moira unwrapped a stick of gum and put it in her mouth.
She offered the pack to Bob and he thanked her as he took one and they sat there in silence and chewed gum.
Moira jerked her thumb at the doorway where her son had stood. “Rardy would tell ya that’s why he drinks. They told us Patrick has HDHD? And/or ADD. And/or cognitive disso-something-something. My mother says he’s just an asshole. I dunno. He’s my kid.”
“Sure,” Bob said.
“You okay?”
“Me?” Bob sat back a bit. “Yeah, why?”
“You’re different.”
“How?”
Moira shrugged as she stood. “I dunno. You’re taller or something. You see Rardy? Tell him we need 409 and Tide.”
She went to see her son. Bob let himself out.
NADIA AND BOB SAT on the swings in the empty playground in Pen’ Park. Rocco lay at their feet in the sand, a tennis ball in his mouth. Bob glanced at the scar on Nadia’s neck, and she caught him as he looked away.
“You never ask about it. Only person I ever met didn’t ask about it in like the first five minutes.”
Bob said, “Not my business. It’s yours.”
Nadia said, “Where are you from?”
Bob looked around. “I’m from here.”
“No, I mean, what planet?”
Bob smiled and shook his head. He finally understood what people were talking about when they said “tickled pink.” That’s about how she made him feel—from a distance, in his mind, or, like now, sitting close enough to touch (though they never had)—tickled pink.
He said, “People used to use the telephone in public? They went into a booth, they closed the door. Or they talked as softly as they could. Now? People talk about their, ya know, their bowel movements while they’re having them in a public restroom. I don’t understand.”
Nadia laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing. No.” She raised a hand in apology. “I’ve just never seen you get worked up. I’m not even sure I follow. What’s a pay phone have to do with my scar?”
“No one,” Bob said, “respects privacy anymore. Everyone wants to tell you every fucking thing about themselves. Excuse me. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that word. You’re a lady.”
She smiled an even broader smile. “Keep going.”
He raised a hand by his ear and didn’t notice until he had. He lowered it. “Everyone wants to tell you something—anything, everything—about themselves and they just go on and on and on. But when it comes time to show you who they are? Their shit is weak, Nadia. Their shit is lacking. And they just cover it up by talking more, by explaining away what can’t be explained away. And then they go on talking more shit about someone else. That make sense?”
Her big smile had turned into a small one, curious and unreadable at the same time. “I’m not sure.”
He caught himself licking his upper lip, an old nervous habit. He wanted her to understand. He needed her to understand. He’d never
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