“Are you finished with your dinner?” I ask her.
There are a few bites of mashed potatoes and meatloaf left on the plate.
When she looks up at me and asks, “Where’s Irvin? Is he still at work?” I know I’m not going to get an answer out of her and that I should clear the dishes.
Irvin was her husband. He died in World War II, over forty-four years ago. When all else escapes her, the memory of Irvin always seems to swoop in. I like to think it’s merciful comfort on her mind’s part to reunite them.
“Yeah, he’ll be home late.”
Chantal says when this happens, I should remind her that Irvin’s been gone for years to try to bring her back to the present, but I can’t do it. So, I lie because it brings her fleeting happiness. It won’t last; she may as well enjoy it while she can.
I cover Mrs. Bennett’s leftovers in foil and put them in the refrigerator so she can eat them tomorrow and then I return to the living room. Figuring Joey will be ready to return to his blocks on the floor, I try to lay him down, but he clings to me and starts to whimper, the precursor to actual tears. Changing my mind, I sit on the other end of the couch and ask Mrs. Bennett if she needs anything.
She responds with, “No, thank you, Toby.” Mrs. Bennett is back. “I’m tired, I’ll probably turn in when this program is over.”
“Okay,” I respond as Joey snuggles into my chest, rests his head on my shoulder, and drools all over it while he tries to gum his fist off.
The room is quiet except for the TV for the next ten minutes. When the final scene plays and a commercial appears telling us how much Mikey likes Life cereal, Mrs. Bennett announces she’s heading to bed.
It’s only six thirty, but who am I to begrudge anyone getting some extra sleep if they can? I’d probably go to bed early every night if monsters didn’t keep me awake.
She’s standing in front of us, staring at us. She does this a lot, stares. It makes me unbelievably uncomfortable, but if I don’t meet her deep brown eyes and engage her, it’s easier.
“When you hold him it always reminds me of my husband holding Chantal’s mom when she was that age. There is not much in this world that makes my heart sing like watching a child transform a man into a father. Good night, Toby. Good night, Joey.”
That was a compliment. That I haven’t earned. “Night, Mrs. Bennett.”
She smiles sweetly, pats Joey’s back gently, and disappears behind her closed bedroom door. Since the baby is content, I grab the paperback I’m reading for an English assignment from my backpack and lie on the couch with Joey stretched out on my belly, his head resting on my chest. And I read “Moby Dick” aloud to him for thirty minutes. My sweatshirt is soaked with drool by the time my voice grows hoarse from use, and I can tell Joey is fighting sleep when he starts rubbing his eyes.
Fresh diaper and onesie on for bed, I make his bottle. Usually I sit in the rocking chair in Chantal’s room next to his crib to feed him, but I’m extra tired tonight and afraid that the chair will only make it worse, so I feed him standing instead. I walk the living room, Joey in my arms on his back looking up at me through half-lidded, milk-drunk eyes. Every minute the struggle to pry them open after they slip closed is harder and harder, until he gives up the effort and concentrates on drinking instead. His puckered, pink lips working in earnest. Bottle empty, lips still trying to coax more in their sleepy mission, I slowly slide the nipple from his mouth and begin swaying, rocking him the rest of the way into slumber. It’s not long before his breathing slows and deepens into that space where only dreams can touch him. Placing him in his crib without waking him is getting more and more difficult every week. After four failed attempts, and an hour of trying, I give up and sit down on the rocking chair with him in the dark.
I sit there until I hear keys rattle in the front door, and Chantal walks in looking exhausted.
“He wouldn’t go down in his crib?” she asks through a wide yawn.
I shake my head, a yawn copycatting its way out after hearing hers.
“Did you finish your homework?” She’s worried, I can hear it in her voice.
“Yeah,” I lie. I have about two hours’ worth of work to do before I go to bed, but I would never tell her that.
She turns on the nightlight next to her twin bed and returns to scoop Joey from my arms. “Thank you,” she whispers before she expertly transitions him to his crib without incident. She follows me out to the living room, where I gather up my book, backpack, and sketchpad from the floor. “Was Grandma okay? Any issues?”
“She went to bed a little early, but other than that she was fine. Nothing unusual.” It escapes on another yawn.
She’s standing at the door holding it open for me, and for some reason, it’s always awkward when I leave like this. I don’t know if it’s the fact that I’ve just spent several hours with Joey, or if it’s the fact that I’ve been inside this woman, or if it’s the fact that our arrangement is murky, but leaving her apartment late into the night always doubles the guilt for me. And she always acts like she isn’t quite sure what to say either.
So we’ve come to a mutual unspoken agreement that we won’t say anything.
I leave in silence.
And she lets me.
Chapter Ten
Present,March 1987
Toby
