All the Time in the World (20 page)

“Matty,” I say. “I think it would be a good idea for you to eat some dinner. George is watching TV out in the living room. Why don't I make you a plate? You can sit on a towel in front of the TV and eat something. Okay?”

He nods.

“But, bug. There can't be any screaming, or mean talk, or throwing or anything else you know you're not supposed to do. Okay?”

He agrees, and we go out to the living room, and that's where Scotty finds us when he comes home early for the first time in almost two months. George scrambles off the couch and runs to him as soon as he's in the door, but Matt looks at me like he needs some instruction. I don't blame him for being confused, so I say, “You want to go and kiss your Dad hello?” He shakes his head, and I'm glad I didn't say it loud enough for Scotty to hear.

“What's going on, guys?” Scotty comes into the living room with Georgie attached to his leg. Matt looks at me. Am I going to tell on him?

I look back at him. Of course I am. I have to. Why do I feel so guilty?

“We had a little delay with dinner tonight, so when Matt finishes up, we're going back to get ready for bed. It's almost time,” I say, nudging Matt so he'll keep eating. “George, can you come finish your drink?”

George clings to Scotty's leg.

“Georgie, you haven't had enough to eat, honey,” I say, and Scotty kind of shakes him loose, so George goes for the next best thing. He sits down next to Matt, practically in his lap, and I hand him the milkshake. When I'm satisfied that he's sipping it, I get up and go into the kitchen, where Scotty is sitting at the table, contemplating the macaroni salad.

“Do you want me to make you a plate? Or do you just want a fork?” I say.

“A plate would be good. Thank you.”

I'll have an easier time telling him about Matt's meltdown if I'm busy doing something else while I talk, so I start organizing a fried chicken dinner on a plate for Scotty.

“So when we picked up Matt from school, he was in a really bad mood, and it got worse and worse through the afternoon. He was being really mean to George, saying things he knows he's not supposed to, hitting, kicking, pushing, the works. I finally had to tell him that he needed to stay in his room until he was ready to, you know, act right.” I finish my monologue and set Scotty's plate down in front of him.

He laughs a little, and I realize that I have cut his chicken into kid-size bites, in an obvious fit of autopilot. “Oops,” I say. “Sorry. I'm programmed, clearly.”

“That's okay. Their mom does that too.” We both stop laughing, because he so rarely mentions her and because this time he used the wrong tense. “I mean,” he says, clearing his throat, “she did, from time to time.”

I start to make a plate for myself. “You did the right thing,” says Scotty. “Matt's not allowed to talk like that. Dr. O'Neill says we need to keep the routine the same and not make a lot of exceptions. He's allowed to be angry about his mother, but he's not allowed to take it out on other people, that kind of thing.”

I need to step carefully through this minefield. “I'm not sure it was completely about that today. It seemed like it started with some boys at school.”

“But you don't think he's upset about his mother?”

“No, I do think he's upset about that. Of course. I just mean that there are times that I think he is upset about other things, like kid things, and since people have been excusing him for so much, he thinks he can act however he wants. No matter what the actual problem is.”

Scotty looks at me, and I can't tell if he thinks I've crossed the line. The trouble is, the line has relocated, and I have yet to discover where it is since our world came into its present state. “Well,” he says, “maybe you should talk to Dr. O'Neill next time you take him, and ask what he thinks. Maybe he can figure out the motivation, or tell you what he thinks we should do. For now, I think you handled it the only way you could. I'm sorry that he's been so nasty. I'm sure it's not pleasant for you.”

“I think you should probably take a look,” I tell him, and I feel guilt and nervousness sitting on top of my stomach as we walk back through the hallway to Matt's room. Scotty's eyes bug out as he surveys the damage, and before I can say anything to justify what he is seeing, he is back out of the hallway like thunder.

“Matthew,” he calls in his dad-voice, and I'm surprised, because I haven't heard that voice recently, and it's kind of nostalgic.

Matt comes out and stands in the doorway to the living room like a dead man walking. He has come out of the confessional; his soul is unburdened. There is no shame left to hide. He walks with Scotty back to his bedroom. A minute later, George realizes he is alone and comes running after us.

