Read Online Either Side of Winter by Benjamin Markovits - Free Book Online
Authors: Benjamin Markovits
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and the high life; where had it ever gotten them? where had it got Amy? when the best any of them could do was quit when they were behind. Now they could see for once who was right; now they could see for once who kept the familytogether. All those years.
*
In the end, she was glad when they left her – to clean up after them and prepare for school in the morning. A desultory breakfast, that awful waiting around for cabs, half-speeches begun, interrupted, neglected. Jack had an air of muted apology Amy hated to see in him. As if he’d been caught out at last and the game was up and there was nowhere left for him to go. Joanne, prudent, prudish, kept him busy, almost out of kindness. Andy had long ago retreated into those reserves he’d always possessed. When the car came – Joanne, looking out over the futon, saw it first – and buzzed, the relief was palpable. They had a minute again in which to breathe and speak freely of things that mattered; it was OK, the end was in sight. Jack took his daughter in his arms, and in spite of everything, she felt the muscle busy under his shirt, smelt his new-found animal health; he wouldn’t let go of her, and then, detaching himself, said, ‘I won’t let go of you. I won’t let go.’
Joanne, on tiptoes, hugged Amy briefly, and whispered, ‘I think you know what we think of your young man.’
Andy ushered her out and kissed his sister on the brow. Goodbye, goodbye. Amy waited a minute till the echo of their steps had faded down the stairs, then walked to the window and watched them load the car up. Watched it pull out. Nobody looked up or waved.
*
She spent the next hour walking down to and up from the laundry room, carrying baskets of sheets and towels, underpants and socks for the week ahead. She began to sob with her face in an armful of wet cotton as she prepared to heave a bundle into the open door of the drier. At the relief of it all, to be on her own again, and realize that what she had put her faith in had failed her – and she was free to live by lesser lights. A minute with her face held in the sweet cleanness of washed sheets.
Charles rang that afternoon, just when she had begun to getbored. In fact, the sound of the phone reminded her she was sitting in the half-light of a grey day, and had been sitting like that for about ten minutes, and the spell was broken. She needed something to do. She needed to get back to work. Neither mentioned the night before, or ever mentioned it, except obliquely. He said, ‘I’d like to see you. I’d very much like to see you, if I can.’
‘Yes, of course.’ The phrase came out of her, unplanned, unironic. Of course, he would like to see her. ‘Maybe I could come to you tonight. And get the subway up in the morning. Maybe that would be all right.’
She hadn’t felt so settled in years, so sure of herself. So sure of a boy. Charles took her out to a nice meal, and she accepted a glass of wine, only one, she didn’t want a headache in the morning. They went to bed about ten, ten thirty. If he didn’t want to wake her up every night, he’d have to get used to her hours. Very comfortable; she could just make out a corner of Central Park, the heavy hand of a tree, under the blinds, from where she lay. Only Charles said, before she drifted off in his arms, ‘Sometimes I think I’m losing it. When the money doesn’t mean anything to me any more, it scares me how quick everything else follows.’ It was an apology, perhaps. She thought of the little figure Andy had given her, propped still against her kitchen window, those weightless limbs, their exaggerated gestures. She pictured her father, she pictured Charles, in its poses. If she nudged them at all, they fell down, again, again.
Chapter I
He had never been a coward with respect to habits, and could break them when he chose. Even so, Howard Peasbody had his routines. On Tuesday mornings, his first class began late, at ten thirty, but he woke up at seven anyway
*
In the end, she was glad when they left her – to clean up after them and prepare for school in the morning. A desultory breakfast, that awful waiting around for cabs, half-speeches begun, interrupted, neglected. Jack had an air of muted apology Amy hated to see in him. As if he’d been caught out at last and the game was up and there was nowhere left for him to go. Joanne, prudent, prudish, kept him busy, almost out of kindness. Andy had long ago retreated into those reserves he’d always possessed. When the car came – Joanne, looking out over the futon, saw it first – and buzzed, the relief was palpable. They had a minute again in which to breathe and speak freely of things that mattered; it was OK, the end was in sight. Jack took his daughter in his arms, and in spite of everything, she felt the muscle busy under his shirt, smelt his new-found animal health; he wouldn’t let go of her, and then, detaching himself, said, ‘I won’t let go of you. I won’t let go.’
Joanne, on tiptoes, hugged Amy briefly, and whispered, ‘I think you know what we think of your young man.’
Andy ushered her out and kissed his sister on the brow. Goodbye, goodbye. Amy waited a minute till the echo of their steps had faded down the stairs, then walked to the window and watched them load the car up. Watched it pull out. Nobody looked up or waved.
*
She spent the next hour walking down to and up from the laundry room, carrying baskets of sheets and towels, underpants and socks for the week ahead. She began to sob with her face in an armful of wet cotton as she prepared to heave a bundle into the open door of the drier. At the relief of it all, to be on her own again, and realize that what she had put her faith in had failed her – and she was free to live by lesser lights. A minute with her face held in the sweet cleanness of washed sheets.
Charles rang that afternoon, just when she had begun to getbored. In fact, the sound of the phone reminded her she was sitting in the half-light of a grey day, and had been sitting like that for about ten minutes, and the spell was broken. She needed something to do. She needed to get back to work. Neither mentioned the night before, or ever mentioned it, except obliquely. He said, ‘I’d like to see you. I’d very much like to see you, if I can.’
‘Yes, of course.’ The phrase came out of her, unplanned, unironic. Of course, he would like to see her. ‘Maybe I could come to you tonight. And get the subway up in the morning. Maybe that would be all right.’
She hadn’t felt so settled in years, so sure of herself. So sure of a boy. Charles took her out to a nice meal, and she accepted a glass of wine, only one, she didn’t want a headache in the morning. They went to bed about ten, ten thirty. If he didn’t want to wake her up every night, he’d have to get used to her hours. Very comfortable; she could just make out a corner of Central Park, the heavy hand of a tree, under the blinds, from where she lay. Only Charles said, before she drifted off in his arms, ‘Sometimes I think I’m losing it. When the money doesn’t mean anything to me any more, it scares me how quick everything else follows.’ It was an apology, perhaps. She thought of the little figure Andy had given her, propped still against her kitchen window, those weightless limbs, their exaggerated gestures. She pictured her father, she pictured Charles, in its poses. If she nudged them at all, they fell down, again, again.
Chapter I
He had never been a coward with respect to habits, and could break them when he chose. Even so, Howard Peasbody had his routines. On Tuesday mornings, his first class began late, at ten thirty, but he woke up at seven anyway
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