Long Bright River(10)

Today, when I straighten up from the backseat, holding my groceries, Mrs. Mahon says, Someone stopped by for you.

I frown.

—Who? I say.

Mrs. Mahon looks very gratified to be asked this question.

He didn’t leave his name, she says. Only told me he’d come by another time.

—What did he look like? I say.

—Tall, says Mrs. Mahon. Dark hair. Very handsome, she says, conspiratorially.

Simon. A little pang in my abdomen. I say nothing.

—What did you tell him? I say.

—Said you weren’t home.

—Did he say anything else? I say. Did Thomas see him?

—No, says Mrs. Mahon. He just rang my bell. He was confused. I think he thought you lived in my house.

—And did you correct him? I say. Did you tell him we lived in the apartment upstairs?

—No, says Mrs. Mahon. She frowns. I didn’t know him. I didn’t tell him anything.

I hesitate. It goes against every one of my instincts to let Mrs. Mahon in on any part of my life, but in this case, I believe I have no choice.

—Why, says Mrs. Mahon.

—If he stops by again, I say, just tell him we moved out. Tell him we don’t live here anymore. Whatever you want to say.

Mrs. Mahon stands a bit taller. Proud to be given an assignment, perhaps.

—Just so long as you’re not bringing any trouble around here, she says. I don’t want any trouble in my life.

—He’s not dangerous, I say. I’m just not talking to him. We moved here for a reason.

Mrs. Mahon nods. I am surprised to see something like approval in her eyes.

—All right, she says. I’ll do that, then.

—Thank you, Mrs. Mahon, I say.

Mrs. Mahon waves me off.

Then, unable to restrain herself a moment longer, she tells me, That bag is going to break.

—I’m sorry? I say.

—That bag, says Mrs. Mahon, pointing at my groceries. It’s too heavy, and it’s going to break. That’s why I always ask the girl to double them.

—I’ll make sure to do that in the future, I say.



* * *



—

When I first went back to work after Thomas was born, I used to physically yearn for him toward the end of each day. It was something akin to hunger. Racing to pick him up from daycare, I would picture a string connecting the two of us that retracted, like a yo-yo, as I approached. The feeling has softened as Thomas has grown, morphed into a milder version of itself, but today I still take the back stairs two at a time, picturing his face, his wide grin, his arms outstretched to me.

I open the door. There he is, my son, bounding toward me, shadowed by the babysitter, Bethany.

—I missed you, he tells me, his face an inch from mine, his hands on my cheeks.

—Were you good for Bethany? I say.

—Yes, he says.

I look to Bethany to confirm, but she’s looking down at her phone already, eager to leave. For months, it has been clear to me that I need to find a different, and better, arrangement. Thomas doesn’t like her. He talks every day about his old school in Fishtown, his old friends there, his old teachers. But it’s nearly impossible to find someone who can switch back and forth from days to nights with me every two weeks, and Bethany—twenty-one, a part-time makeup artist—is both cheap and available at almost any hour. What she offers in flexibility, however, she lacks in dependability, and lately she’s been calling out sick so often that I’ve spent every personal day that I have. On the days that she does show up, she’s regularly late, which makes me regularly late, which makes Sergeant Ahearn more and more unfriendly each time we cross paths at the station.

Now, I thank Bethany and pay her. Silently, she leaves. And instantly the house feels lighter.

Thomas looks at me.

—When can I go back to my school, he says.

—Thomas, I say. You know your old school is too far away. And you start kindergarten next September, remember?

He sighs.

—Just a little longer, I say. Less than a year.

Another sigh.

—Is it so bad, I say to him.

But of course I feel guilty. Every evening after A-shift, and often in the mornings, too, I try to make it up to him: I settle right down on the floor next to him and play with him until he’s tired of playing, trying to teach him everything he needs to know about the world, trying to stuff him so full of knowledge and fortitude and curiosity that these qualities will sustain him even during my long stretches away from him, the endless B-shift weeks, during which I’m not even able to put him to bed.

Now, he shows me excitedly what he’s constructed in my absence: a whole city of train tracks, wooden ones I bought secondhand, with construction-paper balls meant to represent boulders and mountains and houses, and cans and bottles that he’s fished out of the recycling bin to stand in for trees.

—Did Bethany help you with this? I ask him, hopefully.

—No, he says. I did it all by myself.

There is pride in his voice. He doesn’t realize—how could he—that I wish the answer had been yes.

Thomas, at almost five, is tall and strong and barreling, and already too smart for his own good. He’s handsome, too. As smart and as handsome as Simon. But unlike his father, so far, he is kind.