All the Time in the World (25 page)

“But why can't we go get it now?”

“Buddy, we're almost out of time for the day.”

“Why can't you stay longer?”

“Matty, you're driving me bananas. The day is over. I'm going home, kid.”

“But why—”

“You're doing it on purpose!” I grab him and throw him over my shoulder, and he laughs as I deposit him on the couch. George launches himself up from the books he's been looking at and tackles Matt the minute he lands.

“Charlotte, do a sarcastic,” Matt says, his voice muffled from the weight of George's conquering stance.

I once asked my father for the meaning of the word
sarcastic
, and he said something that was so hilarious to my young sensibilities that I begged him to come up with more. His examples had turned into a game, something we would do back and forth to make each other laugh, and I taught the game to Matt one day when we were bored on the train.

“Okay,” I say. “Matt, I'm so happy that you threw that water balloon in my face just then. It was really, really fun for me.”

He laughs, and then it's his turn. “Charlotte, it was so cute when you threw up all over my shoes. It smells really great.”

“Eww,” I say, laughing, which pretty much ensures that George and Matt will both be making vomit jokes for the foreseeable future. “Matty, you know what would be great? If you climbed into that dumpster and rolled around in it. That would be so precious.”

“Pweh-suss, pweh-shush,” George shrieks, trying to wrap his mouth around the word, and he is laughing so hard that he slides off Matt and onto the floor, which makes Matt laugh, which makes me laugh. Like a physically disconnected game of chuckle-belly.

Gretchen and Scotty come in the door together then, just in time to hear us all making crazy hyena noises. Gretchen goes for the window right away, and Scotty walks back toward their bedroom, stripping off his tie as he goes.

“Guess who I just saw outside?” Gretchen says. She picks up the binoculars then, and I am onto her, but the boys make a different assumption. Matt starts for the window, but George is faster, so Matt climbs up on the windowsill to wait.

“Me see Pale Male, Mommy?”

“Yes, yes, you can look—careful, Matt; here, why don't you stand behind George. That's right; make sure he doesn't fall, and in a minute it will be your turn.” She motions to me, and when I join them at the window, she points to the line of people congregating outside the building across the street.

“You saw him?” I ask.

“Better,” she says. “I saw his wife and kids. We talked about a playdate!”

“Oh man,” I say. “You'd better warn me in advance so I can at least wear jeans or something.”

“Not you too,” says Scotty, walking out in shorts and a T-shirt, a very un-Scotty-like ensemble.

“Okay, George, Matt's turn, please,” says Gretchen. “Honey, you're not going running in this heat.”

“I won't be long.”

“Go to the gym. Please? I don't need you stroking out.”

“You'd have your new friend across the street to keep you company,” he says, and he doesn't kiss her on the cheek like he normally would to accompany a remark like that. I feel awkward, so I move over to monitor the boys' progress in tracking the elusive Pale Male, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Gretchen follow Scotty into the kitchen. I can hear them in fragments, and I'm consciously trying not to listen. But my subconscious is a jackass, and it overrules my consciousness.

“Babe, that's kind of upsetting.”

“What?” Scotty says as the water turns on. Maybe he's filling up a water bottle.

“You had a bad day. Don't take it out on me.”

“A bad day? The firm is in danger of losing the client. If that happens, I'll have to fire people. That makes it the worst day.”

“Do you want me to call—”

“Don't say your father. Do not say your father.”

“Okay, you're right. I'm sorry. I want to help. Honey, I don't like it when you let these things destroy your normal shields, is all.”

“My normal shields? What is that, some pop-psychology bullsh—”

“You come home and do something you know will make me worry. You act jealous.”

“Don't be stupid. I'm not jealous of that—”

“You call me stupid.”

“Not stupid. Starstruck.”

“What are you doing?” says Gretchen, and I've never heard her voice so sharp. I want to pull out some toy maracas and shake them in the boys' ears so they won't hear. “Are you
trying
to piss me off?”

