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Wabi |
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MITCH BERMAN |
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"Thank you, son," said his father, pulling up the purple chair. "Isn’t your girlfriend here tonight?" "Melissa," said Billy. Marking his place with a thumb, he flipped pages until he came to the heading M, and ran his finger down the side. "Melissa," he said again. "Melissa," his father agreed. "What day is it?" Billy asked. "Wednesday," said his father. "Every night except Monday," Billy read slowly, "Melissa works at Club 666, where they have live rock music and serve alco — alcoholic bev — bever — " "Beverages," said his father. "You’ve been there?" Billy asked. "Billy ... " said
his father. "I would have come sooner, but I had to go to "I’m not sure," said Billy. "They say my memory is messed up, but I can’t tell — I can’t remember anything to compare it with." "I wish somebody would wipe out my memory," Billy’s father said quietly. "Then I’d know myself only as a woman." "That’s how I look at you," said Billy. Billy’s father rose halfway out of his chair and kissed Billy on the cheek and forehead. "Thank you. God! Thank you for that." He was clenching Billy so tightly that the bed creaked with his sobs. "You’re crying, Dad," said Billy. "That’s nothing new for me," said his father, subsiding into the chair and dabbing at his eyes with the napkin from Billy’s dinner. "I just used to hide it from you." "Your chest feels kind of funny," Billy said. "Saline implants," said Billy’s father. "They make an incision beneath the armpit" — he traced it with a French-manicured fingernail — "and then they slip a kind of water-balloon into the subcutaneous envelope over the pectoralis muscle." Billy was looking at the remains of his dinner, the picture that fluttered silently across the television screen, the painting of a sad clown on the wall. Finally he reached over to the nightstand and lifted the lid from the box of See’s chocolates. "Do you want a — ? Would you like one of these?" "Oh, no thank you, son," said his father. Billy picked up the remote control and turned the television off. "What about your job?" "I quit," said his father. "I’m temping." Billy pushed the heels of his hands against the edge of the table and his fingers groped the air. "What did they — what did they do with — " |
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