propped on his elbow. His loins were pale, but his chest and arms were still tanned from the summer. By midwinter all his skin would be pale, with blue veins strongly showing raised in his sinewy arms.
“Wonderful, Leigh. It’s beautiful to be with you!” Because it was. She did not like to lie to him, ever, but he would not understand her pleasure. She had a dressing gown she loved, a chinoiserie kimono that took up little space in the pack and looked just as good wrinkled as not. Putting it on now she faced him, sitting cross-legged on the bed. He wore a navy velour bathrobe, the sort of thing his mother got him on his birthday every other year. “How’s Natalie?” she asked.
”Two weeks ago I had dinner out there. Daniel’s getting to be a first-class bastard. We got into a fight about municipal unions. Then he and Natalie tussled over picketing dirty movies. It was a great evening. Natalie’s for wiping out porn these days—sounds like the Legion of Decency”‘
“What’s she doing lately? Are things still the same with her and Daniel?”
“They seem to jog along from year to year, regardless. Oh, Peezie’s taken up running. She’s a jock—every morning at six thirty she’s out doing three miles. And Sam’s got a Puerto Rican girlfriend they are determinedly accepting.”
“Well, why not? Is she pretty?”
“If you like giggling twelve-year-old jailbait. They talk Spanish together, which drives Daniel secretly crazy. He can’t stand not knowing what they’re saying, and he can’t admit, the big Cuban expert on the basis of a ten-day trip, that he can’t speak Spanish well enough to follow them. Listen, Sam’s going to be a real linguist. That kid’s okay, you know that? I been taking him along on my Bronx excursions. The Ricans dig the way he talks the lingo now. He’s my interpreter. Peezie’s in her ugh-ugh phase. All she does is grunt, act macho and stumble around like a ten-year-old dyke. Never mind! Don’t jump me. Natalie gets mad enough for two.”
“And how’s Fanon?”
“He’s called Franky now. He’s too young to tell yet. All, I want it, I want it, I saw it on the TV. Overweight whining brat.”
Fanon was the least real of Natalie’s children to Vida. She had waited in the hospital during Sam’s birth to see him first in the vivid rainbow colors of the newborn. She had toted Peezie around in a pack on her back in Central Park. Both of them she had fed with a spoon, screamed at, kissed and cuddled. Fanon had been born after she had gone underground, and she had seen him only once when he was too young to understand what was going on. Only Sam as the oldest was able to keep up his connection with her.
“Picnic time,” Leigh said, bringing out black bread that they used to get Saturdays in the bakery at 101st. The loaf was huge and round, and he had bought a wedge of it. Along with the bread he unpacked a can of good French pâté, a wedge of Port-Salut, and a Camembert. “Your favorite and, I trust, ripe enough.”
“It seems great. Oh, when did I have Camembert?”
“We can have some more sherry tomorrow. I have a nice wine here. A Sutter Home zinfandel, a ‘74, Amador County. Give me your glass and I’ll rinse it out.”
Her tongue was going crazy. Her tongue was fattening on sensations. She had a sense of slippage with Leigh, that now she and her husband belonged to different social classes. He had become more affluent in recent years. He was doing well with the station, he wrote regularly for left and liberal periodicals, and once in a while he did an article for a slick at a good fee. He did some paid television as an expert on one social problem or another—panel shows, talk shows. She was not sure exactly what he was making, but it circled around twenty thousand, she guessed. She lived so marginally, she was not sure whether she spent four thousand in a year. What money she had was in her wallet—less than fifteen dollars. Her possessions were
“Wonderful, Leigh. It’s beautiful to be with you!” Because it was. She did not like to lie to him, ever, but he would not understand her pleasure. She had a dressing gown she loved, a chinoiserie kimono that took up little space in the pack and looked just as good wrinkled as not. Putting it on now she faced him, sitting cross-legged on the bed. He wore a navy velour bathrobe, the sort of thing his mother got him on his birthday every other year. “How’s Natalie?” she asked.
”Two weeks ago I had dinner out there. Daniel’s getting to be a first-class bastard. We got into a fight about municipal unions. Then he and Natalie tussled over picketing dirty movies. It was a great evening. Natalie’s for wiping out porn these days—sounds like the Legion of Decency”‘
“What’s she doing lately? Are things still the same with her and Daniel?”
“They seem to jog along from year to year, regardless. Oh, Peezie’s taken up running. She’s a jock—every morning at six thirty she’s out doing three miles. And Sam’s got a Puerto Rican girlfriend they are determinedly accepting.”
“Well, why not? Is she pretty?”
“If you like giggling twelve-year-old jailbait. They talk Spanish together, which drives Daniel secretly crazy. He can’t stand not knowing what they’re saying, and he can’t admit, the big Cuban expert on the basis of a ten-day trip, that he can’t speak Spanish well enough to follow them. Listen, Sam’s going to be a real linguist. That kid’s okay, you know that? I been taking him along on my Bronx excursions. The Ricans dig the way he talks the lingo now. He’s my interpreter. Peezie’s in her ugh-ugh phase. All she does is grunt, act macho and stumble around like a ten-year-old dyke. Never mind! Don’t jump me. Natalie gets mad enough for two.”
“And how’s Fanon?”
“He’s called Franky now. He’s too young to tell yet. All, I want it, I want it, I saw it on the TV. Overweight whining brat.”
Fanon was the least real of Natalie’s children to Vida. She had waited in the hospital during Sam’s birth to see him first in the vivid rainbow colors of the newborn. She had toted Peezie around in a pack on her back in Central Park. Both of them she had fed with a spoon, screamed at, kissed and cuddled. Fanon had been born after she had gone underground, and she had seen him only once when he was too young to understand what was going on. Only Sam as the oldest was able to keep up his connection with her.
“Picnic time,” Leigh said, bringing out black bread that they used to get Saturdays in the bakery at 101st. The loaf was huge and round, and he had bought a wedge of it. Along with the bread he unpacked a can of good French pâté, a wedge of Port-Salut, and a Camembert. “Your favorite and, I trust, ripe enough.”
“It seems great. Oh, when did I have Camembert?”
“We can have some more sherry tomorrow. I have a nice wine here. A Sutter Home zinfandel, a ‘74, Amador County. Give me your glass and I’ll rinse it out.”
Her tongue was going crazy. Her tongue was fattening on sensations. She had a sense of slippage with Leigh, that now she and her husband belonged to different social classes. He had become more affluent in recent years. He was doing well with the station, he wrote regularly for left and liberal periodicals, and once in a while he did an article for a slick at a good fee. He did some paid television as an expert on one social problem or another—panel shows, talk shows. She was not sure exactly what he was making, but it circled around twenty thousand, she guessed. She lived so marginally, she was not sure whether she spent four thousand in a year. What money she had was in her wallet—less than fifteen dollars. Her possessions were
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