The Weather and Women Treat Me Fair Read Online Free Page B

Jake’s room. He is pressing modeling clay through a plastic tube.
    “Shall I prepare dinner?”
    We are in the car. We are greeted warmly at Ming’s Mandarin House. They know us well.
    We are eating. Jake is using chopsticks. He should use a spoon. He stops eating. “Was that Mommy outside my window?”
    I hesitate. “Yes.” I have never told him that his mother wants to eat him.
    “Does she love me?”
    “I don’t know.” I pause. “Yes, she loves you.”
    “Why didn’t she come in?”
    “She’s shy and—and she doesn’t want to complicate your life.”
    He doesn’t understand. He is silent.
    “To tell the truth,” I say, “I don’t know why she doesn’t come in.”
    He begins to eat again.
    Later, in the car, on his way home, Jake turns to me in his car-seat. “I would like to see my mommy.”
    “We’ll see.”
    We arrive home. After some television, Jake turns in. I stay up and try to work.
    I place my pencil aside. I have written no words. I am struggling with the idea of my ex-wife having an actual visit with my son. I do not know if it is a good idea. All of this is important, however. This is the first time he has expressed an interest in seeing his mother. I cannot tell him she wants to eat him. I could ignore the matter. Cecile must love Jake some. Therefore, she may only eat a portion of him; that will not do. I could ignore the matter. But an eye that refuses to see can still be put out.
    It is just becoming light out. I am drifting in and out of sleep, in and out of a single-party discussion of the previous night’s subject. I am awake. I do morning things and man the kitchen to prepare French toast French toast is the only thing I make that Jake will eat. He comes in, sits at the table, takes fork in hand.
    “F.T.” He bangs the table.
    I slap a couple of slices on his plate.
    “Butter,” he says.
    I give him butter and syrup.
    After breakfast, he looks at me, sleep still in his eyes, and says, “Good.” He leaves the room.
    I pick up the phone and dial Cecile’s number. Lilith answers. She sounds like she has long arms. “May I speak to Cecile?”
    “Grayson?”
    “Yes.”
    “Cecile is out jogging.”
    “Have her call me when she returns.” Jogging, I think once off the phone, a polite way of saying she’s drooling over children in the park. I wash the dishes.
    Jake comes to me.
    “Is there anything I can do?”
    “Watch cartoons.”
    “It’s Sunday.”
    “So?”
    “I dunno.”
    The phone rings. It is Cecile. She has returned from the park. “Can you come over later today? To visit Jake?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “Two o’clock.”
    “Okay.”
    I am looking at Jake. “Your mother is coming by to talk to you.”
    He is confused. He goes out into the yard to play. I go through his room, gathering anything and everything with sharp edges.
    It is almost two. It is very warm, but I’m putting a turtleneck sweater on Jake anyway.
    “It’s too hot,” he says.
    “Better too warm than too cool.”
    He waits in his room. Cecile and Lilith arrive. Cecile is dressed very motherly; plain dress, flat sandals. Lilith is wearing a long-sleeved blouse.
    I show Cecile to Jake’s room. I leave the door ajar and go to join Lilith in the living room. “How’s it been going?” I ask.
    She tells me that things have been going fine, that Cecile has never been happier.
    I tell her I do not doubt this.
    We sit in silence.
    Then I say, “Cecile tells me you may be moving.”
    Lilith tells me they may be visiting Providence.
    Silence.
    I excuse myself and visit the hallway just outside Jake’s room. I can hear Cecile reading. A person cannot talk while devouring a child. I return to silent Lilith. Twenty minutes pass and Cecile is ready to leave. Jake remains in his room. I call to him. He answers. I see out the guests. Cecile is quiet. They leave.
    Jake is at his window. when I enter. He knows I’m in the room. I sit on his bed. He turns to me.
    “You want to talk?” I