City of Boys (32 page)

Anne follows Nancy into the kitchen, which, like the living room, is jumbled full of things that seem to have arrived randomly at their places: empty pots and pans are spread out across the stove, clean dishes are stacked up under the cupboards, and boxes of food sit neatly on the counters, lined up against the wall.

—So, Nancy says, —that’s David. He’s going bald.

—All men go bald, Anne says. —Or they might as well. It’s all they ever think about.

—Andy doesn’t think about it, Nancy says absently, looking down at the can of peanuts. —At least as far as I know he never does. She turns the can around and around, reading all the printing, and something about her lack of attention causes Anne to lower her voice and lean forward.

—I’m breaking up with him, she says. —After the trip. I decided in Cincinnati.

Nancy looks up from the can; there is no expression at all on her face, but already Anne feels more certain, and becomes aware of a growing anxiousness to get home and get on with it. She nods her head eagerly. —Really, she says. —I am.

Nancy looks around for a place to put the peanuts. Finally she sets it on the counter behind her. —Well, she says, —good luck. It’s not as easy as you might think. I’ve wanted to leave Andy for years now, but, well, it’s just not so easy. She picks up the peanuts again. —What exactly do you
do
with these things?

—You’re married, Anne says. —You have kids. It’s harder with kids.

Nancy looks up. —What does that have to do with it? You can always figure out what to do with kids. That’s not what
I meant. She opens the icebox and puts the peanuts inside. —It’s just not that easy is all I’m saying. Listen, she says, bending and peering into the icebox. —We don’t have any Coke. All we have is ginger ale. She holds out a big plastic bottle with an inch or so of ginger ale sloshing around the bottom. —Besides, he seems okay. I don’t see what’s so wrong with him. Except maybe his hair. I don’t really like bald men.

—There isn’t really anything
wrong
with him, Anne says, and Nancy looks at her, waiting. —I mean, she goes on, groping through her history with David, searching out some transgression, something horrible and mean, but all she comes up with is his cheerful bulky presence, shadowing her at every turn, blocking the path between her and what she hoped would be her life. It doesn’t seem enough right now, not even to her; she can feel her resolve slipping, and she reaches out blindly to snatch it back.

—It’s like those peanuts, she says. —I mean, he picked out those peanuts. I didn’t.

Nancy takes a glass from the top of the icebox and examines it carefully, then turns to Anne. —I hardly think, she says, —that buying a can of peanuts is a good reason to break up with a man. Andy does worse things than that in his sleep. Anne leans back against the sink and watches Nancy pour the ginger ale; it fills the glass only halfway, so Nancy adds tap water almost to the top. She places it on the stove, and turns to Anne.

—But you want to know the worst thing? she asks. She picks up the glass and calls out, —Jimmy, then opens the freezer and dislodges from a tray a single ice cube, which she floats on top of the ginger ale.

—The worst thing is he wants to leave me, too. He won’t say it, but I can tell. She shakes her head. —It’s like we’re in a race, she says. —And I’m going to lose.

Anne turns at a noise behind her. Jimmy is standing in the doorway, and Nancy holds the glass out to him. —Here, honey, she says. —Would you take this in to David? And keep him company while we talk. I haven’t talked to anyone in a long time, she says to Anne. —Maybe tomorrow we could go out to lunch or something. Just you and me. I never get away anymore.

Jimmy turns with the glass. —Mom, he says, —what about the carnival? Nancy looks at him blankly.

—By the K Mart, he says, and she nods.

—I thought your father took you, she says. —Wasn’t he supposed to take you?

—No, Jimmy says mournfully. —You were. Tomorrow’s the last day.

Nancy sighs dramatically. —Well, she says, —your Aunt Anne is here. I don’t see how I could manage it now.

She turns back to Anne, but Jimmy waits, and Anne watches his face change as he considers and rejects arguments.

—But you said, is all he can finally come up with, and Nancy smiles patiently.

—Honey, she says sweetly, —there will be other carnivals. This just isn’t a very good time for me to take you. You understand.

He nods, but lingers a moment longer, then turns and leaves the room.

