The Whore's Child

was fifty-one. Now I’m fifty-two and scared that maybe I won’t be running up that many more hills. The doctors have told me they got what they were after, but I’m aware of just how little the same assurances meant in my father’s case. After the chemotherapy, they sent him home with a clean bill of health and he was dead in two months.
    Nevertheless, I do make the top of the hill. Up close, the house looks like a parody, but that’s not Julie and Russell’s fault. They simply ran out of money—their own, ours, the bank’s. The grounds aren’t landscaped and the winding drive is unpaved. There are patches of grass and larger patches of dirt. Not wanting to ring the doorbell, I go around back, hoping to catch sight of Julie in the kitchen. I want to talk to her first, before Russell, though I have no idea what I will say. I’m hoping that in the past half hour she will have changed her mind about inviting me into their lives. Maybe I’ll see her at the window and she’ll flash me a sign. I’m willing to interpret almost any gesture as meaning that I should go straight back home.
    Around back, I remember there are no steps up to the deck, which is uniformly three feet off the ground on all sides. I’m looking around for a makeshift ladder when Julie comes out onto the deck, sliding the glass door shut behind her. Except for not knowing how I might join her up there, my plan seems to be working.
    â€œI didn’t think you were coming,” she says.
    â€œHand me one of those deck chairs,” I tell her.
    She does, and I step up onto it. When she offers a hand, I take that too, putting my other one on the rail to heave myself up. Julie is wearing a peasant blouse, and when she leans over I see that she is wearing no brassiere. There have been other times when, against my will, I have been subjected to the sight of my daughter’s bare breasts, and I wonder if this casual attitude of hers might be one of the problems she has with Russell. He might not like the idea of his friends becoming so intimately acquainted with her person over the onion dip. According to Faye, Karen, our oldest, has always kept one lone brassiere handy around the house for our visits. There is much to be said for hypocrisy.
    â€œHe’s asleep on the sofa,” Julie says. “Neither of us slept much last night. He finally zonked.”
    She smiles weakly, and when she turns full-face, I get a better view of her eye, which sports a mouse. The cheek beneath is swollen, but so is the other, perhaps from crying. Her complexion, which a year ago had finally begun to clear up, is bad again. Then, suddenly, she’s in my arms and I can’t think about anything but the fact that she is my daughter. If I’m not going to be much good at blaming Russell, at least I’m certain where my loyalties must be, where they have always been.
    Finally, she snuffs her nose and steps back. “I’ve gotten some of his things together. He can pack them himself.”
    â€œYou’re sure about this?”
    â€œI know I should be the one to tell him—”
    â€œBut you want me to,” I finish for her. “Stay out here then.”
    She promises, snuffs again. I go in through the sliding door.
    I know right where to find Russell. It’s my house they’re living in, after all, and their sofa is right where ours is. Russell, in jeans and a sweatshirt, is sitting up and rubbing his eyes when I come in. Oddly enough, he looks glad to see me.
    â€œHank,” he says. “You don’t look so hot.”
    â€œYou’re the first to notice,” I tell him. He wants to shake hands and I see no reason not to.
    â€œI shouldn’t be sleeping in the daytime,” he says, with what sounds like real guilt.
    Or punching my daughter, I consider saying. But there’s no need, because it’s beginning to dawn on him that my unexpected appearance in his living room is not mere happenstance. He peers out through the kitchen window. Only Julie’s blond head is visible on the deck outside.
    â€œSo,” he says, “you’re here to read me the riot act.”
    â€œRussell,” I say, suddenly aware of how absurd this situation is. “I’m here to run you out of town.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI mean I’m going to give you a lift to the airport.”
    â€œYou can’t mean that.”
    â€œRussell, I