Three
Home, hidden by the refrigerator, I hovered over the garbage bin, gulped down a bottle of Vitamin Drink. We still dreaded the day that little Bernie, asquat now on the kitchen floor spooning oatmeal into the body cavity of a decapitated superhero, might spot this iridescent liquid, demand a sip. Vitamin Drink may or may not have contained vitamins, but it was too polluted for the tykes. They needed wholesome nectars humped back from the wholesome food empires in Manhattan. This sugary shit was for the dying. I was dying, surely, sugary-ly.
I made to speak before I did.
"A call. A message. From work."
"What?" said Maura. "Work? What work?"
Maura sat on a stool, fresh from the shower and still unclothed, pecked at her laptop.
She had been raised in one of those happy, naked families from Vermont. I looked at her body now, remembered Bernie's weaning, that era of inconsolable sobs and farewell fondles. Maura's breasts, large and milk white when they'd been full of milk, had darkened, pancaked a bit, but they were still beautiful, and I was not just saying that, or thinking of saying that, to be kind.
"Wait," said Maura, "what?"
It was her I'm-downloading-a-crucial-file-from-the-office tone.
"A call from work on my voice mail," I said. "From old work. Vargina and Llewellyn. They want me to come in."
"Why would they want that?"
"I don't know."
"Wasn't firing you enough? Is this a legal thing? Do you need a lawyer?"
"I said I don't know."
I leaned out from my trash niche. Bernie pointed at the bottle in my hand.
"Daddy, what are you drinking?"
"Coffee, Bern. Why, do you think I need a lawyer?"
"Do lawyers have foreskins?" said Bernie.
"I'm talking to Mommy," I said.
"I have a foreskin."
"I know, Bernie."
"You don't."
"True," I said, opened the refrigerator door, sneaked the bottle back into the door rack.
"How come I have a foreskin, Daddy?"
"We've talked about this, don't you remember? Your mother and I decided that-"
"Hey, that's juice. I want some, Daddy! I want some juice!"
"Shit," I said. "Sorry. Bernie, it's not juice. It's for grown-ups. It's like coffee."
"You said it was coffee."
"That's right."
"But it's pink!"
"It's pink coffee, Bernie. It's what I drink. It's what grownups drink."
"Do superheroes have foreskins? Like my guy?"
He held up his headless hero.
"Yes. No. I don't know. Probably. So, who would I call, Maura? They want me tomorrow."
"Do they, Daddy?"
"I don't know, Bernie. It's possible."
"Do foreskins help you fly?"
"Maybe," I said.
"All I'm saying," said Maura, "is you don't have to play it their way. That's all you've ever done."
"Excuse me?" I said.
"Give me some juice!" Bernie called again. "I want it!"
"Ask nicely."
"Please."
"But it's not for kids, Bernie."
"Don't confuse him like that," said Maura. "Daddy's going to give Bernie some pink coffee juice that's not really coffee. Would Bernie like Daddy to give Bernie some pink coffee juice that's not really coffee? Daddy, would you please give Bernie some pink coffee juice that's not really coffee?"
"Fine!" I said.
"Fine!" said Bernie.
He flicked his guy and a cold gob of oatmeal slapped my cheek. I could see this was the beginning of something. Like sudden sympathy for Goliath. What was the phrase? Tell it not in Gath? How about we start telling it?
"What?" said Maura.
"Was I mumbling again?"
"Who's Goliath?" said Bernie. "A superhero? Is he a bad guy? A masher?"
"He's a masher, for sure," I said. "Whether he's a bad guy depends on your politics."
"What's politics?"
"Well, let me see. It's-"
"Does Goliath have a foreskin?"
"Not for long. Not when David's done with him."
"Who's David?"
"A foreskin collector."
"What are you telling him!" said Maura.
"Nothing," I said. "He should know about the Bible. He lives in a fucking theocracy."
"Jesus, language, Milo."
"Daddy! Juice!"
"Okay, Bern, but first, how about some water?"
I filled a cup from the tap. Bernie batted it away, lunged toward the refrigerator.
"Give me pink coffee juice, Daddy!"
"Okay," I said. "Okay."
I dumped out the tap water, took the Vitamin Drink from the refrigerator. Back turned, I mimed a long pour, added a drop for color, refilled the cup from the tap.
Bernie stared up at me.
"Let go, Dad," the boy seemed to be saying, but his beautiful mouth wasn't moving.
Later, in bed, Maura and I cuddled in the way of a couple about to not have sex. It never appeared to bother us much, unless we watched one of those cable dramas about a sexless marriage. Then we'd curse the inanity of the show, its implausibility, switch over to something where the human wreckage was too crass and tan to touch us.
"I still don't understand why they want to meet with you," said Maura.
"I don't, either. Maybe they realized they forgot to take the shirt off my back."
"It's not funny. That girl's father. I don't know."
"What more can they do to me?"
"Oh, I'm sure there are all sorts of things we'd never even think of."
"That's very calming. Thank you."
"I'm just saying. You never learned to protect yourself. You always rail against the evil and exploitation in the world but you still act as though everybody has your best interests at heart. I never got it. You're like an idiot savant without the savant part."
"I still have faith in the basic goodness of humanity. Shoot me."
"Don't be so sure that's not the plan."
Vargina had reserved the conference room. A tray of turkey wraps sat near the edge of the table. They looked like university wraps, from the cafeteria downstairs, not the deli across the street. They had no avocado.
Llewellyn and Vargina sat across the table. We took turns popping the tops of our sodas, listened to the sounds reverberate in the wood-paneled room. The word "reverberate" reverberated in my mind, which I could now picture as a wood-paneled room.
"It's nice to see you again," said Vargina.
"Hear, hear," said Llewellyn. "So, hoss, what have you been doing to yourself?"
"Excuse me?"
"Just shitting you," said Llewellyn. "Seriously, how's it going?"
"I didn't see Horace when I walked in," I said to Vargina.
"He's at a lunch."
"A lunch?"
"He's working on an ask."
"Horace? He's a temp."
"No longer," said Llewellyn. "He's looking like a little earner."
"Very exciting possibility, Horace's ask," said Vargina. "Very worthy. The lady is a major admirer of our dance program."
"Where's the money from?"
"Her husband's company. Private security. Military catering."
"Blood sausage, anyone?" I said.
"Oh, please," said Llewellyn. "We can't wash the bad off anybody's money, now, can we? But we can make something good out of all the misery. That's what you never understood."
"I understood it. I'm just not sure I believed it."
"Oh, some kind of martyr now, are you?"
"A martyr has to give a shit."
"Get over yourself, Milo. You're a sad man. A born wanker. You were born into the House of Wanker. You're a berk, and you probably think I'm just saying your last name."
Llewellyn's Cambridge year was the stuff of office legend, thanks to Llewellyn, but I'd always suspected he lifted most of his lingo from the British editions of American men's magazines.
"Wanker," I said. "Don't know that word. Is that a Southern thing? What is that, Richmond? Newport News? Is that like peanuts in your Coke?"
"You have a provincial mind, hucklebuck."
"Pardon?"
"It's a global globe now," said Llewellyn. "We sink or swim together."
"It's a global globe?"