—Where was I? Nancy says. She pushes a stack of dishes away from the edge of the counter with a sharp rattle of porcelain, and leans back heavily. —Sometimes I wish he’d just disappear, she says. —I wouldn’t really want him dead. She shakes her head. —Sometimes he won’t even look at me. She glances at the doorway. —I think he wanted to hit me last week. I really do.

A kind of crazy light comes into her face as she talks, and
Anne looks around the kitchen, then stands. —Maybe we’d better check on David, she says.

When they come into the living room, David is perched on the edge of the couch, poised between a stack of newspapers and a box full of clothing.

—Oh, Nancy says, —just move those papers. Andy was supposed to recycle them.

She bends to move the box, her face passing only a few inches in front of David’s, but he stares straight down at the floor, then raises his glass to his mouth, though Anne can’t tell if he actually drinks any of it. Nancy sits beside him. —So, she says, —tell me all about yourself.

David turns carefully to her, resting his glass solidly on his knee.

When Andy comes home, David is telling Nancy how difficult the drive was, though, he says, he was very happy to come; in fact, he confides, not looking at Anne, he has always wanted to meet Anne’s family. He has never told Anne this, and she wonders if it is true. He seems almost disappointed when Andy comes in, and his eyes move immediately to Andy’s hair, which is full and dark.

—Anne, Andy says, clearly surprised to see her. —When did you get here?

—They got here an hour ago, Nancy says. —I told you they were coming.

Andy looks at her, considering. —No, he says. —I’m sure you didn’t. When?

—For the furniture, Nancy says.

—What furniture? He looks around. —Our furniture?

Anne had forgotten about the furniture, but as she looks around the room, it is clear that nothing has been packed or prepared; the one piece she does recognize, the secretary,
is open, and covered with stacks of letters and envelopes, each little cubbyhole stuffed with something. When Anne gets it home, she will put it in the corner of her apartment, with only one thing in each slot.

—Jesus, Nancy says, but in a neutral, almost conversational tone. —I suppose you forgot the steaks, too?

Andy brightens. —We’re having steak?

—We were, Nancy says, —but you were supposed to get them.

—Oh, he says. —Oh well. He looks for the first time at David, who is searching around for a place to put his glass; finally he transfers it to his left hand, then stands tentatively, his eye on the stack of newspapers at his side. He wipes his hand across his thigh and holds it out to Andy.

—Listen, David says, —we can go get steaks. Anne and me.

—No, Nancy says. —You sit back down. We’ll find something to eat. It just won’t be steak, she adds with a look at Andy, who sways a moment, back and forth on his heels, clearly torn between conflicting desires.

—Okay, he finally says. —Whatever. He shoves the newspapers aside to make a place for himself on the couch.

—So, Dave, he says, and David looks at him attentively. Whenever Andy looks away, David’s eyes move to his hair, curling down over the edge of his collar. Nancy heads to the kitchen and motions to Anne with a jerk of her head to follow.

—See? she says loudly when they are inside the kitchen.

—This is what I’m talking about. You see what I mean? He didn’t get the steaks. He didn’t even remember you were coming.

—It’s okay about the steaks, Anne says. —I don’t really like steak anyways. She tries to think of something more to say, but Nancy is not listening; she is rooting around in the jars
and boxes on the counter, finally pulling out a box of macaroni and cheese. From a drawer under the sink she takes a few potatoes.

—There, she says. —This ought to be enough for everyone.

As Anne and Nancy prepare the dinner, the children wander from the living room to the kitchen restlessly, like bored guests; they are always together, in a little huddle, and their faces show no expression, but Anne can see the tension in their knotted knees and elbows and in the way they seem to avoid touching even each other. Perhaps it comes from living in the presence of so many piles of things about to topple; she wonders what their own rooms look like.

Nancy opens the icebox and pulls out the can of boiled peanuts. —Well, she says, —I suppose we ought to do something with these.

She opens a drawer that is crammed full of utensils, and pulls things out, one by one, until she comes to a can opener; then she closes the drawer, leaving its contents–an eggbeater, the potato masher, several large spoons–in a heap on the counter. She opens the can and stares into it, then sighs.