“Son, did you do this to your room?”

Matt nods solemnly.

“This room is unlivable. You've made it so that no one can sleep or play or do anything in here. Why did you do this?”

Matt shrugs, not because he's ambivalent but because he doesn't want to say anything that could incriminate him further.

“This is not an acceptable thing that's happened, Matthew. Do you understand? You need to make it right. Tomorrow you will clean this up, and you will need to do it on your own. Tonight you can sleep in one of the other rooms.”

“Georgie's?” Matt asks, with tears in his eyes, hoping that the answer will be yes.

“No, son. You can sleep in one of the guest rooms, and tomorrow, if you do a good job cleaning this up, you can move back into your room,” Scotty says. Matt nods and blinks the tears back.

“Let's get some pj's out of your dresser,” I say, picking my way through the rubble.

“I'll take them to get their teeth brushed,” Scotty says, and neither of the boys puts up a fight or causes any kind of delay, which freaks me out a little.

When the boys are tucked in, and Scotty has gone back out to the living room to finish dinner—I think I hear him watching infomercials—I go into Matt's room with a roll of paper towels, carpet cleaner, and a water-and-dish-soap solution that I hope won't eat the paint off the walls. I pull all the affected animals out of their hamper and take them to the bathroom sink for a sponge bath, gather up all the excess macaroni, chicken, and potato into a paper towel, wash the wall, and spot treat the rug, and then run the Dustbuster. I finish and gather up my supplies, and when I turn around, there's Scotty, watching me from the doorway.

“Holy C-R-A-P, you scared me,” I say. “I didn't want his room to smell like gravy. I don't think he would really know how to clean up the food effectively, so I figured I should do it now. Don't be mad.”

“I'm not mad,” he says. He doesn't move out of the doorway, so I can't get out either. We both stand there, amid the wreckage.

“You're home early tonight,” I say.

“There was no more work. I literally ran out of work,” he says. “There was nothing to keep me away from home.”

“It's nice,” I say. “We—the boys—were so glad to see you.”

“You don't think they thought it was strange?” he asks.

“No, I
do
think that. I just—I think it was in a good way.” Since I may have already crossed the line, I add, “They want you, Scotty. They want to see you.”

I think he's going to step out of the doorway, so I move toward him, wanting out of the havoc. But he doesn't move. We're standing really close together. He presses his hands to both sides of the doorway, as if there's a danger it will close in on him.

“It's funny that you spell
crap
,” he says.

“I used to spell both of their names when I was talking about one of them to someone else, but Matt's onto that now. I spelled B-A-D-A-S-S the other day, and he figured that one out too. Stupid phonetics,” I say. Scotty steps out of the way, and we make our way to the family room, where infomercials are blaring. I clear his plate and the boys' stuff and sit down to finish my dinner.

He clicks off the TV. “I think I'm going to bed early,” he says. “And by going to bed, I really mean have a
Game of Thrones
marathon. My workday put me in the mood to watch people put their money where their mouth is when it comes to evisceration,” he says, and it has the essence but not the inflection of his former banter. “Good night, Charlotte. Thank you for dealing with Matt. See you in the morning.”

“Good night,” I say. I finish dinner and watch the news for a while, but by the time nine o'clock rolls around, bed is sounding pretty good to me too.

I have finished in the bathroom, put on my pajamas, and am about to get in bed with
Vanity Fair
when I hear a small voice from the doorway to my room. “Charlotte?”

It's Matt. He's clutching a blanket and pillow, and his hair is all messed up. All of a sudden I feel so sad for him, and the sadness is walking around in my gut with footsteps that echo.

“What's up, love?” I say.

“Can I sleep in here with you?”

I pull down the covers and put his blanket on the other side of the bed while he crawls in. He pulls the blanket all the way up, almost over his head, so his voice is muffled and tentative as he says, “Will you sing to me before I fall asleep?”

I smooth the baby hairs off his forehead. “What would you like me to sing?”

“Something I've never heard before,” he says.

