The New Yorker Stories

“Ha, ha,” Gerald said.

“What questions?” Henry said.

“About everything I ever did or thought before I got into bed with her, and what I’m going to act like and what I’m going to think the minute I stand up.”

Henry sat on the grass, pulled a blade, and chewed on the end. Then he tossed it away and walked down the sloping lawn to where his mother stood, shaking insecticide onto rose leaves.

“He’s pretty sad,” Henry said. “But he’s been thinking about things. He says he’s going to church on Sunday.”

“Church?” his mother said.

The sun shone through the green visor his mother was wearing. Her face was yellow.

Henry went back onto the porch to get out of the sun. Through the front screen he saw the newly cut grass, the level privet hedge that bordered the front lawn. In front of the walk, the street was empty. He tried to imagine Sally’s rusty beige Ford parked there.

No one in the family approved of Sally, the woman he loved. She had been his graphic-design teacher. She was thirty-three, divorced, and had an eight-year-old daughter named Laurel, who wasn’t at all charming; the girl wore thick glasses and usually stood behind, or right alongside, her mother. The child’s skin, in full sun, was as pale as sand. She often had rashes and mosquito bites that she scratched until they got scabs. Henry and Sally had become lovers a few months ago, and recently he had been staying with her at the loft she was subletting in SoHo. This week, she and Laurel had gone to visit her sister in Providence, but they were coming back for Carl’s birthday party, and in the morning the three of them would drive back to New York.

Henry looked out the other side of the porch. Gerald had gotten up and, with his gin-and-tonic mug in one hand, was fanning water out of a garden hose onto the roses.

“No!” Verna screamed, coming around the side of the house from the garden with a basket of freshly picked vegetables in one hand.

“Didn’t you see the white powder? For the aphids, Gerald. Don’t—”

Gerald turned the hose on Verna.

“Gerald!” she shrieked.

“How come you call him Henry darling and I’m just Gerald?” he said. “Showing preference damages children.”

“You’re insane,” Verna said, running toward the porch, cucumbers and lettuce spilling out of the basket.

Gerald was laughing loudly. Verna ran onto the porch, dropped the basket, and stomped into the kitchen. Henry considered going inside to find out if she still wanted him to love his brother. Gerald trained the hose on one chaise after another. Then he aimed it at the roses again, no longer laughing. His face had the rigidity of a soldier pointing a rifle. Henry watched until Gerald dropped the hose and headed for the spigot outside the porch to turn off the water.

“You’re losing it, darling,” Henry said.

Sally’s daughter, Laurel, was too shy to stand up with the rest of the group for a birthday toast. She was half under the picnic table, petting a neighbor’s cat.

“To me!” Carl said heartily, raising a thermos cap full of champagne.

Gerald had given him the thermos for his birthday. Carl was also wearing the swimming trunks, with knee- high black socks and black cordovans. “To the birthday boy at the end of his forty-ninth year, and”—he turned toward Sally—“to new friends.” He raised the cup higher. “To the sailboat I’m buying,” he said.

“What sailboat?” Verna said.

“A white one,” he said.

“You’re going to buy a sailboat?” Verna said.

“A white one,” he said.

“Telephone!” Gerald said, running down the lawn toward the house.

“Why not a sailboat?” Carl said. “Business was very good this year, considering. No one asks me how business is. It’s fine, thank you.” He raised his cup. He had still not had a drink of champagne. Sally sipped her champagne. Henry’s mug was empty. He walked over to the table, knocking the box top with the pieces of puzzle onto the lawn with his elbow as he took the bottle out of the cooler and poured. Champagne foamed out of his mug. He held it away from him, then licked his wrist.

“Excuse me,” Sally whispered to Henry. “I’m going to the bathroom.” She handed him her empty mug. Head down, she walked down the hill toward the house.

Carl, sitting on a chaise now, said, “I was really expecting a new sand wedge for my birthday.”

Verna sat on the bench by the picnic table. “Perhaps when Gerald gets back we should have the cake,” she said.

“I’ll get the cake,” Henry said, and walked toward the house. Laurel caught his eye and ran to his side when he opened the porch door. She was still holding the cat. It jumped out of her arms and ran under a bush. He wished she’d stayed with the others; he thought that Sally had gone to the bathroom because his family had made her uncomfortable, and he wanted to talk to her.

“Where’s Mommy?” Laurel said.

“In the bathroom,” he said, pointing.

“Anything. Anything, if only you’ll have me back,” Gerald was saying on the telephone. “Counseling—hell, I’d have electroshock therapy. Anything. Anything.”