Wonder Boys - Michael Chabon [75]
“That’s James,” I said.
Philly nodded. “Hey,” he said. “Jesus, Grady, what happened to your leg?”
“I cut myself shaving.”
He watched for a moment while Irv unwound a strip of gauze and tore it off with his teeth. “See Deb’s tits?”
“Yep,” I said. “We saw ’em.”
He grinned; “So, listen, uh, Mom sent me out here to see if this dude wanted to come and see Grossman.”
“Do you want to, dude?” I asked James.
“I don’t know,” said James, watching Philly warily. Philly Warshaw was a good-looking young man, skin the color of tea with milk, straight-jawed and slender, dressed in a spotless white T-shirt and jeans. His airman’s hair was thick and spiky, and the veins stood out on his forearms. “Who is he?”
“He’s a snake, man,” said Philly. “He’s a mongo fucking boa constrictor.”
“Go ahead,” Irv said. “I can take care of Grady.”
James shrugged and looked at me. I nodded. He set down the book and followed Philly out the door. We heard their footsteps resound along the boardwalk as they headed toward the house.
“I certainly hope he can write,” said Irv.
“He can,” I said. “He’s a good kid. Ouch. Maybe a little messed up.”
“He’s come to the right place, then” said Irv. “Hold still.”
“Now, Irv.”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with you.” He wrapped one hand around my ankle, holding the bandage fast, and with the other hand brought the roll of adhesive tape to his mouth. The pressure of his fingers was firm enough to be painful. “You and Emily. If this were happening to Deborah,” he said, his words a little garbled, “all right, I could understand. I’d be a little disappointed if it didn’t happen.”
“Irv, I don’t know, it’s just—”
“She spoke to her mother.” Angrily he bit off a strip of tape and applied it to the bandage. “She doesn’t seem to want to speak to me.”
“It’s hard for Emily,” I said. “You know that.”
“I know. She holds it all in.” He applied a final strip of tape to the bandage, then patted at it with such gentleness that my eyes filled with tears. He looked up and managed a thin smile. “I guess she inherited that from me.” Then he lowered his head and looked down at the bandages and medicines scattered around him on the ground.
“Irv,” I said. I held out my hand to him and hoisted him to his feet.
“Families are supposed to get bigger,” he said. “This one just keeps shrinking.”
Then we went outside, into the last slanted shafts of the April afternoon. There was no one lying out by the pond anymore, and we leaned on each other for a moment, crippled in our various extremities, looking out at the empty chaise longues on the dock, at the sun hanging low over the bare yellow hills of Utopia.
“I’m not going, anywhere,” I said, just to see how true I could make it sound.
Irv smiled bitterly and clapped me on the shoulder as though I’d got off a clever line.
“Give me a break, Grady,” he said.
THERE WAS ONE BATHROOM in the house, upstairs, at the end of the hall, in a wide, lopsided dormer all its own. It was a nice bathroom with grooved wainscoting, brass fixtures, and a big quadruped tub, but given the wild mood swings of Irving’s bowels and a remarkable tendency among the women of the family to lie brooding in their bathwater, it was an overburdened facility and generally occupied when you needed it most. When I came back into the house I went upstairs to take a leak and found the heavy, paneled door shut tight. I knocked softly three times, tapping out the syllables of my name.
“Yes?”
I took a step backward.
“Em?” I said. “Is that you?”
“No,” said Emily.
I gave the doorknob a twist. It was unlocked; all I needed to do was give the door a gentle push. Instead I eased the knob back, without a sound, and took my hand away. I stood looking at the closed door.
“I, uh, I need to pee, kid.” I swallowed, aware of the moment that inhered in the question I was about to ask—the deep, damaged membranes of trust and intimacy I was about to lay bare. “Can I—is it all right if I come in?”
There was a splash and the faint porcelain echo of a splash.
“I’m taking a bath.”
“Okay,” I said to the door, resting my