But this is exactly what Penelope wanted to do: enjoy a pure encounter with Arthur’s book. To be told nothing about it, and on the day of its release buy a copy in the bookstore, spend all day reading it, and return through the apartment door so he could have the satisfaction of seeing her reaction — helping him to close that circuit. Audience. Artist. Art.
It occurs to me that Will’s absence from these get-togethers may seem like a writerly convenience. The truth is, though, the only memorable conversations I had with them, as a couple and individually, were those that happened in Will’s absence — indeed, were only possible through Will’s absence. There were any number of other occasions when I might encounter Will and his mother in the hall or the three of them in the elevator, and I would hear how they were off to see Star Wars: Episode One for the third time or were just coming back from Leandra Williams’s birthday party. Will would be the focus of these encounters — children, I’ve noticed, become the center of gravity in a room — talking rapidly about something hilarious Tyler said at the party or demonstrating the proper way to avoid the jaws of a T. rex. It wasn’t that Will was especially precocious or that what he was saying was especially interesting; it was just that he was the one with the most energy and with it he commanded the most attention. It was like this on the few occasions I knocked unannounced, to encounter the three of them preparing for a typical evening in: Will on the floor staring up at the television, Arthur at the table trying to concentrate on a stack of papers and Penelope picking up stray clothes and toys around the apartment and yelling at Will to turn it down! Even with Will occupied, it was hard to keep the thread of a conversation going, as our attention would gravitate to what he was watching. When Will wasn’t at the television, he wanted to be a part of our talk, and soon enough we would find ourselves learning about something hilarious Tyler had said about Mr. Boinkman today or the absolutely true story he’d heard about the vampire living in the school basement.
And it’s not that I don’t like kids. It’s that they make me nervous. They’re unpredictable. Their problem with personal space is no different than that of a crazy homeless person’s. One minute they’re saying you remind them of creepy Freddy Krueger and the next they’re trying to shimmy your torso for a piggyback ride. Other people don’t have this problem. Dave, for instance. He had a rapport with Will, which began, I suppose, that night on the roof. Will would show up randomly, without notice, to discuss movies or video games, and Dave would let him in, offer him a soda, as though he were Seinfeld and Will were Kramer.
“The kid’s got pretty sophisticated taste for an eleven-year-old. His favorite movie? Reservoir Dogs. He says Pulp Fiction is too stylized for his tastes. He used that word: ‘stylized.’ I asked him, ‘So your parents let you watch movies like that?’ I mean, this is pretty violent stuff. And he’s like, ‘I get to make my own decisions.’ He’s a funny kid.”
Will would appear while the three of us were working in the editing suite and plop right down on the couch next to us. Suriyaarachchi didn’t seem to mind. He liked Will too. Will would be in his costume, black suit and tie with a badge that read FBI. Orange gun in one hand and a large policeman’s flashlight in the other. “Trick or treat,” he said the first time I encountered him at the door.
“Who are you supposed to be?”
“Special Agent Fox Mulder, he said, shining the flashlight in my face.
“You look like a Jehovah’s Witness.”
“Jehovah? He’s under federal protection because he knows too much.”
“You’re lucky I’m not a truant officer. Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“Half day. I’m looking for Agent Suriyaarachchi and Agent Dave. They around?”
Dave told me that Penelope would occasionally call on him to babysit last-minute, which entailed getting twenty bucks to have Will come over to do what he normally did. Dave used the money for takeout, which the two of them would eat while blasting the limbs off of zombie hordes.
Will took after his mother, slightly plump with thick black hair and the delicate lashes of a pretty girl. He liked to eat and often came prepared with a knapsack of Tupperwared food Penelope had packed for him.
Will said to me one day, quite out of the blue, “Mom and Art are fighting a lot.” I was looking through the sublet listings in the Voice. Dave and Suriyaarachchi had gone out to the post office. Will had come in during their absence and asked if it would be okay if he played a video game. It had been intended as a rhetorical question — he was already kneeling in front of the console — but I said that he would have to ask Dave’s permission when he got back from his errand.
“When will he be back?” Will was used to being adored by adults, but I had made it clear I was immune to his charms. He would often find himself blinking at me, unsure of how to proceed. I had hoped my answer would discourage him from sticking around, but instead he took a seat next to me and picked up the entertainment circular of the paper and held it out in front of him, as if to read. Cute. I resumed my task of starring any long-term sublets within my budget — there weren’t many — when Will said what he said about Penelope and Arthur fighting. I waited for him to go on, bracing myself for a discussion about how he shouldn’t worry, sometimes parents fight but it doesn’t mean that, et cetera.
Will said, “Mostly it’s Mom who does the yelling. Art listens. I think it’s because she loves him more than he loves her.”
“What makes you say that?”
Stray hair floated up off his head from the static of the hat he’d just removed. A crust of mucus ringed his left nostril. He set down the paper and opened his knapsack, removing a round bin that contained apple slices, a little browned. “I’ve always thought that. She does the hugging and the kissing. He accepts it. It’s not like he doesn’t like it. He’s like me that way. And I don’t hear them doing it anymore, which is another thing. Not since we moved here.”
“You know what ‘doing it’ sounds like?”
He rolled his eyes and popped an apple slice into his mouth.
“What kind of son are you, who doesn’t hug his mother?”
“I hug her. Of course I hug her. But sometimes I need to play it cool.”
Suriyaarachchi and Dave returned. “Will, my man,” Dave said. “Let me score some of that apple. I’m surprised to see you just sitting there. Thought for sure I’d find you warming up the PlayStation for me.”
Will looked over at me as if to say, See?
After dropping Will off at school, Penelope stops in at Barnes & Noble to pick up a copy of Arthur’s new book. Crinkly green bag in hand, she heads up and east along Sixty-Sixth Street, into Central Park. She’d planned to find a quiet spot under a tree, but the benches are wet from the overnight rain. Somewhat at a loss, she wanders around and ends up ordering a pretzel from a vendor cart even though it isn’t yet ten in the morning. It’s an autumn smell, it beckons her, but the pretzel leaves a pasty taste in her mouth with overtones of ashtray and makes her instantly sleepy. She finds a line of dry benches under an eve, above and behind the old proscenium band shell around which people Rollerblade to music on their headphones in bright colored spandex. There is the distant treble of a faraway boom box. She sits and shrugs off her coat, humming a tune that takes her a moment to realize is the song on the boom box. She slips the book from its bag and cracks it open, giving it an involuntary sniff before turning to the first page.