The Whore's Child

do.”
    A car pulls up outside and we both look to see who it is, probably because whoever it is will upset the balance of our conflict. One of us will have an ally. I do not expect it to be Faye, but that’s who it is, and when Russell sees this, his face falls, as if my wife’s mere presence has convinced him that I am fully vested and authorized to banish him from his own property.
    When Faye rings the bell, I open the door and tell her to go around back and join Julie. She wants to know how things are going. I say I just got here. How could I have just got here, she wants to know. I tell her to go around back.
    â€œThis is nuts,” Russell says.
    There’s nothing to do but agree, so I do, and then I tell him that Julie has gathered a few of his belongings and he should get packing. Russell looks like he can’t decide whether to cry or fly into a rage, but to my surprise he does as he’s told.
    Once he’s gone off down the hall, I realize that with Julie and Faye out back, I have no one to talk to and nothing to do. It seems wrong to turn on the TV or browse through their books. I can hear Russell in the closet of one of their bedrooms, and I figure he’s looking for either a suitcase or a gun. I sit down to wait, then remember something and get up. Julie has helped her mother up onto the deck and is crying again. I study the pair of them before stepping back outside. From the rear they look remarkably similar, almost like sisters. I look for something of myself in Julie and find precious little. When Faye notices me standing there at the window, I join them on the deck.
    â€œHow much do you have in your checking account?” I ask our daughter.
    She blinks.
    â€œHow much?” I say.
    â€œNot a lot,” she says. “There’s never much. A couple hundred dollars maybe.”
    â€œWrite me a check,” I say. “I’ll take him to the airport.”
    â€œYou want me to pay for it?” Julie says.
    â€œYou want
me
to?”
    â€œHank—” Faye starts.
    But I’m not about to budge on this one. I’ll loan her money later, or give it to her if I have to, but if she wants Russell on a plane, she’s going to experience at least the appearance of paying for it.
    Julie fetches the checkbook from the drawer in the kitchen. Though she hates the idea, she writes the check anyway. I look it over, then slip it in my pocket.
    â€œHe’s at the bedroom window staring at us,” Julie whispers. “Don’t look.”
    I don’t intend to.
    It’s forty-five minutes to Bradley International. I tell Russell to take it easy. After all, it’s not like we’re trying to catch any particular flight. Where I will send Russell is one of the many things we have not discussed. Why he has struck my daughter is another. More than anything, I’m afraid he’ll tell me what’s wrong with my daughter, and why their lives together went wrong.
    I know too much already. Knew, in fact, as soon as I saw my house taking shape on their lot, knowing that this wasn’t Russell’s idea, that if Russell had his way they’d be living in New Haven in an apartment, spending their money in restaurants, on the occasional train into New York, the theater, maybe, or a cruise around the island. The sort of things you have a ticket stub to show for when you’re finished. It would take him a decade or so to want something more permanent, and even then it would be against his better instincts. He didn’t need a house right now and he certainly didn’t need a replica of mine. When we drove away, he hadn’t even looked back at it.
    I know all this better than he does. He probably imagines that whatever it is that’s between him and Julie is more immediate. He may even think he’s a bad lover or a bad person. I doubt he likes what he’s thinking as the Connecticut countryside flies by and recedes behind us liked a welched promise. I’d asked if he minded driving, and he said why should he. Why indeed? It’s his car.
    â€œIt’s funny,” he finally says when we hit I-91.
    â€œPlease, Russell,” I beg him. “Don’t tell me what’s funny.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause it won’t be.”
    â€œWhat’s funny is . . . I’m relieved.”
    â€œSee what I mean?”
    â€œNo, seriously,” he says. I suspect he doesn’t know what serious