Morgan's Passing - Anne Tyler [119]
Gina came in, wearing her new white shorts and a Camp Hopalong T-shirt. “How come you’re up so early?” Emily asked her.
“Brindle’s snoring.”
“Don’t you want to save your new clothes till later in the day? You’ll get them dirty before Daddy sees them.”
“He said he was starting out at crack of dawn.”
“Oh.”
Emily looked at the kitchen clock. She wiped Joshua’s mouth with a corner of his bib, scooped him up, and carried him off to his bath.
When she brought him back to the bedroom, dripping wet, Morgan was standing in front of a bureau threading a belt through his jeans. He was humming a polka. Then he stopped. Emily looked up from toweling the baby and found Morgan watching her in the mirror, his eyes darkened and sobered by a black felt cowboy hat. “What’s wrong?” she asked him.
“Should I go?”
“Go where?”
“When he comes, I mean. Do you want me to leave you two alone?”
“No. Please. I need you to stay,” she said.
Morgan saw Bonny all the time. Any dull moment Bonny had, it seemed, she would come unload something new on them—some belonging of Brindle’s or Louisa’s, some piece of furniture she’d suddenly decided was really more Morgan’s than hers. But Emily hadn’t seen Leon since the day he moved out. Even at Christmas she’d just put Gina on a Greyhound bus.
Morgan came over to stand opposite her. Lately, he had started wearing rimless, octagonal spectacles—real ones, not mere window glass. They gave him an expression of kindness and patience. He said, “I’ll do whatever you want, Emily.”
“I have to have you here. I can’t go through it without you.”
“All right.”
His calm unnerved her.
“Not that this means anything to me,” she said. “His coming: I don’t care.”
“No.”
“It couldn’t matter less.”
“I understand.”
He went back to the bureau and slipped his cigarettes into his pocket. On the bed Joshua flapped his arms and suddenly crowed.
Louisa and Brindle were having breakfast in the kitchen while Emily did the dishes. Louisa chewed her toast in a mincing way. Brindle sat with her chin in her fist and stirred her coffee aimlessly. “Last night I dreamed of Horace,” she told Emily. Horace was her first husband. “He said, ‘Brindle, what’d you do with my socks?’ I felt terrible. It seems I’d thrown them out. I said, ‘Oh, why, Horace, they’re right where they belong. Just use your eyes,’ I said. Then, while he was looking again, I went running to the garbage cans and dug through everything, hunting.”
“I dreamed of chili,” Louisa said. “My, Morgan used to love chili. He was one of those boys that, you know, likes to hang over pots in the kitchen. Always took an interest in what I cooked. Many’s the time he asked me exactly what I’d put in something. ‘Why do you brown the onions first?’ Or, ‘Which is better in spaghetti—tomato sauce or tomato paste?’ ‘Neither one,’ I’d tell him, ‘you cook down your own tomatoes, from scratch.’ Well, that’s another story. Chili is what he loved best. But nowadays, I don’t know, I make this extra-special effort to talk about food with him the way he used to enjoy so much and it seems he doesn’t take the same interest. Hardly bothers to answer. Hardly even listens, it sometimes seems to me. But of course I may be wrong.”
The doorbell rang. Emily turned from the sink and looked at Brindle.
“Who could that be?” Brindle asked her.
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe it’s Leon.”
“But this is so early,” Emily said.
“Well, for heaven’s sake, go see. You always act so wooden,” Brindle said.
Emily wiped her hands and went to the door. Leon stood there in a new gray suit. He looked more polished than she’d remembered—his hair cut very close to his head, his skin dark and sleek—and he’d grown an oversized, droopy mustache. Emily had seen so many of those mustaches, exactly the same shape, on young men with briefcases, lawyers, executives. She could almost