Vladimir(25)

“Mommy, Alexis kicked me out.”

Sidney’s voice had the forlorn neediness that she had as a child, when she would wake up in the middle of the night with a bad dream, or itching from bug bites, or in pain from a mysterious fever. It was so easy for me to comfort her in those moments, to pull her to my chest and soothe her and let her sleep on me all night. She was never a clinging child, independent and sensitive and usually interested in shrugging me off, and so I cherished those moments, when hurt made her needy, and she clung to me as though I was the only one who could help.

I stroked her wet hair. Like many gay young women, she had the undersides of her head shaved up past the ears, and her light reddish bob flopped a little past her chin when dry. I ran my fingers along the shaved part, the bristles smooth on the way down and textured the way up. It was barely 60 degrees, we would both be shivering in a moment, but I felt a poetic charge in the tableau of us, soaked, our hearts as open and seeping as popped blisters—a sordid and suburban pietà. It reminded me of twenty years ago, when my colleague David didn’t show up at our meeting place, and I realized that he’d decided he wouldn’t run away with me to Berlin after all, and I lay down on the bare, cold earth of the graveyard (our ridiculous choice for our rendezvous) and let a stray cat sniff, and then walk over, my body.

“She left me, Mommy,” she repeated.

“My sweet girl, I’m so sorry.”

“I thought you were one of Dad’s—” She didn’t finish the sentence.

“It’s okay, sweetness. But you shouldn’t get so drunk, at least not when you’re by yourself.”

“I took a bottle of rum on the train with me.”

“That’ll do it.”

“Then we were delayed in Albany for an extra hour so I got some beer.”

“How’d you get here?”

“I walked.”

“Oh my sweetheart. You’re safe at home now.”

“I think I fucked a man in the train bathroom.”

“You think?”

“No, I did.”

“Willingly?”

“Basically.”

“Basically?”

“Yes. Willingly.”

“God, Sid, how do you feel about that?”

“Oh, fine. I wanted to. It was fine.”

She was fully shivering now, and I took my towel off and wrapped her in it and helped her to stand.

“Let’s get you warm and talk about it inside, okay? I want to hear.”

“I don’t want to talk. Can you make me some food?”

“Yes.”

“Can I stay here tonight?”

“It’s your home.”

“You’re not mad at me?”

“I was never mad at you. You were mad at me.”

“Look at those stars.”

It was clear out, and they were so dense they seemed connected at the tips.

“I was just thinking about how when you were a little girl you told us that nature was so boring, because all anyone did in nature was tell other people to look at things.”

“Were you smoking?”

I didn’t answer. She and I took a hot shower together in the big shower, like when she was little. I dressed her in John’s sweats and sat her on the couch with a large glass of water, then put on a robe and started in the kitchen. I decided to make her stovetop spaghetti carbonara pie, an old specialty of mine she loved—a sauce made of bacon, tomato, olive, and anchovy (I add olives and anchovies to all tomato sauce because tomato sauce is always better with olives and anchovies) simmered on the stove, to which one adds al dente spaghetti, then cracks eggs into little craters in the mixture, cooking them until they are just set, after which an obscene amount of parmesan is grated over the entire thing and the skillet (oven safe) is put under the broiler for three minutes to crisp the top. The dish is an ambush of calories; it would be good for all that alcohol sloshing around her insides.

I was about to strain the pasta and add it to the sauce that was simmering on the stove when I heard Sidney staggering toward the downstairs bathroom. I turned off the burners, ran into the bathroom, held her hair from her face and rubbed her back as she vomited torrents. After several rounds, in which she alternated vomiting with lying on the cold tile floor, she seemed to have nothing left in her. She brushed her teeth and I tucked her into the guest bedroom, pulling the covers up to her chin and kissing her hair. Next I cleaned up the vomit that had escaped her before she had reached the toilet, a line from the couch to the bathroom, and put the sauce in a storage container. I threw out the pasta, which had been sitting unstrained in the hot water and now looked like a pot of floating dandelion wisps. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, performed my skin regimen of toner, retinol serum, massage, under-eye cream, and moisturizer. I would sleep with Sidney to keep watch over her during the night.

She had kicked all the covers away and pulled her sweatshirt off. I covered her back up with the sheet and lay down beside her, staring up at the ceiling. I must not have slept very soundly, because at 3 a.m. I heard noises below and then John’s recognizable footsteps climbing the stairs. He stood at the doorway and looked at me, and I gave him a slight wave before turning my head. I had failed to notice that he hadn’t come home.





VII.