A Perfect Life Read Online Free

“Willie, put this bike of hers in the back of that old thing you drive and make sure Janie gets where she is going.”
    â€œOh no,” I said. “I do this all the time. Really. Enjoy the show. I’ll see you Sunday morning.” I kissed my father, then edged out the door and left them standing together, Honey and Herb. Jesus, I thought, they sounded like a salad dressing.
    â€œHey,” someone called. I turned and saw Willie standing beside a pyramid of lobster traps. There was something touching about his size. He was too big, the way Vic O’Connell was too big. But he wasn’t awkward, the way Vic was. Vic carried his body the way he carried that suit—like something he was forced to wear on special occasions but otherwise would have preferred to leave hanging in his closet. Willie carried his body the way he might have supported a drunken friend—tenderly, with some compassion.
    He asked if I was sure I was all right.
    I assumed he was asking: Was I sure I would be okay riding my bike at night? “I’m sure,” I said. “Thanks.”
    He plucked at my blouse. “So then, what’s all this red stuff?”
    I dropped my head to see.
    â€œMaybe it’s ketchup.” He drawled the word so slowly I could see the tilted bottle, the heavy red paste refusing to pour. “Then again, maybe it’s not.”
    I couldn’t understand how Flora’s blood had splashed so high. He asked if I’d had an accident. Maybe I’d gotten hurt?
    No, I said. I dropped a test tube.
    â€œDon’t you wear one of those white coats?” he asked.
    No, I said. Only doctors wore white coats.
    He cocked his head and raised his eyebrows, which were curly and lush. It wasn’t fair that a woman couldn’t get away with having eyebrows like that.
    â€œYou’re not a doctor?” he said.
    Some researchers were medical doctors, I explained. They saw patients most of the week, then messed around in the lab for a few hours on Friday afternoon and got in everyone’s way. They wore white coats. Biologists—Ph.D.s.—did their research in jeans.
    â€œSo,” he said, “lab coats are for sissies? Like cars? Like accepting rides from friends?”
    I apologized. I hadn’t meant to be rude. I just got nervous when people treated me like an invalid.
    He snorted. “She treats everyone like that. She treated my dad like that, even before he got sick. Brushed his teeth for him, for Christ’s sake. He loved it. Don’t ask me, some people like to be treated like a baby. She treats me that way, and I’m forty years old! Anyway, I made my peace with it. Doesn’t bother me anymore. I hardly pay attention.”
    â€œBut my father . . .” I said. In the old days, he had acted more like my mother’s father than like her husband. Surely not like her son.
    â€œBut I shouldn’t let her talk for me,” he said. “I want to give you a ride. You need something to eat, and I wouldn’t mind getting the taste of that lobster pie I ordered out of my mouth. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, but that wasn’t exactly the best dinner I ever ate.” He thrust his hand in one of the traps. “I think I got the last poor sucker they pulled up in this thing.” He tried to get his hand out, but it was tangled in the net. The hand was hairy, pale, soft. Definitely more a mammal than a crustacean. My heart twinged, as if a not-too-bright animal had blundered into danger and couldn’t find its way out.
    The maître d’ looked up from his podium and regarded us suspiciously. Willie freed his hand. “I’ve never seen anyone feed her cells before.”
    â€œThey’re not my cells. They’re cells from other people. Cancer cells. As long as they get fed, they’ll keep dividing forever. I feed them fetal-calf serum. It’s made by chopping up little fetal calves. Is that weird