bring to their happy life. Best for now to wear the good man’s face but not the great man’s face, to hide anticipation away.
He’d walked into the bank and almost turned right around and left, but a free-roaming representative—not a teller—stood up and waved him over. It was so easy. All that money waiting for him all this time, waiting only for him to finally get some guts. The account his mother has put in his name for her care he can’t withdraw from without the attorney—and wouldn’t, of course!—but that his name is attached to such an account, and that account being attached to the rest of his mother’s accounts, offers him eligibility for a staggering new line of credit. The bank representative, a private-wealth manager as luck would have it, seated him behind a frosted-glass partition. She asked for his information, typed a few strokes, leaned into the glow of her screen, ripped a piece of paper from a notepad with another bank’s name—the name of the bank with which his had recently merged—wrote a number, and turned the piece of paper around on her green felt desktop for him to see. Her expression convinced him. It wasn’t congratulatory or approving or disgusted or conspiratorial. Her face was blank. As if that great big number were nothing. Maybe it was nothing. All of it to his primary checking, yes, thank you. A combined loan leaned against the equity of his house, which his mother had bought outright without a mortgage. Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Of course, there’s something terrifying about this. But to be terrified, to be brave, to again be alive, a speck of gold on the gray wheel of average, he hasn’t felt so clear in a long time. Still, he must be careful. At times like this the world has turned against him. He doesn’t want anyone to worry! As a young man it was—he was at his strongest, his second year at Yale, his will set to emerge. A misunderstanding. Monster or hero, to be a man! Monster, what the girl accused him of. The girl—laid, lied, liar, lie! She’d liked him. She said so! And different problems, later in his twenties, once or twice, he was fired. Fired not even once, really , and now, pacing the lawn, he’s saved from memory twice over: first by the stuffing hand of shame, second by the picture before him, the earth under his feet: his house, his grass, his sunlight. For so long he’s been out of the sun! For so long he’s been on ice! Sleep-skating a dead man’s figure eight, his ears nodding low, slow-looping an infinity under gulfs of mist at the bottom of a mist-shrouded valley. The mist—each minute now!—warming and wicking away. His front door looks peculiar, as if he were seeing it in a mirror. He must be careful. Iris will understand, but not yet. Who will not understand is his mother. How little she appreciates the efforts he makes.
He stops in front of the house and catches the ghost of his reflection in the wide window set in the flagstone beside the front door. Behind him, the branches of the ash sway. He’s holding the clutch of primary balloons at his back. He’s smiling, openmouthed like at something funny. Funny around the mouth and surprised around the brow. He cuts it all right, looks-wise. Broad at the shoulder, narrow at the waist. Dash enough for someone who has more important things to tend to than vanity.
He’d had the car drop him at the bottom of the driveway so he could creep up the drive. The balloons were a sudden inspiration—on the way home he’d asked the driver to turn off Route 22 into a low-slung complex with a jewelry store and a children’s toy store nestled amid the take-out joints. He’d chosen the toy store and made a rubber rainbow heap on the counter that the saleswoman and his driver helped him fill from the helium tank. Silver balloons had bobbled so cheerfully at the entrance to the bank, where they’d been tied to the leg of a folding table stacked with blue brochures. Come to think of
He’d walked into the bank and almost turned right around and left, but a free-roaming representative—not a teller—stood up and waved him over. It was so easy. All that money waiting for him all this time, waiting only for him to finally get some guts. The account his mother has put in his name for her care he can’t withdraw from without the attorney—and wouldn’t, of course!—but that his name is attached to such an account, and that account being attached to the rest of his mother’s accounts, offers him eligibility for a staggering new line of credit. The bank representative, a private-wealth manager as luck would have it, seated him behind a frosted-glass partition. She asked for his information, typed a few strokes, leaned into the glow of her screen, ripped a piece of paper from a notepad with another bank’s name—the name of the bank with which his had recently merged—wrote a number, and turned the piece of paper around on her green felt desktop for him to see. Her expression convinced him. It wasn’t congratulatory or approving or disgusted or conspiratorial. Her face was blank. As if that great big number were nothing. Maybe it was nothing. All of it to his primary checking, yes, thank you. A combined loan leaned against the equity of his house, which his mother had bought outright without a mortgage. Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
Of course, there’s something terrifying about this. But to be terrified, to be brave, to again be alive, a speck of gold on the gray wheel of average, he hasn’t felt so clear in a long time. Still, he must be careful. At times like this the world has turned against him. He doesn’t want anyone to worry! As a young man it was—he was at his strongest, his second year at Yale, his will set to emerge. A misunderstanding. Monster or hero, to be a man! Monster, what the girl accused him of. The girl—laid, lied, liar, lie! She’d liked him. She said so! And different problems, later in his twenties, once or twice, he was fired. Fired not even once, really , and now, pacing the lawn, he’s saved from memory twice over: first by the stuffing hand of shame, second by the picture before him, the earth under his feet: his house, his grass, his sunlight. For so long he’s been out of the sun! For so long he’s been on ice! Sleep-skating a dead man’s figure eight, his ears nodding low, slow-looping an infinity under gulfs of mist at the bottom of a mist-shrouded valley. The mist—each minute now!—warming and wicking away. His front door looks peculiar, as if he were seeing it in a mirror. He must be careful. Iris will understand, but not yet. Who will not understand is his mother. How little she appreciates the efforts he makes.
He stops in front of the house and catches the ghost of his reflection in the wide window set in the flagstone beside the front door. Behind him, the branches of the ash sway. He’s holding the clutch of primary balloons at his back. He’s smiling, openmouthed like at something funny. Funny around the mouth and surprised around the brow. He cuts it all right, looks-wise. Broad at the shoulder, narrow at the waist. Dash enough for someone who has more important things to tend to than vanity.
He’d had the car drop him at the bottom of the driveway so he could creep up the drive. The balloons were a sudden inspiration—on the way home he’d asked the driver to turn off Route 22 into a low-slung complex with a jewelry store and a children’s toy store nestled amid the take-out joints. He’d chosen the toy store and made a rubber rainbow heap on the counter that the saleswoman and his driver helped him fill from the helium tank. Silver balloons had bobbled so cheerfully at the entrance to the bank, where they’d been tied to the leg of a folding table stacked with blue brochures. Come to think of
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