By Michael Pershan
My wife placed my hand on her leg, but when I slipped under her nightdress she pushed me away. “Are you crazy?” she said. “The kids are at the airport. They’re waiting for us!” We were in bed at Oak Terrace, under a comforter that smelled like the house we’d sold years ago. I told her their flight was delayed, which soothed her. Then I kept doing that thing I’d been doing with my fingers while wondering if I should stop.
“This feels nice, Daniel,” she said, though I’m Harold. Daniel’s our son, fifty-eight years old next week, with troubles of his own—sitting hurts, he says, so he mostly stands. (“We barely understand the back,” a doctor told him.) There’s a photograph in our little office here in Oak Terrace of Daniel at Camp Oswego in a yellow shirt and jean shorts caked with mud. I tried not to think about any of that while kissing my wife, even after she called me “Daniel” again.
(“I’m worried about mom,” Daniel said a few weeks ago. He shared a few recent observations. “Have you noticed?”
Daniel, of course I did.)
I reached for my wife’s hip and pulled her close, retracing familiar paths. Making love under such circumstances was either beautiful or selfish. Maybe both. Maybe the selfish thing would be to pull away from her just now. Or maybe that was the honorable thing, to acknowledge reality and urge her to rest. It was too confusing and this line of thought had me feeling terribly lonely, like I’d been heroically scaling some mountain and turned to find my climbing partner’s rope dangling in the wind.
I pecked her shoulder, grazed her lips with my hand, went further with my fingers. I drifted away from the moment, losing myself in the past. I thought of a terrible row we’d had when Daniel was ten. I’d moved out into the living room. Daniel, pouring a bowl of Cheerios in the morning, caught me waking up on the sectional. Our marriage had been plagued with rifts, bumps, and friction: never resolved but somehow outlasted. And what is there, really, besides outlasting? It’s a trick that works until it doesn’t. And if this was it, if tonight was the last time…well, how do you finish that sentence like that?
There was kissing and touching, confusion and pleasure. We were approaching the point of no return, physically and morally. All through it she kept saying my son’s name: Daniel; thank you, Daniel; that’s right Daniel; you know what I like, Daniel. But eventually I tuned it out, as my mind had drifted again, and I imagined myself addressing my son directly. Reaching out. Begging. Confessing.
Daniel, I imagined myself saying, we’re all adults here. Listen. I was fumbling around with your mother in bed and launched myself into the past—I want to tell you about it.
We were back in that little apartment, the one before the house, the one covered in mouse shit. You probably don’t remember, we used to even find shit in our shoes. On the night in question, we were in bed, you beside us in a rocker. You were so little, fresh and raw. We put you into the rocker and began doing things with each other; quietly so you wouldn’t wake.
When we finished, your mother fell asleep on my left shoulder, which was how we’d sleep, except after we’d fought. My arm pinned under her head, every night for decades. This is the most intimate fact of my existence. Anyway, that’s not the story I want to tell.
It was so quiet in that room. I rolled over, and there you were: silent as a stone but wide awake, your giant eyes creeping through the rocker’s slats. You looked so mature sucking on your binky, like you were weighing your options. I had a jolt! I felt the intensity of your presence. It was like some horror film. Then you closed your eyes and fell back asleep.
Is there a part of you that remembers this? Or is it all gone?
I’m touching your mother again now, Daniel. I have something more to tell you.
Earlier, Daniel, we visited, and I was staring right at you. I couldn’t look away. You asked what I was thinking, and I didn’t say. Well, Daniel, I’m trying now.
Listen, I need to ask. Are you afraid of the dark? Because I am—I am so, so scared.
Michael Pershan is a writer and math teacher whose stories have recently appeared in HAD, hex literary, and BULL. His website is michaelpershan.com.
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