I sing to him, making it up as I go along so that there's no way any memory can attach itself to the song and permeate the fragile safety of this bed.

January, the year before

After a year of pleading, manipulation, and bribery, I still haven't come up with an effective strategy for getting Matt moving in a timely manner. Today, as we wait in the lobby of North-Mad for Gretchen, I have resorted to shaking his coat at him like a bag of dog treats
and
threatening to take away
all
future snacks. Matt has allowed me to get each of his arms into a sleeve of his coat, and he is kicking his toe against the wall and occasionally sighing loudly while, through a glass wall, we watch Gretchen chatting with Miss Annabelle, George's lead teacher.

George has let me bundle him within an inch of his life. The only piece of him that is visible is his left eye. The rest of him is swaddled like an arctic explorer, strapped into the stroller and ready to go. George, with his one exposed eye, watches his brother pace the lobby with an aggressive set to his jaw.

If I'm not imagining things, the look on Gretchen's face is similar to Matt's expression, and I'm beginning to wonder what Gretchen and Miss Annabelle are talking about. Gretchen's arms are folded, and she is interrupting Miss Annabelle every now and then—a very un-Gretchen-like thing to do—and as she starts to leave the classroom, she turns back toward Miss Annabelle and says something that makes the younger woman's eyes widen. She comes out and squats in front of Matt, zipping up his jacket before he knows what's happening. I'm dying to ask her a bunch of nosy questions. I restrain myself.

No one says anything as we get into the elevator, and Gretchen puts her phone to her ear. Apparently, there is no answer, because the next thing she does is start stabbing at the keyboard, sending a vehement text to an unfortunate recipient.

We walk a block and a half, all of us sensitive to her mood, before she decides to clue me in. “It took me so long to convince them to let G-E-O-R-G-E start there,” she says, and her voice is wobbling, like she's about to cry. I can't tell whether or not she wants to talk about it, and I definitely don't want her to cry. Matt's backpack is hanging off the handle of the stroller by one strap, swinging into her knees as she walks. I take the backpack and sling it over my shoulders, on top of my own. Matt notices the backpack-on-backpack action and laughs. Gretchen presses her phone to her ear again.

“I wish S-C-O-T-T-Y would answer his D-A-M-N phone,” she mutters. She is pushing the stroller one-handed and pressing the fingers of her other hand to her forehead, right above the bridge of her nose.

“Daddy?” asks Matt.

“Yes, Daddy, smart boy,” she says. Tears are starting to leak out the corners.

“Matty, did you have fun at school?” I ask. He shrugs. “Come on,” I press him, nudging his arm with mine. “What's the most fun thing you did today?”

“We read a book about a bunch of stuff that got stuck in a tree.”

“Did you like it?”

“I liked it until the end.”

“What happened?”

Matt frowns. “He got one thing down out of the tree. Everything else was still up there. But everyone went to sleep anyway. Even though there was a whale in the tree outside.”

“You don't think that could really happen?”

“No,” he says. He does seem genuinely perplexed. I look at Gretchen and make an I-want-to-laugh-at-his-cuteness face at her, but she is staring at her phone, miserable and trying to remain inaudibly so.

When we get in the door, Matt leaves his foul weather gear in a pile in the hallway and runs into the kitchen. Upon his liberation, Georgie follows suit. Gretchen and I wade through the mayhem.

“This time, they're concerned,” says Gretchen, as if we are picking up a conversation only recently abandoned, “about George's lack of response to the other kids. Or rather, that he won't
say
anything to them. ‘Concerned for his safety and well-being' is how Miss Annabelle put it. She says he sits there and lets kids take his toys or push him or stand in his way or take his turn…” She turns the fleece lining from Matt's coat right side out and zips it back into the shell. “He just sits there. He doesn't do anything to defend himself, or ‘defend his personal space,' says the teacher.”

“I can't believe she would admit that the other kids are pushing and taking his toys in her classroom,” I say. I am extracting the art projects from Matt's lunch box, which are mostly done on hot pink paper with varying hues of glitter glue.