I lifted Bernie into the crook of my arm, passed back through the kitchen, snatched our canvas supply bag, stepped out the door.
The children shivered in the grass, their hair and skin faintly iridescent. No longer the lawn chair hunter, Nick had taken a knee, a precarious pose for a man his size. He leaned on the rifle stock, the bright barrel wedged in his mouth. He bucked his head away, mimed the rifle's recoil in slow motion, let the weapon clatter to the asphalt.
"Just like that," he told the children.
"What are you doing?" I said.
"I'm telling the kids a story about my brother."
"Do you think it's appropriate?"
"What does that mean? Appropriate? Is that a fancy word for having no balls?"
"No, it just means-"
"I know what it means."
"Okay, Nick, I'm sorry if I-"
"Don't worry about it. You were not wrong to wonder. Why is he showing kids how to eat a bullet, right? But this is not what it looks like."
"It's not?"
"Not completely."
"Oh."
"And our deal still stands."
"Yes, it does," I said. "Come on, Bernie. See you kids later."
"Bye!"
Nick turned back to his rapt flock.
"See, my brother wanted to plaster the wall with his brains, but the round went through his cheek. Right here, see? Took out a wad of cheek meat, but he survived. After that he started going to this megachurch in Connecticut. We don't talk much."
I hoisted Bernie to my shoulders, carried him across the street.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah, Bern."
"Is Nick bad?"
"No, I don't think he's bad."
"Is he sad?"
"Maybe he's a little sad."
"Is he angry?"
"He might be a little angry."
"I bit Aiden's winky and mashed his face."
"Yeah, Bern, I saw. Why do you think you did that?"
"I wanted to."
"Why do you think you wanted to?"
"I didn't want him to have his train."
"Was it his train?"
"Yeah."
"'Did he share it with you?"
"Yes."
"So, what was the problem?"
"He had it."
"Okay, Bern. Maybe you should have been happy he was sharing it with you, though. That was nice, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"So, do you think it was right to bite and mash?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I wanted to."
"You baffle me, Bern."
"What's baffle? Like waffle?"
"It sounds a little like 'waffle,' doesn't it? You've got a good ear. But baffle means I don't know why you bit and mashed Aiden."
"I told you why."
"I know, you wanted to."
"Daddy?"
"Yes?"
"What's depressive?"
"Who called you depressive? Nick?"
"Nobody."
"Bernie, tell me. Who called you depressive? One of the older boys?"
These poor kids, they gleaned these terms at random, overheard them from afternoon TV, dinner chat. Or else the language of pathology was affixed to them by some shrink Mengele eager to stuff them with Ritalin and Zoloft.
"Who said you were depressive, Bernie?"
"Nobody, Daddy."
"Are you sure?"
"You're the depressive, Daddy. Mommy said. On the phone with Paul."
"Who's Paul?"
"Paul from work. He's an artist."
Paul did design for Maura's firm. Some animation websites also featured his cartoons. I'd met him in midtown once, when I picked up Maura for her birthday dinner. He seemed pleasant, if not a little bland, a tan, lanky guy who wore expensive vintage clothing. I'd kept waiting for Maura to tell me he was gay-she'd declared herself a devoted fag hag when we started dating, said it might even interfere with her quest for heterosexual companionship-but she'd never said anything about Paul's preference. I knew better than to ask.
"Right," I said. "Paul from work."
"Paul is going to make me a whole little movie of superheroes. On his computer. That's what Mommy said. Are you a pansy, Daddy?"
"Wait," I said. "Did Mommy say 'depressive,' or 'pansy'?"
"What's a pansy?"
"It's a flower, Bernie."
"I love flowers. I pick them for Mommy but she gets mad because other people need to enjoy them."
"That's right. Mommy's right."
"You're a nice pansy, Daddy."
"Thank you, Bernie."
"You're welcome."
Most nights after dinner Bernie and I retired to his room to play guys. We'd each grip one of his grotesquely proportioned action mutants, bash them together, growl.
"I will defeat you and meal you, Wolfsquid, Scourge of Decency," I might say.
But now Bernie appeared at the threshold of a new phase. The last time I had offered up my services, he shrugged.
"I just want to go to my room and unwind," he said.
Later I went in to tell him a story. He'd become critical of the saccharine bent of my bedtime sagas.
"Don't forget the evil," he said now.
I worked up some woods for him, some trolls, some berry-picking children. I put the evil in there. Finally a hippo ex machina rescued the children from the castle of the Lanky Animator.
Soon Bernie was asleep, or down, in the parlance of our suffering set.
We cooked pork chops from the corner butcher. Maura patted the meat with a Cajun rub. I made the salad, stirred in the vinaigrette. This was our time. The sacred hour of our sacred institution. I sipped some sour Malbec Maura had brought home from an office party and decided not to prod about Paul, instead told Maura about Nick's offer, if only for the chance to launch some jokes at the giant's expense, get my girl to cackle again.
"Maybe you should do it," said Maura.
"Are you serious?"
"Well, this Purdy thing can't take up all of your time. Seems like you're just waiting around for the next meeting."
"He's been out of town."
"Okay, so, maybe you can try doing the deck. You might enjoy the exercise."
"If I can handle it. Could kill me."
"If Nick can do it, you can do it. That guy's not exactly fit."
"Maybe I will," I said, and maybe meant it. A day in the sun, some hard-earned under-the-table cash, it sounded promising. I'd once been a painter, after all, a fellow who worked with his hands. Now I could be a carpenter, like Jesus. I felt flushed with the idea of Jesus, the Jewish craftsman Jesus, and also the shit wine.
"To decks," I said, raised my glass. "Decks are America. The hidden platform where the patriarchy is reasserted."
"What are you talking about?" said Maura, who knew what I was talking about, had dabbled with perhaps a bit more coherence in the same college theory I had, but probably wanted me to focus on how I salted the salad.
"I'm talking about our homeland, honey," I said, poured more wine, gulped it, flusher now, warm with that feeling of wanting a feeling that maybe had already fled. Where had the feeling gone? It wasn't in the wine. It wasn't in the pork chops Maura tonged from the broiler.
"America," I said, "that run-down demented old pimp. Can't keep his bitches in line. No juice. He's lost his diamond fangs, drinks Tango from a paper bag. A gummy coot in the pool hall. The wolves, those juveniles, they taunt him."
"Gummy coot?"
"Whatever," I said. "You get the point."
"Not really," says Maura. "It's retarded."
"Retarded ha-ha or retarded peculiar?"
"Wait. Be quiet."
We froze, listened for sounds from Bernie's room.
"I thought I heard him," said Maura. "Sometimes I'll be at work, in a meeting or something, and I'll think I hear him crying. It's weird. He's been sleeping through the night for a year but I still… Anyway, what were you saying? America is an alcoholic pimp?"
"You used to love my raps. My riffs. I thought that's why you married me."
Had she caught the edge of true panic beneath the joke panic? Did she know it was Horace's riff? You really had to hustle to recruit the right people to prop up your delusions, but the moment somebody broke ranks, or just broke for a protein shake, the whole deal teetered.
"I know it wasn't my soap opera looks," I said. "I thought you loved the way my mind worked. Its strange loops. My sense of humor."