(no subject)
As though looking forward, breakfast that morning (and Claire still upstairs asleep) is brioche and eggs over coffee and the New York Times. Soon it will be Le Figaro and the previous day's Le Monde. She's moved to wonder, briefly, if Claire knows any French. As she folds the first section and moves on to the next, she dismisses it: something else Claire will need to learn, that's all.
By the time Claire comes downstairs she's been through the Times and has moved on to The Economist. Oatmeal cookies and school plays -- that's never been the kind of grandmother she's been, not even to Nathan's boys, but she can set out bagels, sweet rolls, cereal; can ask Claire, briskly, if there's something else she'd prefer. Can talk to Claire about the kinds of things that they'll do in Paris, and what she'll need for the trip, and how they'll go out that afternoon to begin to take care of all of that.
By the time Claire asks to be excused, Angela is ready to let her go. She clears the plates, returns the kitchen to its usual spotless state, and that's when the doorbell rings.
***
I found this address in his wallet. I didn't know where else to go.
Peter is apparently dressing like some kind of hoodlum now. She dusts off his lapel as she half-listens to Suresh; grips his lapel as she tunes Suresh out entirely. The blood on his forehead makes a neat sort of pattern, and his eyes -- couldn't Suresh have at least closed his eyes? Isn't that what you're supposed to do for the --
(It can start with delusions of grandeur, she'd told him when he was in the hospital. Thinking you're invincible or indestructible.
Here, then, the evidence that her younger son was neither.)
" -- trying to save my life." Suresh sounds hoarse, sounds like he's in shock. "I was in over my head -- "
Her younger son's corpse is laid out on her divan in her drawing room, in the same house where both her sons grew up, and he's dressed like a hoodlum, and he's cold. Suresh didn't even stop to close his eyes, to wash his face -- he came to dump Peter here, and
(You, in the meantime, for all your selflessness, and sitting with dying people -- what, are you going to retire on what you make?
He'd come to get her from a police station, and stayed when Nathan didn't. No need to worry about retirement, now.)
what kind of repayment for Peter's selflessness is that?
"Get out of here." She doesn't even care how angry she sounds -- isn't aware of it, until she hears Suresh's cringing, tentative apology.
Peter needs a haircut, she observes, somewhere outside herself.
"Please leave." And that's almost calm. "Now."
It's as though time ceases to have any meaning
(You, for all your selflessness)
when you're staring into the sightless eyes
(what, are you going to retire on what you make?)
of your child when he isn't moving, isn't breathing, when he's
(It's time you took a hard look at your life, and if there are changes to be made)
the temperature of the concrete outside in the autumn morning
(I want to be here to help you, because there's something else I never told you)
and she can hear Suresh turning to leave without another word, and she's glad, viciously
(You were always my favorite)
glad, and then it breaks down into Peter is dead
(I cannot lose you)
and then it's her turn to break, now that nobody's here -- Suresh gone, Claire upstairs doing God knows what, and it's just her and Peter, mother and son, and how many times did she scold him for sprawling all over the furniture and it was never, never supposed to be like this.
And it doesn't matter, any more, does it. I cannot lose you, she'd told him; she was wrong, and here he is, and his eyes are open.
She can't look any more, and she can't look away. The only reasonable solution (and Angela is nothing if not a reasonable woman who does the reasonable thing and expects her sons -- expects Nathan, expected Peter -- to be reasonable as well) is to let her head fall on his chest and try not to listen to those ghastly shuddering sobs that seem to be emitting from her.
They're not coming from Peter.
(I cannot lose you.)
Peter is dead. His eyes are open.
By the time Claire comes downstairs she's been through the Times and has moved on to The Economist. Oatmeal cookies and school plays -- that's never been the kind of grandmother she's been, not even to Nathan's boys, but she can set out bagels, sweet rolls, cereal; can ask Claire, briskly, if there's something else she'd prefer. Can talk to Claire about the kinds of things that they'll do in Paris, and what she'll need for the trip, and how they'll go out that afternoon to begin to take care of all of that.
By the time Claire asks to be excused, Angela is ready to let her go. She clears the plates, returns the kitchen to its usual spotless state, and that's when the doorbell rings.
***
I found this address in his wallet. I didn't know where else to go.
Peter is apparently dressing like some kind of hoodlum now. She dusts off his lapel as she half-listens to Suresh; grips his lapel as she tunes Suresh out entirely. The blood on his forehead makes a neat sort of pattern, and his eyes -- couldn't Suresh have at least closed his eyes? Isn't that what you're supposed to do for the --
(It can start with delusions of grandeur, she'd told him when he was in the hospital. Thinking you're invincible or indestructible.
Here, then, the evidence that her younger son was neither.)
" -- trying to save my life." Suresh sounds hoarse, sounds like he's in shock. "I was in over my head -- "
Her younger son's corpse is laid out on her divan in her drawing room, in the same house where both her sons grew up, and he's dressed like a hoodlum, and he's cold. Suresh didn't even stop to close his eyes, to wash his face -- he came to dump Peter here, and
(You, in the meantime, for all your selflessness, and sitting with dying people -- what, are you going to retire on what you make?
He'd come to get her from a police station, and stayed when Nathan didn't. No need to worry about retirement, now.)
what kind of repayment for Peter's selflessness is that?
"Get out of here." She doesn't even care how angry she sounds -- isn't aware of it, until she hears Suresh's cringing, tentative apology.
Peter needs a haircut, she observes, somewhere outside herself.
"Please leave." And that's almost calm. "Now."
It's as though time ceases to have any meaning
(You, for all your selflessness)
when you're staring into the sightless eyes
(what, are you going to retire on what you make?)
of your child when he isn't moving, isn't breathing, when he's
(It's time you took a hard look at your life, and if there are changes to be made)
the temperature of the concrete outside in the autumn morning
(I want to be here to help you, because there's something else I never told you)
and she can hear Suresh turning to leave without another word, and she's glad, viciously
(You were always my favorite)
glad, and then it breaks down into Peter is dead
(I cannot lose you)
and then it's her turn to break, now that nobody's here -- Suresh gone, Claire upstairs doing God knows what, and it's just her and Peter, mother and son, and how many times did she scold him for sprawling all over the furniture and it was never, never supposed to be like this.
And it doesn't matter, any more, does it. I cannot lose you, she'd told him; she was wrong, and here he is, and his eyes are open.
She can't look any more, and she can't look away. The only reasonable solution (and Angela is nothing if not a reasonable woman who does the reasonable thing and expects her sons -- expects Nathan, expected Peter -- to be reasonable as well) is to let her head fall on his chest and try not to listen to those ghastly shuddering sobs that seem to be emitting from her.
They're not coming from Peter.
(I cannot lose you.)
Peter is dead. His eyes are open.