The Whore's Child

context—his term—remained foreign and strange to her. The spooky part is that I know what he means.
    â€œHer stories were on a different plateau,” Gene’s saying. “One where pain and loss and betrayal were part of the equation.”
    Portia, who appears to be pondering the truth of this, turns to me and says, “Does that path go to the beach?”
    I say it does, and she scrapes her chair backward along the deck. “Don’t,” she says when I start to stand up, then she goes inside for an old pink towel she must’ve got from the duffel bag. “I’ll be back.”
    â€œAlso,” Gene says, smiling proudly, “she was the only one in the workshop who was impossible to compliment.”
    We watch until Portia disappears into the dunes. “It’s true,” he continues, pouring wine into his glass. “She made me admit she wasn’t beautiful before she’d even go out with me.”
    I fill my own glass with beer, the bubbles springing into existence at the bottom and then racing to the surface. I myself have never made any claims about the necessity of staring down any truths. Indeed, blinking has always seemed to me the most natural, perhaps essential, of human functions.
    And so we sit, two friends on the downside of a notoriously slippery slope. Fifty years old. Then the wind shifts, and we can hear the waves rolling in.
    Because of the surf, we don’t hear Clare until the glass door on the deck slides open and she joins us. She and Gene embrace warmly, and I can’t help smiling. After all, my wife and I have had a twenty-five-year disagreement over him that we’re not even close to resolving. What I’m smiling at is that, at this moment, I could convince her. The things Gene says are often impossible to take seriously in his absence, and later tonight, when Clare and I are alone, I won’t be able to defend him. Right now, though, confined on our small deck with us, his presence and conviction command belief. The same is true of what he writes. Hearing Gene read in public, you are often moved to tears, while on the page these same words lack his power.
    Clare seems to acknowledge all of this when she sees me grinning at her, and in return she makes a face. After she finishes hugging Gene, I get one too, a real hug, as if to apologize for leaving me alone for so long. In a glance at the table she’s taken in that I’ve drunk three bottles of beer, a lot for me these days, and that Gene is on his second bottle of wine. She knows right where we are.
    Though delighted that she’s finally home, I’m unwilling to let her off the hook. “We were about to send out a search party,” I say.
    â€œI drove out to the point and bought a lobster,” she explains, pouring herself a glass of white wine. “Right off the boat.”
    â€œDon’t tell me,” Gene says. “Lobster sauce?”
    â€œIf you’re good,” Clare tells him.
    â€œDear Lord, make me worthy,” he says.
    â€œNobody’s
worthy
of Clare’s lobster sauce,” I say. “Like grace, it cannot be earned.”
    â€œUnlike grace,” Gene says, “it occasionally comes my way.”
    The lobster sauce, when I think about it, is an inspired choice, given that it so deftly negotiates the shoals of Gene’s personality. Whereas lobster for each of us would have been a conspicuous display, ill suited to the reunion of the sons of mill workers, the lobster
sauce,
served over pasta, signifies a sophistication that is nonetheless mindful of who we are. Until you get to know Gene, it’s easy to offend him unintentionally. Which is why I laid in good but affordable Italian wines for his visit. He considers French wines an affectation, and imported beers are always sure to provoke a sarcastic comment. No, Clare’s lobster sauce is just the right thing, its ethnic accent overpowering upward mobility.
    â€œShould I get started?” Clare asks, more of me than of our guest, though it’s Gene who answers.
    â€œRelax,” he suggests. “I’m content to anticipate for hours.”
    â€œPortia is investigating the beach,” I say, since I know Clare must be wondering.
    â€œWe’re still in that beginning stage,” Gene confesses. “Testing limits. Finding out how much is
too
much. It’s harder for her. She needs to carve out her own territory. To keep herself