The Book of Joe

then, Carly and I have fallen into the pleasant routine of eating breakfast together every morning while Fabia bathes Wayne, who is adamant about our not being present to witness the less dignified necessities of his care: the sponge baths, the ass wiping, the emptying of bedpans. I don’t blame him, and I don’t mind one bit. So we sit in the breakfast nook, with its picture window overlooking the backyard. Often we eat in silence, watching the wildlife, which consists mostly of squirrels hurriedly humping one another and scurrying about in search of provisions, and the occasional stray cat sunning itself on the patio. The only sounds are the random groans of the perforated straw seat bottoms of the Workbench kitchen chairs we sit in, sagging under our weight. That sound, more than anything else in the house, conjures up images of my mother as clear as photographs. I sat in these chairs for the better part of my life, wolfing down Honeycombs and milk under her watchful gaze as she leaned against the counter in her bathrobe, sipping her coffee serenely from the #1 Mom mug I’d bought her in the third grade for Mother’s Day.
    Carly sits nibbling at her cinnamon toast with one leg pulled up, her chin resting pensively on her knee. There’s a raw elegance to her pose, an easy grace that is as much a function of personality as posture. Sitting like that, in her faded jeans and gray hooded sweatshirt, she looks remarkably like she did in high school, the only deviation being the light shadows under her eyes, the drawn expression of someone who isn’t getting nearly as much sleep as she should. Her gaze is fixed on something outside, and so I am able to watch her intently for a few seconds as I sift through the jumble of emotions she evokes in me, trying to isolate exactly what it is I feel for her, which is like untying a severely knotted rope, where all you end up with is more knots in a different configuration.
    “What are you staring at?” she asks without turning to face me.
    “Nothing.”
    She smiles at the lie. “Just checking.”
    “Can I confess something crazy to you?”
    Carly gives me a suspicious look from the corner of her eye, clearly concerned about the direction of this particular conversational gambit. I am still finding her somewhat pan-icky reactions to me unsettling. The Carly I knew was direct and fearless, and the intermittent nervousness in her eyes now seems to indicate a depth of damage I don’t fully comprehend. I consider the possibility that her asshole ex-husband is largely responsible for this transformation, but I wonder if I’m simply passing the buck because the alternative is too depressing to consider.
    “What?” Carly finally says in a tone of advance regret.
    “I have a great apartment in the city,” I tell her. “I really do.
    But I’ve lived there for over three years and I haven’t once stopped thinking of it as my new apartment. Living in this house, with you and Wayne, has been the first time since I don’t know when that I’ve been waking up every morning and feeling at home. And I feel guilty as hell about it because of the whole premise of the arrangement. I mean, Wayne’s dying and it’s horrible in a million different ways, but at the same time, part of me is so grateful for this time we’re all sharing.” Carly has gone back to staring out the window, but I notice that her expression has relaxed, and a small, sad smile is curling the bottom of her mouth. “That’s pretty self-absorbed, isn’t it?” I say.
    “Maybe.” Her voice is a delicate pillow embroidered with butterflies. “But I know exactly what you mean. I feel the same way.”
    “I’m glad. That makes me feel better.”
    “It doesn’t make you any less self-absorbed.”
    “I know. But at least I’m in good company.”
    We smile at each other like we’ve just shared an intimate secret, and the unguarded nature of her expression makes me tremble momentarily.
    After breakfast I bring my laptop into Wayne’s room and work on my novel while he drifts in and out of sleep. I’ve gotten into the habit of writing in his room because it makes me feel close to him, and I think he likes the idea of being in the presence of a work in progress, something that won’t be finished until after he’s gone, as if he’ll somehow go on living through the pages of its narrative. My first novel was about Wayne. This one has no character remotely resembling him, and yet it feels as if every page