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. Mmmmorning, Alba says. It s not really morning, I tell her. It s really still nighttime. How come you guys are up if it s nighttime? Alba sniffs. You re making coffee, so it s morning. Oh, it s the old coffee-equals-morning fallacy, Henry says. There s a hole in your logic, buddy. What? Alba asks.She hates to be wrong about anything. You are basing your conclusion on faulty data; that is, you are forgetting that your parents are coffeefiends of the first order, and that we just might have gotten out of bed in the middle of the night in order todrink MORE COFFEE. He s roaring like a monster, maybe a Coffee Fiend. I want coffee, says Alba. I am a Coffee Fiend. She roars back at Henry.But he scoops her off ofhim and plops her down on her feet.Alba runs around the table to me and throws her arms around myshoulders. Roar! she yells in my ear.I get up and pick Alba up.She s so heavy now. Roar, yourself. I carry her down the hall and throwher onto her bed, and she shrieks with laughter.The clock on her nightstand says 4:16 a.m. See? Ishow her. It s too early for you to get up. After the obligatory amount of fuss Alba settles back intobed, and I walk back to the kitchen.Henry has managed to pour us both coffee.I sit down again.It scold in here. Clare. Mmm? When I m dead Henry stops, looks away, takes a breath, begins again. I ve been gettingeverything organized, all the documents, you know, my will, and letters to people, and stuff for Alba, it sall in my desk. I can t say anything.Henry looks at me. When? I ask.Henry shakes his head. Months? Weeks? Days? I don t know, Clare. He does know, I know he knows. You looked up the obituary, didn t you? I say.Henry hesitates, and then nods.I open my mouth toask again, and then I am afraid.HOURS, IF NOT DAYS Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlFriday, December 24, 2006 (Henry is 43, Clare is 35)Henry:I wake up early, so early that the bedroom is blue in the almost-dawn light.I lie in bed, listening toClare s deep breathing, listening to the sporadic noise of traffic on Lincoln Avenue, crows calling to eachother, the furnace shutting off.My legs ache.I prop myself up on my pillows and find the bottle ofVicodin on my bedside table.I take two, wash them down with flat Coke.I slide back into the blankets and turn onto my side.Clare is sleeping face down, with her arms wrappedprotectively around her head.Her hair is hidden under the covers.Clare seems smaller without herambiance of hair.She reminds me of herself as a child, sleeping with the simplicity she had when she waslittle.I try to remember if I have ever seen Clare as a child, sleeping.I realize that I never have.It s Albathat I am thinking of.The light is changing.Clare stirs, turns toward me, onto her side.I study her face.There are a few faint lines, at the corners of her eyes and mouth, that are the merest suggestion of thebeginnings of Clare s face in middle age.I will never see that face of hers, and I regret it bitterly, the facewith which Clare will go on without me, which will never be kissed by me, which will belong to a worldthat I won t know, except as a memory of Clare s, relegated finally to a definite past.Today is the thirty-seventh anniversary of my mother s death.I have thought of her, longed for her,every day of those thirty-seven years, and my father has, I think, thought of her almost without stopping.If fervent memory could raise the dead, she would be our Eurydice, she would rise like Lady Lazarusfrom her stubborn death to solace us.But all of our laments could not add a single second to her life, notone additional beat of the heart, nor a breath.The only thing my need could do was bring me to her.What will Clare have when I am gone? How can I leave her?I hear Alba talking in her bed. Hey, says Alba. Hey, Teddy! Shh, go to sleep now. Silence. Daddy? I watch Clare, to see if she will wake up.She is still, asleep. Daddy! I gingerly turn, carefullyextricate myself from the blankets, maneuver myself to the floor.I crawl out of our bedroom, down thehall and into Alba s room.She giggles when she sees me.I make a growling noise, and Alba pats myhead as though I am a dog.She is sitting up in bed, in the midst of every stuffed animal she has. Moveover, Red Riding Hood. Alba scoots aside and I lift myself onto the bed.She fussily arranges some ofthe toys around me.I put my arm around her and lean back and she holds out Blue Teddy to me. Hewants to eat marshmallows. It s a little early for marshmallows, Blue Teddy.How about some poached eggs and toast? Alba makes a face.She does it by squinching together her mouth and eyebrows and nose. Teddydoesn t like eggs, she announces. Shhhh.Mama s sleeping. Okay Alba whispers, loudly. Teddy wants blue Jell-O. I hear Clare groan and start to get up in theother room. Cream of Wheat? I cajole.Alba considers. With brown sugar? Okay. You want to make it? I slide off the bed. Yeah.Can I have a ride? Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlI hesitate.My legs really hurt, and Alba has gotten a little too big to do this painlessly, but I can deny hernothing now. Sure.Hop on. I am on my hands and knees.Alba climbs onto my back, and we makeour way into the kitchen.Clare is standing sleepily by the sink, watching coffee drip into the pot.Iclamber up to her and butt my head against her knees and she grabs Alba s arms and hoists her up, Albagiggling madly all the while.I crawl into my chair.Clare smiles and says, What s for breakfast, cooks? Jell-O! Alba shrieks. Mmm.What kind of Jell-O? Cornflake Jell-O? Nooooo! Bacon Jell-O? Ick! Alba wraps herself around Clare, pulls on her hair. Ouch.Don t, sweetie.Well, it must be oatmeal Jell-O, then. Cream of Wheat! Cream of Wheat Jell-O, yum [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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. Mmmmorning, Alba says. It s not really morning, I tell her. It s really still nighttime. How come you guys are up if it s nighttime? Alba sniffs. You re making coffee, so it s morning. Oh, it s the old coffee-equals-morning fallacy, Henry says. There s a hole in your logic, buddy. What? Alba asks.She hates to be wrong about anything. You are basing your conclusion on faulty data; that is, you are forgetting that your parents are coffeefiends of the first order, and that we just might have gotten out of bed in the middle of the night in order todrink MORE COFFEE. He s roaring like a monster, maybe a Coffee Fiend. I want coffee, says Alba. I am a Coffee Fiend. She roars back at Henry.But he scoops her off ofhim and plops her down on her feet.Alba runs around the table to me and throws her arms around myshoulders. Roar! she yells in my ear.I get up and pick Alba up.She s so heavy now. Roar, yourself. I carry her down the hall and throwher onto her bed, and she shrieks with laughter.The clock on her nightstand says 4:16 a.m. See? Ishow her. It s too early for you to get up. After the obligatory amount of fuss Alba settles back intobed, and I walk back to the kitchen.Henry has managed to pour us both coffee.I sit down again.It scold in here. Clare. Mmm? When I m dead Henry stops, looks away, takes a breath, begins again. I ve been gettingeverything organized, all the documents, you know, my will, and letters to people, and stuff for Alba, it sall in my desk. I can t say anything.Henry looks at me. When? I ask.Henry shakes his head. Months? Weeks? Days? I don t know, Clare. He does know, I know he knows. You looked up the obituary, didn t you? I say.Henry hesitates, and then nods.I open my mouth toask again, and then I am afraid.HOURS, IF NOT DAYS Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlFriday, December 24, 2006 (Henry is 43, Clare is 35)Henry:I wake up early, so early that the bedroom is blue in the almost-dawn light.I lie in bed, listening toClare s deep breathing, listening to the sporadic noise of traffic on Lincoln Avenue, crows calling to eachother, the furnace shutting off.My legs ache.I prop myself up on my pillows and find the bottle ofVicodin on my bedside table.I take two, wash them down with flat Coke.I slide back into the blankets and turn onto my side.Clare is sleeping face down, with her arms wrappedprotectively around her head.Her hair is hidden under the covers.Clare seems smaller without herambiance of hair.She reminds me of herself as a child, sleeping with the simplicity she had when she waslittle.I try to remember if I have ever seen Clare as a child, sleeping.I realize that I never have.It s Albathat I am thinking of.The light is changing.Clare stirs, turns toward me, onto her side.I study her face.There are a few faint lines, at the corners of her eyes and mouth, that are the merest suggestion of thebeginnings of Clare s face in middle age.I will never see that face of hers, and I regret it bitterly, the facewith which Clare will go on without me, which will never be kissed by me, which will belong to a worldthat I won t know, except as a memory of Clare s, relegated finally to a definite past.Today is the thirty-seventh anniversary of my mother s death.I have thought of her, longed for her,every day of those thirty-seven years, and my father has, I think, thought of her almost without stopping.If fervent memory could raise the dead, she would be our Eurydice, she would rise like Lady Lazarusfrom her stubborn death to solace us.But all of our laments could not add a single second to her life, notone additional beat of the heart, nor a breath.The only thing my need could do was bring me to her.What will Clare have when I am gone? How can I leave her?I hear Alba talking in her bed. Hey, says Alba. Hey, Teddy! Shh, go to sleep now. Silence. Daddy? I watch Clare, to see if she will wake up.She is still, asleep. Daddy! I gingerly turn, carefullyextricate myself from the blankets, maneuver myself to the floor.I crawl out of our bedroom, down thehall and into Alba s room.She giggles when she sees me.I make a growling noise, and Alba pats myhead as though I am a dog.She is sitting up in bed, in the midst of every stuffed animal she has. Moveover, Red Riding Hood. Alba scoots aside and I lift myself onto the bed.She fussily arranges some ofthe toys around me.I put my arm around her and lean back and she holds out Blue Teddy to me. Hewants to eat marshmallows. It s a little early for marshmallows, Blue Teddy.How about some poached eggs and toast? Alba makes a face.She does it by squinching together her mouth and eyebrows and nose. Teddydoesn t like eggs, she announces. Shhhh.Mama s sleeping. Okay Alba whispers, loudly. Teddy wants blue Jell-O. I hear Clare groan and start to get up in theother room. Cream of Wheat? I cajole.Alba considers. With brown sugar? Okay. You want to make it? I slide off the bed. Yeah.Can I have a ride? Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.htmlI hesitate.My legs really hurt, and Alba has gotten a little too big to do this painlessly, but I can deny hernothing now. Sure.Hop on. I am on my hands and knees.Alba climbs onto my back, and we makeour way into the kitchen.Clare is standing sleepily by the sink, watching coffee drip into the pot.Iclamber up to her and butt my head against her knees and she grabs Alba s arms and hoists her up, Albagiggling madly all the while.I crawl into my chair.Clare smiles and says, What s for breakfast, cooks? Jell-O! Alba shrieks. Mmm.What kind of Jell-O? Cornflake Jell-O? Nooooo! Bacon Jell-O? Ick! Alba wraps herself around Clare, pulls on her hair. Ouch.Don t, sweetie.Well, it must be oatmeal Jell-O, then. Cream of Wheat! Cream of Wheat Jell-O, yum [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]