Page 143 of Life Out of Order

“You are sad?” he asks afterward. We are side by side, naked and slick, my hand on his belly, his hand over mine.

“A little sad. But not about you.”

He turns his face to mine. “Will you think always of him when you are with me?”

“I don’t know. Probably less and less, over time. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be obvious about it.”

“Will you think of me when he fucks you?”

“Where did you get that word? Yes. I will.”

“Good,” Oliver says. “Then things will be even.”

“That’s a funny way to think of it,” I say.

“What else can I do?” Oliver asks.

“I don’t know,” I say. “Every time I think I have a choice, it turns out I’ve already made it.”

“I’m sorry, Alba.”

“Don’t be, Oliver. I love you.”

“I love you, Alba.”

We watch the sunset from bed. In the middle of the night, I wake up in a panic, not sure where I am, and in my fright I wake Oliver. “Are you hungry?” he asks, once we have both calmed down.

“Yes. Let’s just get up.”

Down in the kitchen, the noisy little electric clock says 3:35. I managed to get to the grocery store yesterday, so we have eggs, bread, coffee. I make French toast, I grind the coffee and go through the ritual of making espresso. Oliver comes into the kitchen wearing his big blue terry cloth bathrobe. He looks bleary. He stands by the stove, watching the espresso maker spurt. “I think I might have a cold.”

“We have orange juice.”

“Do we?” Oliver loves oranges. Are they extinct in his time? He takes a pint glass from the cabinet and I pour half the container of juice into it. He takes several careful sips. “Oh, that is nice. Oh, you are a good woman.” I laugh. He sits at the table, and I put coffee and French toast in front of him. He pours the maple syrup slowly, not wasting a drop. I never think about scarcity as much as I do when I’m watching Oliver eat and drink. Perhaps that’s the problem, right there.

It’s still dark outside, but a cool breeze comes through the kitchen window, smelling of rain. I get up to carry my dishes to the sink, and when I come back to the table, Oliver reaches out and guides me toward him, wraps his arms around my hips, and presses his face into my belly. “Again?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

We go back to bed.

Much later, the sun is up and we start the day again. Oliver stretches out on the sofa, nursing another, smaller glass of orange juice. I sit at the piano, noodling. Oliver says, “This is a perfect day. Have sex with you, and drink orange juice.” I play the opening chords of Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day,” then turn to Oliver; I didn’t think he’d recognize it, and he doesn’t. I begin again, and sing. When I come to the chorus, I repeat it, to get him to sing with me. But some of the lyrics are too close to home. At the end, Lou sings, You’re going to reap just what you sow, over and over . . . I stop singing, and just play. Outside, the rain intensifies, and we jump up to close all the windows. No point in worrying about all the tomorrows. Today is a perfect day.

Tattoo

Saturday, December 29, 1979 (Alba is 74, Oliver is 17)

Alba: I’ve been shoveling snow off the walks of the Yellow House and watching a gorgeous purple-and-magenta sunset. I am soaking my feet in the bathtub when I hear someone come in the back door. My heart pounds, it always does, even after all these years. I hear Oliver shouting my name and I know he’ll be very young—he used to bellow like that at first and then he quieted down. “I’m up here,” I call back, though my voice croaks from two days of silence. I’m happy to have company.

He runs up the stairs and stops at the bathroom door. I say, “Come in, I’m decent.” I am, too; I’m wearing one of his shirts. “I’m not,” Oliver says. He opens the door a little and peeks at me. His smile dies. I can tell he’s disappointed to see me so old. He doesn’t come in. “Give me a hand,” I say.

“One moment,” Oliver says. He returns wearing his bathrobe. I wink at him and he blushes.

He seats himself cautiously on the closed toilet seat and offers me his huge right hand. I grasp his arm just above the wrist and swivel myself carefully, each leg dripping over the side of the tub. I’ve always especially liked this bathtub; it is extra large and deep. It might be my favorite thing about the Yellow House. “I’ve been out shoveling snow,” I tell him. “I got tired of ignoring it.”

Oliver says, “I can do it for you.”

“But then I wouldn’t have gotten any exercise,” I say. “Will you dry my feet?”