I loved the monkey, I say. That was a nice touch.
It was a pure moment, says Jeremy. And purely coincidental.
That monkey saved your life today, says Miller. He turns and walks inside.
Jeremy looks at me. What did you think?
It was a hell of a nice scene, I say. But apparently not appreciated.
Yeah, he says. The old man is mental.
Maybe. But I would be careful with him.
Jeremy shrugs. It’s boring to be careful all the time.
He strolls inside, humming. I flick my cigarette and follow, slowly. Huck with the camera is a shadow behind us. The wheels are turning in my head. Miller is vulnerable. Daphne is stretched out on the stainless steel island in the kitchen under bright, white lights. Jude crouches over her. She is sewing up the cuts in Daphne’s head and face with black thread. Daphne has a big loopy smile on her face.
Miller stands behind her, his face recomposed.
Oops, says Jeremy. I’m sorry but I just sewed your eye shut…
Jude gives him a dark look but says nothing. Jeremy opens the refrigerator, still humming. He tells Huck to get some close-up footage of Jude sewing up Daphne. Jude regards him with her sleepy, assassin’s eyes.
What happened out there? says Jude.
Miller and Jeremy exchange glances but neither of them says boo.
Jude looks at me. Well? she says.
My brother got a little…extreme with his affections.
Do we have any ice cream? says Jeremy.
Jude looks at Miller. I didn’t realize there was a brother in the picture.
There’s not, says Miller. He makes a throat-slashing gesture to Huck, who promptly lowers the camera. Jeremy is cheerfully preparing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
You’ve made an error of judgment, says Miller.
What’s your problem? says Jeremy.
People skills, says Miller. I have poor people skills.
Jeremy shrugs. You know what this picture really needs?
What? he says.
Dwarfs, says Jeremy.
Miller takes a deep breath, apparently deciding to ignore him. He leans over to get a better look at Daphne, who remains blissful as Jude patches her face together.
How is she? he says.
Minor cuts, she says. But a lot of them. Her face is a mess.
This reminds me that I have a lovely black eye. It looks like I was in a bar fight and no one has even mentioned it. What’s the world coming to.
Dwarfs on motorcycles, says Jeremy. Doing stunts and such.
Molly mutters at him to shut up. He winks at me, his mouth full of peanut butter.
Are you high? I say.
Miller sighs. He tells us to ignore him. Jeremy just wants attention, he says.
Jeremy, I say. I want you to apologize to John.
Jeremy laughs, insolently. Miller turns to look at him, a gruesome smile grafted to his face. Jeremy shrugs and offers him a bite of his sandwich and Miller punches him hard, in the stomach. Jeremy is caught completely off guard and goes down in a spastic wheezing heap. Everyone is distracted and I take the opportunity to fuck off. I grab the bread and peanut butter and head downstairs to look in on the boy.
twenty-nine.
THE BOY IS ASLEEP, or appears to be. I crouch beside the bed. His eyes flicker. Long dark lashes that remind me of the wings of a dying moth. There is a spot of blood on his pillow, as if he’s had a nosebleed. I ask him if he feels okay and he doesn’t seem to hear me. There’s a slow trickle of yellow liquid laced with blood coming from his left ear. I touch his face and his skin is so hot. His breathing is shallow and I can barely find his pulse. I pick him up and take the stairs two at a time, yelling for Jude.
I carry the boy into the futuristic living room. The stage lights are blinding. I lay the boy down gingerly on the chrome loveseat. He wears new brown corduroys and a white T-shirt that says there’s no escape from New York. He wears black Chuck Taylors, new and unlaced. His face is pale and the chrome beneath him is polished so bright he looks like he’s asleep on a bed of glass. I chew my fingernails a minute, staring at his shoes. I need to tie those laces before he steps on them and takes a spill. I need to tie those suckers into double knots. I drag my hand through my hair and it comes away dripping with sweat. I holler for Jude, again. I murder her name with my voice and just when I’m about to snap, she appears out of nowhere.
Relax, she says. You would think you’re the father.
What’s wrong with him?
How do I know? she says.
Jude eyes the child as if he is a piece of muddy firewood and she’s reluctant to touch him. But perhaps her ability to remain detached is for the best. She takes a breath, then bends to press her ear to his chest, listening to his lungs.
What is it?
Jude ignores me. Fucking stoic, she is. Now she uses a penlight to examine his eyes, to look into his ears. One by one, the others drift into the room. Molly sits close to me, but not too close. Her face is an unfamiliar mask. Her eyes are black with mascara, her lips painted red. Otherwise, she wears jeans and a T-shirt. Her face is disconcerting. Miller is muttering softly. It sounds like he is calculating figures, running numbers. But then I might be imagining that. Jeremy and Daphne barely pay any attention to us. They are at the bar, arguing in whispers about the proper ingredients for a margarita. Daphne looks like she was in a car wreck and I guess she was. The white bandages on her face are proof that she was chosen by the gods, that she was given one more day to live. Jude is peering into Sam’s little brown eyes as if they are a deep, dark wishing well and she is wondering just how much cash is down there.
Jude, I say. Talk to me.
I may be wrong, she says. He seems to have an ear infection, which is causing the fever.
The shit oozing from his ear, I say. That’s normal?
Drainage, she says. He probably burst his eardrum.
That’s bad, right? That’s bad.
It’s not the end of the world.
I stare at her. He needs his eardrum, I say.
The eardrum will repair itself.
He’s barely breathing.
Jude nods. I’m not sure what’s causing that. Maybe an allergic reaction.
I shake my head. The boy’s eyeball could be hanging out of his skull by a fucking bloody thread and butter wouldn’t melt on your tongue.
There’s no reason to get nasty.
No, I say. What are you going to do?
Jude stands up as if to go.
What are you doing? I say.
I’m going to the bathroom, she says. Will you please fucking relax. Have a drink, or something.
I would love a drink. I wish someone would bring me one.
Molly slips away and everything seems to go on autopilot until she returns. She hands me a glass of vodka, with ice.
Thank you, I say.