“The
minute
I get home from
this day
, and you're all over some guy from across the street—”

“Are you kidding me? I'm running your house over here, I'm raising your children, I
met you at the front door
today for God's sake, and you think I'm all over some guy from across the street?”

“This day is not the day to screw around. I have already told you what my day was like—” Scotty is shouting now. Both boys turn to look in the direction of the kitchen, and I try to look unfazed for their sakes. “And you just can't help yourself or something; you have to push my buttons—”

“Because you take yourself so seriously! I told you I could call my father, and he could talk you through this mess with the clients—”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME—”

“But of course your ego—”

“Mommy,” says Matt, jumping down from the window. I make a halfhearted attempt to catch him when he goes for the kitchen, but am glad I don't succeed. What instructions could I give him? This is not for me to solve. “What are you talking about in here?”

There's a silence, and then I hear Gretchen say, “It's just adult stuff, baby. Mommy and Daddy are sorry. Daddy had a bad day at work, and Mommy did something insensitive, so we just need to work it out. But we'll do it later, okay? Don't worry.”

Scotty says nothing. George is sliding his hand into mine. He looks thoughtful, as if he's considering his mother's explanation.

“Will you come look in the binoculars? I can't find him,” says Matt, and Gretchen lets herself be pulled back into the living room. She doesn't acknowledge what she knows I must have heard, and I'd prefer that she keep up that charade until I leave for the day.

“There he is! Mommy, he's bringing something into the nest—Mommy, look! Look! There's another one, that must be the girlfriend-bird—!”

George yanks his hand out of mine and commands, “ME SEE!” He goes barreling off for the window, and Scotty comes out of the kitchen, his face dripping like maybe he splashed some water on it. Or Gretchen threw it at him?

“Okay, okay, yikes, Georgie, I was just giving them to you,” says Matt as he lets George pry the binoculars out of his hands.

“DADDY, ME SEE IT, ME SEE PALE MALE AND PALE MALE GIRLFRIEND-BIRD!” George is so excited that he's bouncing. Gretchen steadies him.

“That's great, son. Can Daddy have a turn? I don't think I've seen him before.” George hands the binoculars to Scotty. “Oh yeah. You're right; he's right there. Amazing.”

“Good bird spotting, boys,” says Gretchen.

Scotty kisses the tops of both boys' heads, then puts his hand on top of Gretchen's hand. She pulls it away, in a casual way that I'm sure is meant to send different messages to the boys and to Scotty.

“I'm going to the gym,” Scotty says, with an edge in his voice. “Back in half an hour.”

Gretchen watches him go out the door and then looks back out the window. There's a little more hustle to the line of people outside the building across the street, and we watch as people start to stream out the front doors.

“Quick! Boys,” says Gretchen. “Give Charlotte a turn with the binoculars. Charlotte wants to see Pale Male!”

April, eight weeks after

Aunt Lila has brought the kids back from Connecticut later than normal on Sunday evening, and George is drooping in the doorway, too tired to move across the threshold. Matt looks sullen, and I wonder what the report will be this time, not that I expect to hear it from Aunt Lila. Of all the people who seem to be uncomfortable about our current living arrangement, Aunt Lila is the most skeptical and the most vocal about it. She prefers to speak to anyone except me about how the kids are faring over weekends spent at her house.

“Hello, Charlotte,” she says. There is resentment on her face. She resents that she doesn't have a key to this apartment. She resents Scotty for not taking her suggestion and moving the kids to Connecticut. She resents Gretchen for dying.

“Hi, Lila. Hi, pals,” I say, and Matt leaves all of his stuff in a pile on the floor in the hallway and walks into the apartment with his shoes on. I let him go; I don't want to have a battle in front of Aunt Lila, and Scotty is not here to run interference. I don't know where he is, in fact. He could be at work. He could be out at a monster-truck rally.

“Georgie, can you come through the door so Aunt Lila can get in?” I say. “Thanks, buddy.” He comes in about six inches and then sits down on the floor with his hand on his foot, like he is trying to muster up the strength to take off his shoe. I kneel down to help him.

“Is Scotty here?” Aunt Lila asks.

