Maybe the Moon

grumpy look. “Go back to your stew.”

    We ate dinner on the bed. The media in all their tongue-lolling sleaziness made poor Anita Hill say the words Long Dong Silver no less than four hundred times in the course of the evening. You couldn’t hit the clicker without landing squarely on that moment in time and the attendant shabby spectacle of all those middle-aged white men—Teddy Kennedy especially—trying their damnedest to keep a straight face.
    After another hour or so, we tired of the spectacle and turned off the set. I felt lulled by the rain and my pleasantly full stomach. Seeing me begin to drift off, Neil doused the light and slid into bed next to me, pulling the covers over us. I snuggled against him and fell into a solid sleep.
    I woke up alone to sunlight streaming through his matchstick shades. Hearing activity in the kitchen, I slid out of bed in the T-shirt I’d slept in, gave my hair a quick fluff, and went out to join him. He was tidying up with a vengeance: scraping plates over the disposal, sponging the countertop, bagging garbage.
    “I hope you’re not doing that for me.”
    “I must be brain dead,” he said. “I completely forgot something.”
    “You’ve got another date, and she’ll be here in five minutes.”
    His laughter was short and sour. “Linda’s bringing Danny by.”
    “Oh.”
    “It’s not his usual day, but she called a few days ago and asked. I just forgot about it.”
    “That’s cool.”
    “I’m really sorry.”
    “You want me to call a cab or something?”
    “No. Not at all.”
    “I don’t mind.”
    He shrugged and gave me a sheepish look. “There’s not much point. They get here in ten minutes.”
    In other words, we had to deal with it now, and that was that. No wonder Neil was panicked. I was suddenly annoyed that his negligence had turned this fairly significant confrontation into a rush job.
    “Do you need anything?” he asked.
    “No…well, maybe a wet washcloth.”
    “You got it.”
    “Do you still have my green T-shirt? The one I left here last time?”
    “Sure.”
    “I’ll take that too, then.”
    He left me alone in the bedroom with my requirements. I shucked my grungy T-shirt and gave myself a quick sponge bath in front of the closet-door mirror. Then I put on the green shirt—which was freshly laundered, at least, and a fairly becoming color—slapped on lipstick and powder, and spritzed myself with Charlie. After a futile effort to repair my sleep-dented hair, I flung down the brush in exasperation. It was Linda I was doing this for, but don’t ask me why.
    I returned to the living room, where Neil was snatching scattered newspapers from the floor.
    “Need a hand?” I asked.
    “No. It’s fine. You look nice.”
    I grunted.
    “Sorry about this.”
    “What the hell.”
    “She won’t stay. She’s just dropping him off.”
    “You need some time alone with him. Let’s just call a cab now and—”
    “I’ll drive you home, OK? In a little bit.”
    I shrugged.
    “He’s a nice kid. He doesn’t bite.”
    “Maybe I do,” I said.
    He laughed and dropped the newspapers on the dining table—just as the doorbell rang.
    I jumped a little in spite of myself. “Is she always on time?”
    “Always,” he replied, and headed for the door.
    I smoothed out my T-shirt and waited from a distance to give him as much opportunity as possible for explanations and introductions. He swung open the door to reveal an informally garbed Linda—pink slacks, gingham blouse, sunglasses—and, hard by her right leg, the handsome, stormy-eyed seven-year-old who made these meetings compulsory. Danny was dressed in vinyl cowboy boots and Levi’s, with a bright aqua corduroy shirt. While his mother greeted his father, the boy gazed across the room at yours truly, having sensed on some primal level, as I had, another living creature in the room at his eye level. I guessed him to be about a foot taller than I am.
    “We aren’t late, are we?” asked Linda.
    “No, no,” said Neil. “Just on time. Hi, Skeeter.”
    “Hi, Dad.”
    “Look who’s here.” Neil beamed. “We were just rehearsing.”
    “Oh, hi,” said Linda. “How are you, Cady?”
    “Great.”
    “Danny, this is Ms. Roth…” Linda began.
    “…the lady I sing with,” Neil finished.
    The kid hadn’t stopped staring at me, so I walked toward him, looking friendly, letting him see how this apparatus works. “Hi, Danny.” I gazed up at Neil. “What’s this Skeeter business,