The Ask Read Free Page B

fabulous and secret universe of the mind.
    My phone pulsed again. There were two messages, one from a number I recognized: the Mediocre development suite. The other was a text from Maura: How’s the donut, Fat Heart? Find a job yet? Buy milk for Bern. Also p. towels .
    The bile was a good sign.
    It’s when they stop trying to destroy you, my mother once said, that you should really start to worry.

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?”