unable, as long as his sister occupies the veranda, to step beyond the door.
M AUREEN SAYS, “Your sister asked if we were expecting a king.”
Justin is standing by the window of Maureen’s lounge room. The window is draped by a gauzy curtain, and while he can see out into a grainy world, no one, outside, may see in. Only stifled light penetrates the gauze — Maureen wants nothing to fade — so the room is dim, cool as a well even at the end of this long summer. Everything in the room matches — the smoked glass, the beige paintwork, the pair of Matisses framed in chrome — and accords with the current vogue of the middlingly classy. The lounge suite is upholstered in white leather, and reminds Justin of ice cream. The carpet is equally colorless, the enemy of shoes. It is a flawless but not a restful room: Justin has seenMaureen’s son refuse to cross the carpet-edger of its threshold, his deerish eyes blank with unwillingness.
Although right now the boy is sitting at Justin’s feet tracing shapes with his fingertips onto the carpet, and Justin feels his presence as a whiff of Ovaltine and cinnamon toast.
The mantel clock strikes six with a ladylike chime. The clock is new, still foreign enough to make Justin and David look around at its sound. Maureen, stretched out on the ice cream, smiles: Justin knows why. She tends an ever-changing flock of costly periodicals, and every lounge room in their burnished pages features a small chiming clock on a mantel. Other things she sees there can make her less happy. “Yellow doesn’t suit me, does it? But everyone seems to be wearing it. My skin’s too pale for bright colors, isn’t it? But colors are so much in fashion. Yellow is awful on me, I shouldn’t have worn it.”
“It’s not awful,” he assures her. “It’s fine.” Over the past year he’s said this or something similar so often he hardly hears himself say it. In the beginning, he had thought her worries touching. It was as if she was trying to rise to a standard Justin had unintentionally set. Justin is twenty-four years old: the world will never be more suited to him than it is now, he will never feel more embraced by life or have greater faith in his right to exist. The earth and the oxygen, the cities and lights, the nights and the beaches seem created for him and for those like him. Maureen Wilks is thirty-six, married for most of that differing dozenyears, a mother and a housewife. It would be tempting for someone like her, Justin supposes, to stop trying. Instead, in her relentless reaching for what’s fresh and new, she’s almost more youthful than he is.
But in the last few months something has changed, smudging his view of her. Something has leaked from a pool of indifference that Justin hadn’t even noticed was filling, and everything he’d once craved has become less vital to him. The hankering he’d felt at the start is subsiding as it has subsided before, away from other girls he’s loved, for no more scurrilous reason than that he’s too restless to be in love for long. And although he’s been aggrieved by the fickleness of his heart, Justin is also relieved. He is still free. He won’t spend his life with this woman. He’s embarrassed by the Justin who had once, boyishly, wanted to.
Embarrassment is like the fatal stick in KerPlunk — with the smallest tweak, everything falls. Justin now finds odious what once flattered and entranced. Maureen’s conversation, her pride, even her attempts to please: all these irritate. Her battle to stay at the forefront of what’s fashionable is pathetic in someone living her life. She doesn’t seem willing to accept that she’s just a middle-aged housewife. She speaks with dissatisfaction of the house, its furnishings, the neighborhood, the stores. And if she never exactly states that her husband and child also rank deficient in her world, she often tells Justin, “You are my fine thing. You’re what’s worth living
M AUREEN SAYS, “Your sister asked if we were expecting a king.”
Justin is standing by the window of Maureen’s lounge room. The window is draped by a gauzy curtain, and while he can see out into a grainy world, no one, outside, may see in. Only stifled light penetrates the gauze — Maureen wants nothing to fade — so the room is dim, cool as a well even at the end of this long summer. Everything in the room matches — the smoked glass, the beige paintwork, the pair of Matisses framed in chrome — and accords with the current vogue of the middlingly classy. The lounge suite is upholstered in white leather, and reminds Justin of ice cream. The carpet is equally colorless, the enemy of shoes. It is a flawless but not a restful room: Justin has seenMaureen’s son refuse to cross the carpet-edger of its threshold, his deerish eyes blank with unwillingness.
Although right now the boy is sitting at Justin’s feet tracing shapes with his fingertips onto the carpet, and Justin feels his presence as a whiff of Ovaltine and cinnamon toast.
The mantel clock strikes six with a ladylike chime. The clock is new, still foreign enough to make Justin and David look around at its sound. Maureen, stretched out on the ice cream, smiles: Justin knows why. She tends an ever-changing flock of costly periodicals, and every lounge room in their burnished pages features a small chiming clock on a mantel. Other things she sees there can make her less happy. “Yellow doesn’t suit me, does it? But everyone seems to be wearing it. My skin’s too pale for bright colors, isn’t it? But colors are so much in fashion. Yellow is awful on me, I shouldn’t have worn it.”
“It’s not awful,” he assures her. “It’s fine.” Over the past year he’s said this or something similar so often he hardly hears himself say it. In the beginning, he had thought her worries touching. It was as if she was trying to rise to a standard Justin had unintentionally set. Justin is twenty-four years old: the world will never be more suited to him than it is now, he will never feel more embraced by life or have greater faith in his right to exist. The earth and the oxygen, the cities and lights, the nights and the beaches seem created for him and for those like him. Maureen Wilks is thirty-six, married for most of that differing dozenyears, a mother and a housewife. It would be tempting for someone like her, Justin supposes, to stop trying. Instead, in her relentless reaching for what’s fresh and new, she’s almost more youthful than he is.
But in the last few months something has changed, smudging his view of her. Something has leaked from a pool of indifference that Justin hadn’t even noticed was filling, and everything he’d once craved has become less vital to him. The hankering he’d felt at the start is subsiding as it has subsided before, away from other girls he’s loved, for no more scurrilous reason than that he’s too restless to be in love for long. And although he’s been aggrieved by the fickleness of his heart, Justin is also relieved. He is still free. He won’t spend his life with this woman. He’s embarrassed by the Justin who had once, boyishly, wanted to.
Embarrassment is like the fatal stick in KerPlunk — with the smallest tweak, everything falls. Justin now finds odious what once flattered and entranced. Maureen’s conversation, her pride, even her attempts to please: all these irritate. Her battle to stay at the forefront of what’s fashionable is pathetic in someone living her life. She doesn’t seem willing to accept that she’s just a middle-aged housewife. She speaks with dissatisfaction of the house, its furnishings, the neighborhood, the stores. And if she never exactly states that her husband and child also rank deficient in her world, she often tells Justin, “You are my fine thing. You’re what’s worth living
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