Sunset Park

be too much, and besides, no one could see it under the gauzy wrap. What else? The nail polish. Winnie’s nail polish, nothing to be done about that either. Jitters, jitters, the old lump in the gut before the emmet crawls out and formicates. Your eyes on my eyes .She goes into the bathroom for a last look in the mirror. Old Mother Hubbard or Alice in Motherland? Somewhere in between, perhaps. Wanted bright boy . She goes into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of wine. Time for one sip, time for a second sip, and then the doorbell rings.
    So much to absorb all at once, so many particulars bombarding her the instant the door opens, the tall young man with his father’s dark hair and eyebrows, his mother’s gray-blue eyes and mouth, so complete now, the work of growing finally finished, a sterner face than before, she thinks, but softer, more giving eyes, eyes looking into her eyes, and the fierce hug he gives her before either of them can say a word, feeling the great strength of his arms and shoulders through his leather jacket, and again she goes stupid on him without wanting to, breaking down and crying as she holds on to him for dear life, blubbering how sorry she is for all the misunderstandings and grievances that drove him away, but he says none of it has anything to do with her, she is entirely blameless, everything is his fault, and he is the one who is sorry.
    He doesn’t drink anymore. That is the first new fact she learns about him after she dries her eyes and leads him into the living room. He doesn’t drink, but he isn’t particular about food, he will be happy to have the steak or the meatless lasagna, whichever she prefers. Why does she feel so nervous around him, so apologetic? She has already apologized, he has already apologized, it is time to move on to more substantial matters, time to begin talking,but then she does the one thing she promised herself she wouldn’t do, she mentions the play, she says that is why she is so large now, he is looking at Winnie, not Mary-Lee, an illusion, an imaginary character, and the boy who is no longer a boy smiles at her and says he thinks she is looking grand, grand she says to herself, what a curious word, such an old-fashioned way of putting it, no one says grand anymore, unless he is referring to her size, of course, her newly begotten rotundity, but no, he seems to be paying her a compliment, and yes, he adds, he has read about the play and is looking forward to seeing it. She notices that she is fidgeting with her bracelet, her lungs feel tight, she can’t sit still. I’ll go get the wine, she says, but what will it be for you, Miles? Water, juice, ginger ale? As she walks across the large open space of the loft, Miles stands up and follows her, saying he’s changed his mind, he’ll have some wine after all, he wants to celebrate, and who knows if he means it or is simply dying for a drink because he is just as nervous as she is?
    They clink glasses, and as they do so she tells herself to be careful, to remember that Bing Nathan must be kept out of it, that Miles must not discover how closely they have kept track of him, the different jobs in all the different places for all these years, Chicago, New Hampshire, Arizona, California, Florida, the restaurants, the hotels, the warehouses, pitching for the baseball team, the women who have come and gone, the Cuban girl who was with him in New York just now, all the things they know abouthim must be suppressed, and she must feign ignorance whenever he divulges something, but she can do that, it is her business to do that, she can do that even when she has drunk too much, and from the way Miles has gulped down the first sip of his Pouilly-Fumé, it looks as if much wine will be consumed tonight.
    And what about your father? she asks. Have you been in touch with him?
    I’ve called twice, he says. He was in England the first time. They told me to call back on the fifth, but when I tried to reach him yesterday, they said he’d flown off to England again. Something urgent.
    Strange, she says. I had dinner with Morris Saturday night, and he didn’t say anything about going back. He must have left on Sunday. Very strange.
    I hope everything is okay with Willa.
    Willa. What makes you think she’s in England?
    I know she’s in England. People tell me things, I have my sources.
    I thought you turned your back on us. Not a peep in all this time, and now you tell me you know what we’ve been up to?
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