Jacob's Folly Read Free Page B

the mother. Deirdre was close to six feet tall, with a strong-boned face, shiny brown hair, and a heavy, tight-clad bust. Even her hands were large. As she scanned the many choices for canned beans and tomatoes, she had a dreamy, contemplative way of moving that hinted at an inner depth, some secret sadness; it touched him. She wore no ring.
    In the parking lot he noticed her again, her thick hair glinting as she and the boy with the crooked smile deftly, silently loaded the shopping bags into the trunk of a dented hatchback, parked a fateful two cars away from Leslie’s truck. The competent, self-contained way the two of them moved made him wonder if they had anyone to help at the other end. Once the boy was buckled into the backseat, Deirdre stopped and hesitated, one hand on the empty cart, looking around her.
    Leslie called out, “I’ll put that back for you.”
    She squinted over at him, confused. “What?”
    â€œI’ll put the cart back for you.”
    â€œOh. Thanks.” He walked over to her, embarrassed by her gaze. It felt like it was taking forever to reach her. Leslie was reminded of a useless explanation a teacher had given him, of infinity: when crossing a room, first you need to walk halfway across, then half of that half, then half of that half. So you traverse an infinite set of halves, never reaching your destination. But you did, Leslie remembered thinking, always get to the other side of a room. Reaching Deirdre at last, he took the cart from her and rolled it away a little so there was nothing between them.
    â€œI know, you want to do the right thing and put them back, but it’s a pain,” he said, gesturing vaguely with an enormous arm. She smiled. He flung out his hand as if reaching out to catch a falling glass. “Les Senzatimore,” he said.
    â€œThat’s a mouthful,” she said with a laugh, taking his hand. Hers was dry and strong, but still dwarfed by his mitt. “I’m Deirdre.”
    â€œNice to meet you,” he said. In the car, Bud swiveled around in his seat to spot his mother.
    â€œI need to get to work,” she said, hesitating for a split second and glancing, Leslie noticed, at his naked ring finger. “Thanks again.” Leslie felt an impulse to skip the introductory scenario, squeeze into the driver’s seat of her pathetic little car, and drive the three of them away. Neither of them moved. Sexual tension eddied into the ensuing pause like seawater filling a cleft in the sand.
    â€œMom?” Bud called, curious.
    â€œOkay hon,” Deirdre called lightly to the boy, taking a step.
    â€œWhere do you work?” asked Leslie. He didn’t want to lose her, but he couldn’t ask her out, not yet.
    â€œUm … Trumbull Interiors? On Main Street.”
    â€œI know it. I—I’ve actually been thinking of going in there.” Compulsively, Leslie’s tongue traced a cross along the roof of his mouth in penance for this slender lie.
    â€œOh, yeah?” Deirdre said, looking up at him skeptically, a hint of asmile on her face. There were little baby wrinkles around her amber eyes already. The suffering behind that cynical look of hers daunted him slightly. He felt she could see through him and beyond, far, far down. He wasn’t sure he was up to the challenge. Yet he continued.
    â€œI need to do something about my apartment,” he confided, picturing his randomly furnished rental, not a hint of love in the place. Just a few pressed-plywood chairs, a brown leatherette couch, a stereo, a TV: a place to hate yourself in. Suddenly, a pang of mourning for his dead father, something he hadn’t felt in years, ambushed him: tears sprang to his eyes. He rubbed them as if against the glare, took his sunglasses from where they hung on his T-shirt pocket, and put them on. Deirdre was dipped in sepia now, and lovely, filtered in this way; her high cheekbones and generous mouth, the