“Hi, Dad,” he said.
Larry filled the tea kettle and then tousled David’s hair. “Hi, son. Have a good sleep?”
“I wet the bed,” David said matter-of-factly.
“You’ve got to be careful,” Larry answered, taking the kettle to the stove.
“I know,” David solemnly agreed, “but it just happens without my knowing, Dad.”
“Well,” Larry said, “you’ve got to be careful.”
“Oh, sure,” David said.
The bathroom door opened. Eve disappeared down the corridor.
“Hurry it up, hon,” Larry said.
“What time is it?”
“Almost seven-twenty.”
He went into the bathroom and closed the door. He could hear the sounds of the house around him while he shaved, the oil burner thrumming in the basement below, the vents expanding as heat attacked the aluminium. Another day. Another day to gird on the armor and step into the arena. Lawrence Cole, knight in shining. Available for dragon slaying, honor salvation, and holy-grail searches.
“Hurry, Larry!”
Eve’s voice. Part of the routine. Somewhere during the early-morning rush on his city days, the clocks and Eve would join forces, combining in their efforts to shove slothful, lethargic, lackadaisical Lawrence Cole out of the warmth of Abode into the coldness of Arena. He rinsed his face and dried himself. He went quickly to the bedroom then, opened the second drawer of the dresser — top drawer belongs to Eve, invasion of privacy — and hurriedly unwrapped a white shirt, noticing at the same time that there was only one other shirt in the drawer.
When he came into the kitchen it was 7:35. His juice, cereal and coffee were waiting on the table. Miraculously, Chris was fully dressed and eating a soft-boiled egg. David sat morosely in his damp pajamas.
“How do I look, Daddy?” Chris asked.
“Fine, Chris.” He picked up his juice glass. “When’s the laundry man coming?”
“Today. Why?”
“I’m almost out of shirts.”
“Again? Why don’t you buy a few more? A man could get neurotic worrying over whether his shirts will last the week.”
“Maybe I’ll get some today, after I’m through with this character.”
“You say you will, but you won’t. Why do you hate to buy clothes?”
“I love to buy clothes,” Larry said. He grinned. “I just hate to spend money.” He drank his orange juice. “Good stuff.”
“They had a sale at Food Fair.”
“Good. Better than the stuff you had last week.”
“You look handsome, Dad,” David said.
“Thank you, eat your egg, son.”
“You’ll have to take Chris to the bus stop this morning,” Eve said. “I’m not dressed.”
“Are you going to the Governor’s Ball, or are you dropping your son off at the school bus?”
“I’m doing neither. You’re dropping him off.”
“A mother’s job...”
“Larry. I can’t go in my underwear! Now don’t—”
“Why not? That would set lovely Pinecrest Manor on its ear.”
“You’d like that.”
“So would all the other men in the development.”
“That’s all you ever think of,” Eve said.
“What’s all he ever thinks of?” Chris asked. He shoved his cup aside. “I finished my egg.”
“Go wash your face,” Eve said.
“Sure.” Chris pushed his chair back. “But what’s all he thinks of?”
“S-e-x,” Eve spelled.
“What’s that?”
“That’s corrupting the morals of a minor,” Larry said. “Go wash your face.
“Is s-e-x Santa Claus?” Chris asked.
“In a way,” Larry answered, smiling.
“I could tell,” Chris said triumphantly. “Because everytime you spell, it’s Santa Claus.”
“Is it almost Christmas?” David asked.
“Come on, come on,” Larry said, suddenly galvanized, reaching for his coffee cup. “Wash your face, Chris. Hurry.”
Chris vanished.
“You’re not having cereal?” Eve asked.
“I don’t want to stuff myself. I’m meeting this guy for breakfast.”
“You’ll never gain any weight the way you eat.”
“Who wants to? A hundred and ninety-two pounds is fine.”
“You’re six-one,” she said, studying him as if for the first time. “You can use a few pounds.”
Larry shoved back his chair. “Chris! Let’s go!”
Chris burst out of the bathroom. “Am I all right, Ma?” he asked.
“You’re fine. Put on a sweater.”
Chris ran to his room. Larry took Eve in his arms.
“Be good. Don’t make eyes at the laundry man.”
“He’s very handsome. He looks like Gregory Peck.”
“Did you brush your teeth?”
“Yes.”
“Do I get a kiss now?”
“Sure.”
They were kissing when Chris came back into the kitchen. The moment he saw them in embrace, he began singing, “Love and marriage, love and—”
“Shut up, runt,” Larry said. He broke away from Eve. “I’ll call you later.”
They went out of the house together. David and Eve stood in the doorway, watching. “When I get big next week, can I go with them?” David asked.
“First you’ve got to stop wetting the bed,” Eve said absently.
From the car Chris yelled, “Bye, Ma!”
Larry waved and backed the car out of the driveway, glancing at the line of his small development house and hating for the hundredth time the aesthetic of it. Pinecrest Manor, he thought. Lovely Pinecrest Manor. His wrist watch read 7:50. He waved again when they turned the corner. The bus stop was five blocks away on the main road which hemmed in the development. He pulled up at the intersection and opened the door for Chris. “Have fun,” he said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Chris said, and he went to join the knot of children and mothers who stood near the curb. Larry watched him, proud of his son, forgetting for the moment that he had to catch a train.
And then he saw the woman, her head in profile against the gray sky, pale-blonde hair and brown eyes, her head erect against the backdrop of gray. She held the hand of a blond boy, and Larry looked at the boy and then at the woman again. One of the other women in the group, one of Eve’s friends, caught his eye and waved at him. He waved back, hesitating before he set the car in motion. He looked at his watch. 7:55. He would have one hell of a race to the station. He turned the corner onto the main road, looking back once more at the pale blonde.
She did not return his glance.
The man’s name was Roger Altar.
“I’m a writer,” he said to Larry.
Larry sat opposite him at the restaurant table. There was something honest about meeting a man for late breakfast. Neither of the two had yet buckled on the armor of society. The visors had not yet been clanged shut, concealing the eyes. They sat across from each other, and there was the smell of coffee and fried bacon at the table, and Larry made up his mind that all business deals should be concluded at breakfast when men could be honest with each other.
“Go ahead, say it,” Altar said.
“Say what?”
“That you’ve always wanted to be a writer.”
“Why should I say that?”
“It’s what everyone says.” Altar shrugged massive shoulders. A waitress passed, and his eyes followed her progression across the room.
Larry poked his fork into the egg yolk, watching the bright yellow spread. “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he said, “but I never entertained the thought. As a matter of fact, I always wanted to be exactly what I am.”