Michael Cunningham - A Home at the End of the World

“Worry less,” he said.

I promised to try. While he was in the house, it seemed possible. But as soon as he left, the possibility receded like light from a lantern he carried. I watched him through the kitchen window. Perhaps Ned’s most remarkable feature was his ability to walk serenely in this city of gray stone and yellow brick, where the wind off the lake could shrink people’s hearts to pins.

I took down the new cookbook I had just bought, full of recipes from the French countryside, and began planning tomorrow’s meal.

Bobby stayed until well after ten, until I’d called out, “Boys, it’s a school night.” Even then, after thirteen years of it, I was surprised at how much like somebody’s mother I could sound.

I was reading the paper when Bobby came downstairs. “Good night,” he said.

His way of speaking, his whole manner, was like that of a foreigner learning the customs of the country. He resembled more than anything a refugee from some distant place, underfed and desperate to please. His delivery of the words “good night” had precisely matched my own.

“Bobby?” I said. I had no next statement, really. It was just that he stood so expectantly.

“Uh-huh?”

“I truly am sorry about your mother,” I said. “I hope I didn’t sound just polite at the dinner table.”

“It’s okay.”

“Do you and your father manage all right? Does dinner get cooked, and the house cleaned up every now and then?”

“Uh-huh. A woman comes once a week.”

I said, “Why don’t you bring your father for dinner one night? Maybe early next week?”

He looked at me darkly and questioningly, as if I had violated some taboo from his country; as if he could not immediately know whether I had meant to insult him or whether the rules were just that different over here.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Well, maybe I’ll give him a call. You’d better get along now, it’s late.”

“Okay.”

I believe he’d have just continued standing in front of me until I told him to go.

“Good night,” I said again, and had the sentiment returned to me in a young male version of my own voice.

After he’d gone I went upstairs and knocked on Jonathan’s door.

“Uh-huh?” he said.

“Only me. May I come in?”

“Uh-huh.”

He lay on his bed. A nasal male voice, accompanied by acoustic guitar, rasped through the speakers. The window stood open though it was early November, and frosty. I believed I detected a smell, something sweet and smoky which the chill air had not quite dissipated.

I said, “Did you have a good evening?”

“Sure.”

“Bobby’s had a hard time of it, hasn’t he?” I said.

“You shouldn’t pity him.”

“Did you know before that his mother was dead?”

“Uh-huh,” Jonathan said.

“Do you know how she died?”

“Sort of. I mean, she took too many sleeping pills. But she had a prescription, she’d been taking them for years. I guess she’d started complaining they weren’t working anymore. So it could have been an accident.”

“Bobby had a brother who died, too?”

Jonathan nodded. “That was definitely an accident. It wasn’t a murder after all. That’s when the mother started in on sleeping pills.”

He delivered these facts with a certain pride, as if they represented Bobby’s worldly accomplishments.

“Lord. The things that happen to people.”

I went and shut the window. It was almost cold enough to steam your breath in that room.

“And nothing’s ever happened to us,” Jonathan said. “Nothing bad.”

“We’re very lucky.”

As I turned from the window I saw Bobby’s leather jacket, draped over the chair. The embroidered eye, cyclopean, iris big as a hockey puck, stared from the worn cowhide.

“Bobby forgot his jacket,” I said.

“He’s loaning it to me,” Jonathan said. “It used to be his brother’s. I loaned him mine at school today.”

“Your good windbreaker? You traded it for that?”

“Uh-huh. Bobby talks about his brother a lot. I mean, it sounds like he was pretty cool. When he died, it just about blew their whole family apart.”

“Do you know what that windbreaker cost?” I asked.

He looked at me in the new way, his jaw set challengingly and his eyes gone hard.

I decided to let it go. I thought I’d give him the leeway to work it through his system.

“What would you think about veal stew for dinner tomorrow night?” I said. “There’s a recipe I’d like to try, veal with mushrooms and pearl onions. How does that sound?”

“I don’t care.” He shrugged.

I held my arms close over my chest. It was freezing in that room.

“How about a quick game of hearts before bed?” I asked. “I’m in disgrace, you know. I lost so badly the last couple of times, I can barely hold my head up.”

“No. I’m beat.”

“One short game?”

“ No, Mom.”

“All right.”

I stood for a moment, though it was clearly time to leave him alone. The light from his bedside lamp, which I had bought ten years ago, shone on his pale hair and precise, sculpted features. He took after me, but in an idealized way. My own looks, which any mirror told me were rather too severe, had come up softened in him.

“Good night,” he said.

“Good night. Sleep well.”

Still I lingered. I could not leave off looking at him, even if he resented me for it. If I’d had the courage I’d have said to him, “Don’t do it. Please don’t start hating me. You can have the world without shutting me out of your life.”

I walked quietly from the room, as full of him as I had been when I was pregnant.

I invited Bobby and his father for dinner the following Tuesday. They arrived half an hour late, with two bottles of wine. “Sorry,” the father said. “We had to drive all over town looking for a decent Chardonnay. I hope you like Chardonnay.”

I told him we loved it.

He wore a goat’s beard, and a mustard-colored jacket with bright brass buttons. His florid face was a riot of broken capillaries. He looked like an older, drunken Bobby.

The father’s name was Burton. He scarcely touched his food when we sat down to eat. He drank wine, smoked Pall Malls, and paused occasionally in these activities to fork up a bit of my poached sole, hold it aloft for a moment or two, and insert it into his mouth with no more notice than a carpenter gives a tenpenny nail.

Ned asked him, “How do you find the kids over at Roosevelt?”

Burt Morrow looked at him uncomprehendingly. I recognized the expression.

“They can be difficult,” he said in a measured voice. “They are not bad kids by and large but they can be difficult.”

After a moment, Ned nodded. “I see.”

“We try to get along,” Burt said. “I try to get along with them. I try not to offend them, and am mostly successful, I believe.” He turned to Bobby and asked, “Would you say that I’m mostly successful?”

“Yeah, Dad,” Bobby said. He looked at his father with an expression neither loving nor disdainful. They shared a certain stunned quality, a way of responding to a question as if it had been posed by some disembodied voice whispering from the ether. They might have been the kindly, dim-witted older brothers in a fairy tale—the ones on whom the charms and enchantments are wasted. Jonathan sat between them, his blue eyes snapping with intelligence.

“That’s all I try to do myself,” I said. “Just stay out of Jonathan’s way and let him experience life. Lord, I wouldn’t know how to discipline. I sometimes still feel like a child myself.”

Both Bobby and his father looked at me with numbly astonished faces.