“Yes,” Jeffrey said. “But I understand that in matters of fidelity, you had your own problems.”
“Proving that won’t be easy,” Corman said.
“It’s an old story anyway, David,” Jeffrey said dismissively. “And we both know it. The real question now is what would be best for Lucy. Lexie has one idea. I have another. And I guess you have a third?”
“That’s right.”
“Which is for her to stay with you.”
“Yeah.”
“In the same apartment, on the same street, going to the same school,” Jeffrey said, as if he were ticking off the descending circles of Hell.
Corman nodded.
Jeffrey shook his head. “It won’t do, David,” he said wearily. “It really won’t. Lexie is becoming obsessed with this whole question, and I’m sure you have a very good idea of what that’s like.”
Corman watched him silently, half-contemplating his offer once again. He was not really sure why he’d refused it so quickly. Was it pride? If it were pride, then it was wrong. Why should Lucy be deprived of things because he was too proud to provide them in any way he could, even this way, a discreet arrangement between two worldly gentlemen, arrived at in the muted elegance of the Bull and Bear while the stock prices streamed silently above them like a lighted pennant.
“David,” Jeffrey said sincerely, “Lucy’s a very bright little girl. She’s not being served by that school, and you know it. What’s to gain by keeping her in it? What’s to gain by staying in that apartment, on that street? What’s to gain for either one of you?”
Corman realized that he absolutely did not have an answer, and he could feel the lack of it at the very center of himself, a dull, dead space that insisted upon its right to exist without a conscious reason, purpose or claim on anything.
“I could understand how you would feel if it were a question of losing her,” Jeffrey went on. “But that’s what I’m trying to avoid.”
Corman shook his head. “I can’t, Jeffrey,” he said, then repeated it. “I just can’t.” He got to his feet immediately. “I don’t know why.”
Jeffrey stared at him imploringly. “Please think about it,” he said.
“I can’t,” Corman repeated as if it were part of an addled litany. “I can’t.” He pulled on his coat and his hat, and felt the clammy chill that had gathered in them. “No. No. No.”
He picked Lucy up at Maria’s and then the two of them walked the short distance to the apartment. Lucy sometimes ran ahead of him, her body moving in a zigzag pattern along the sidewalk, her bright yellow rain-slicker perfectly visible despite the slightly foggy air. As he continued to walk at some distance behind her, Corman realized that he liked the way she ran in the streets, the way her head was always turning left and right, as if she were searching for something, an oddly torn window shade or dark, mysterious alley, something with a story that could not go untold.
Once in the apartment, she quickly completed her homework while Corman struggled with dinner in the small kitchen, whipping up a quick meal from a mound of hamburger meat, a small scattering of frozen french fries, the few remaining leaves of lettuce which had managed to survive for one more day.
They ate together quietly, savoring the simple relaxing calm more than the food, then sat down on the sofa. Lucy took a copy of
He listened silently while she nestled beneath his arm. He relished her voice and looked forward to its changes, just as he looked forward to the day when she would leave him. Because of that, it seemed to him that loneliness was not the issue, that the fact that he would miss her was not enough to keep her with him. If Lexie went through with the custody suit, he would fight for Lucy with an animal rapaciousness, but he also knew it was not her presence he would be fighting for. His life would be easier without her. As to love, he would always love her, and be loved by her. Even love was not the issue with him, but he was not exactly sure what was.
“What’s this word?” Lucy asked suddenly.
Corman glanced down toward the word she was pointing to. “Obtuse,” he said.
“What does it mean?”
“Stupid,” Corman told her. “That’s the usual meaning.”
“You mean like dumb?”
“Sort of.”
“Like retarded?”
“No, not like that,” Corman said. “Dense. You know, hard to get through to.”
Lucy nodded. “Oh,” she said. “Like someone who doesn’t get it.”
“That’s right.”
Lucy smiled then went on reading.
Corman eased himself back into the sofa, closed his eyes and tried to relax. Her voice curled around him, very soft and youthful. He drew her in more closely, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, squeezing gently but steadily until she finally stopped reading and glanced up at him.
“Let go,” she said, jerking her shoulders right and left to loosen his grip.
“Sorry,” Corman said quickly.
She looked at him accusingly. “Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me what I read.”
“Just keep going,” Corman told her sternly.
She gave him a doubtful glance then began reading again.
He kept his arm delicately around her shoulders, but didn’t try to draw her more firmly into his embrace. He didn’t want to hold her down, tie her up or crush her. He wasn’t sure what he wanted for her, or even what he could provide. Jeffrey had been right about everything, just as Lexie would be right when she took the stand, made her point and rolled off the figures in a city where nothing mattered quite so much as the figures. He could hear her now. It was a husky, solid voice. It would be persuasive. He knew it would. He couldn’t even deny that most of the facts were on her side. He had left a steady job to pursue one that was not only unstable, but in his way of doing it, ineffable. He worked too many days, too many nights, wandered sleeplessly even when at home. He provided too little of himself, or anything else for that matter. Those were the facts, and there was no way to change them or even give them a gloss that wouldn’t look self-serving. If it went to court, the most obvious fact would also be the most damaging one. It was simple, straightforward: there was no way he could actually prove he was a good father.
And yet? And yet?
It struck Corman that at the center of every conclusion there was always a lingering “And yet?” It haunted every fixed idea, troubling, discordant, a quavering at the core.
He shook his head silently, still listening as Lucy continued to read beside him. He tried to think of all the other fathers who’d listened to their children read while just beyond the door the wolves had howled through the night, war, fire, plague, poverty, all the bad faith of the age. He doubted that any one of them would have been able to prove how much he loved his children, worked for them, and taught them. Not even a thousand expert pictures could prove what he had done.
And yet?
CHAPTER
TWENTY
“NEED A LIFT to school?”
Corman turned around, reflexively reaching for Lucy’s hand, then tilted the umbrella slightly upward to find a face to go with the voice behind him.
