“He said he was pretty happy. He said he didn’t think you were.”
“Of course I’m not happy. He never calls.”
“He likes the place he lives in. He’s got other people to talk to now.”
“Dwarfs, not people,” his mother says. “He’s hiding from the real world.”
“He didn’t have anybody but you to talk to when he lived at home. He’s got a new part-time job that he likes better, too, working in a billing department.”
“Sending unhappiness to people in the mail,” his mother says.
“How are you doing?” he asks.
“As James says, I’m not happy.”
“What can I do?” MacDonald asks.
“Go to see him tomorrow and tell him to come home.”
“He won’t leave. He’s in love with somebody there.”
“Who? Who does he say he’s in love with? Not another social worker?”
“Some woman. I met her. She seems very nice.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t remember.”
“How tall is she?”
“She’s a little shorter than James.”
“Shorter than James?”
“Yes. A little shorter.”
“What does she want with him?”
“He said they were in love.”
“I heard you. I’m asking what she wants with him.”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know. Is that sherry in that bottle? Do you mind . . .”
“I’ll get it for you,” Mrs. Esposito says.
“Well, who knows what anybody wants from anybody,” his mother says. “Real love comes to naught. I loved your father and we had a dwarf.”
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” MacDonald says. He takes the glass of sherry from Mrs. Esposito.
“I shouldn’t? I have to raise a dwarf and take care of him for thirty-eight years and then in my old age he leaves me. Who should I blame for that?”
“James,” MacDonald says. “But he didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I should blame your father,” his mother says, as if he hasn’t spoken. “But he’s dead. Who should I blame for his early death? God?”
His mother does not believe in God. She has not believed in God for thirty-eight years.
“I had to have a dwarf. I wanted grandchildren, and I know you won’t give me any because you’re afraid you’ll produce a dwarf. Clem is dead, and Amy is dead. Bring me some of that sherry, too, Carlotta.”
At five o’clock MacDonald calls his wife. “Honey,” he says, “I’m going to be tied up in this meeting until seven. I should have called you before.”
“That’s all right,” she says. “Have you eaten?”
“No. I’m in a meeting.”
“We can eat when you come home.”
“I think I’ll grab a sandwich, though. Okay?”
“Okay. I got the parakeet.”
“Good. Thank you.”
“It’s awful. I’ll be glad to have it out of here.”
“What’s so awful about a parakeet?”
“I don’t know. The man at the pet store gave me a ferris wheel with it, and a bell on a chain of seeds.”
“Oh yeah? Free?”
“Of course. You don’t think I’d buy junk like that, do you?”
“I wonder why he gave it to you.”
“Oh, who knows. I got gin and vermouth today.”
“Good,” he says. “Fine. Talk to you later.”
MacDonald takes off his tie and puts it in his pocket. At least once a week he goes to a run-down bar across