—Well, she says, —it
was
a present. She takes a bowl from the sink, and looks inside it before she empties the can into it; they both gaze a moment at a lumpy heap of greenish soggy things that resemble peanuts only in the shape of their shells.

The peanuts sit in the middle of the table, and occasionally David casts them a quick dismayed glance, then looks around the table. Dinner is already half over, and no one has touched the peanuts until at last Nancy takes a small spoonful of them, which she sets gingerly at the edge of her plate.

—So, Dave, Andy says, —were you in Nam?

Andy’s service in Vietnam seems to have been the major event in his life, and though Anne has never been sure whether he was in favor of or opposed to the war, her strongest memory of Nancy’s wedding was Andy sizing up, then approaching every male guest. —So were you in Nam? he demanded of even those who were clearly too young or too old to have been much concerned with a war so far away from themselves. He nodded thoughtfully at whatever answer he received, then moved on to the next nearest man. David looks up at the question, surprised, his mouth full. He swallows without chewing, and assumes what Anne can tell is his best effort at a rueful smile.

—Too young, he says, as though this has been great cause for regret in his life. —I was in high school.

Andy nods, then narrows his eyes. —How old are you anyways? he asks, then turns to Anne. —How old is he anyways?

Anne thinks a moment. His birthday is in July; she should know this.

—Thirty, she finally says, which is her own age.

—Thirty-two, David corrects, and Anne nods as though she knew this; she looks uneasily around the table, but it is clear that no one else thinks there is anything wrong in not knowing the age of one’s lover.

—Yep, David says cheerfully, —I was just too young.

Andy nods. —We were all too young, he says ponderously. Nancy rolls her eyes and sighs heavily enough to draw a look from Andy, but she ignores him and reaches toward David’s plate with her fork. She prods at his baked potato, which is only half eaten.

—You should eat the skin, she says. —It’s good for you. David opens his mouth, then closes it as she sticks her fork into his potato and lifts it onto her own plate.

—But you look pretty healthy, she says, and looks at
Anne. —So how healthy is he? she asks, and for a moment everyone stops eating or chewing to stare at David, who is looking at his potato on Nancy’s plate.

He looks up at them all, startled, and suddenly everyone begins again to eat. Anne could not say what had just happened, or what that moment was, only that it descended over them like a glass, then lifted just as quickly.

Nancy smiles at David as she eats the rest of his potato, and Andy watches him; Anne can tell he is trying to calculate his age, to figure if, in fact, a thirty-two-year-old would have been in high school during the whole of the war in Vietnam. The children eat like well-behaved animals, intently, but with careful, precise manners; even the youngest leans his fork neatly against his plate before he takes a drink of milk. The gesture makes Anne long to offer them something; she is their aunt, after all, and she would like them to remember her as more than a stranger who came to take away their furniture, accompanied by a cheerful, balding boyfriend.

—So, she says to the three of them at large, —school must be starting soon.

They look up, surprised to be addressed, and finally one of them says, —Two weeks.

—I suppose you must be sad to see summer end? she presses on, and they look at each other, then nod.

—Hey, David says, and everyone looks at him. —How about that circus we saw? That must have been fun. He beams at Anne, pleased with himself for having made this contribution to her conversation with the children, pleased to have remembered the carnival.

—Jesus, Nancy says. —Now you’ve started it. They’ve been bugging us to go to that carnival since it got here. Andy was supposed to take them.

Andy stops his fork an inch from his mouth, then slowly lays it on the table and leans forward on his elbows. —I work all
day, he says. —I work all goddamn day. You could have taken them.

—I work too, she says. —I work all goddamn day too. She folds her hands on the table in front of her plate and leans back, gazing at him.

Anne is struck by the disparity between their words and their tone. Their voices are quiet, almost friendly, and to someone who didn’t understand the language, they might be discussing the weather, or planning a family vacation.

David is looking alertly out the window, and Anne glances at the children, who have not broken the rhythm of their eating. Indifferent to all but the outcome, they cut their food and put it in their small strained mouths.

—Hey, Anne says, —I can take you to the carnival.

Everyone looks at her, and she smiles. —Tomorrow, she says. —Before we go.