“No,” I say. I focus on helping George with his coat. She can think whatever she wants to, but I won't help her along.

“Do you know when he'll be back?”

Oh wait. Actually, he is here! Let me just run back to our mangled bed and tell him to throw on some pants. “No. I'm sorry. George, can you go and pick out which pj's you'd like to wear tonight? I'll bring your stuff back in a minute.”

“Have to wash hands,” he says, and his voice is scratchy, like maybe he fell asleep in the car. I hope he doesn't get a second wind.

“Okay,” I say. “You can wash your hands first.”

“Matt have to wash hands too.”

“I know, bug.” Why is Lila still standing in the doorway? “Matt will wash his hands in a minute, but you don't need to worry about him, okay?”

Georgie doesn't stand up but kind of pulls himself across the floor with his hands and scoots his knees along behind him.

Aunt Lila is pressing her lips together and texting. Probably mean, sordid things, about me, to Mae.

“Do you want me to write Scotty a note to call you when he gets back?” I don't ask about the kids. I know she won't tell me.

“Sure, sure, that would be fine,” she says. “See you next weekend,” she calls. Neither boy responds.

“Boys, can you say good-bye to Aunt Lila?” I call after her.

“Byeeeee,” moans George. Matt mumbles something from the TV room. Aunt Lila is back out the door before I can ask them to say good-bye properly.

“Matt, did something happen at Aunt Lila's?” I walk into the family room and click off the TV, which he has turned on without permission.

“I was just trying to help with the pie,” Matt says, looking a little teary.

“What pie?” I sit down next to him. “Aunt Lila didn't mention anything, so maybe you can tell me what happened? That way I'll know what to say to your dad when he hears about it.”

“Georgie accidentally got knocked over,” Matt says. “But he didn't get burned! The stove was on. I didn't see him!”

“You were trying to help with the pie, and you accidentally ran into Georgie, and you knocked him toward the oven, but he didn't touch it? Just almost?”

“Yeah,” says Matt, and I'm either a sucker for his tears, or he's telling the truth.

“Did you get in trouble?”

“I had a time-out until we were coming back. I want to watch TV, Charlotte.”

“Did you have dinner?”

“I didn't like it.” He looks defeated and sad.

“Was it something
really
awful, like mung beans and tofu?”

He doesn't laugh. “No. It was chicken that Mary made, and Aunt Lila said I was hurting her feelings. But it was yucky. Can I please watch a show?”

“In a minute,” I say. “Sometimes, when you don't like something, there's a more polite way to say you don't want any. Like, no thank you, or I don't really care for chicken, but could I have an extra roll please?” He smiles a little. “I'll make you something. But let me get George in bed first, okay?” I say, and he nods. “George ate dinner, right?” He nods again. I click the TV back on for him.

George is on the floor of his room with no pants or underwear or socks on and his shirt kind of stuck all bunched up around his neck. I help him get the shirt off and put on his pajamas; then we brush teeth and get into bed.

“You want a story, little buggie?”

“No tory. Mine tummy feels full,” he says.

“Does it hurt?” I put my hand on his forehead. He doesn't seem warm, but I check the back of his neck too. He is nodding. “Would you rather go right to sleep?” He nods again. This is very unlike him. More than anything, he loves his routine. “Okay, love. You can go to sleep. Good night, honey, I'll see you in the morning. I'll send Daddy in to kiss you when he comes home.” I say this every night, and it never happens, but the boys are sleeping, so I prefer to think that
they
think it's happening. I turn out the light, head back to the kitchen, and slap together a turkey sandwich for Matt, with some steamed Brussels sprouts on the side. The silly kid loves Brussels sprouts but won't touch certain types of cheese. This is a Gretchen triumph, for sure.

After his dinner, I let Matt play in the bathtub for half an hour, so by the time he gets in bed, it's almost twenty minutes past his normal bedtime. As I'm tucking him in, he reaches up and holds me around the neck. He doesn't seem to want to let go, so I stand there, half hunched over, ignoring the pull in my back muscles, until he is ready to release me.