Andre Dubus: Selected Stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

children. Only their faces were hesitant. In his arms they squeezed, pressed, kissed. David’s hard arms absolved them both of Wednesday night. Through their hair Peter said pleasantly to Norma that he’d skip the coffee this time. Grabbing caps and unfurling coats, they left the house, holding hands to the car.
    He showed them his apartment: they had never showered behind glass; they slid the doors back and forth. Sand washing down the drain, their flesh sunburned, a watermelon waiting in the refrigerator …
    ‘This summer—’
    They turned from the glass, looked up at him.
    ‘When we go to the beach. We can come back here and shower.’
    Their faces reflected his bright promise, and they followed him to the kitchen; on the counter were two cans of kidney beans, Jalapeño peppers, seasonings. Norma kept her seasonings in small jars, and two years ago when David was six and came home bullied and afraid of next day at school, Peter asked him if the boy was bigger than he was, and when David said ‘A lot,’ and showed him the boy’s height with one hand, his breadth with two, Peter took the glass stopper from the cinnamon jar, tied it in a handkerchief corner, and struck his palm with it, so David would know how hard it was, would believe in it. Next morning David took it with him. On the schoolground, when the bully shoved him, he swung it up from his back pocket and down on the boy’s forehead. The boy cried and went away. After school David found him on the sidewalk and hit his jaw with the weapon he had sat on all day, chased him two blocks swinging at his head, and came home with delighted eyes, no damp traces of yesterday’s shame and fright, and Peter’s own pain and rage turned to pride, then caution, and he spoke gently, told David to carry it for a week or so more, but not to use it unless the bully attacked; told him we must control our pleasure in giving pain.
    Now reaching into the refrigerator he felt the children behind him; then he knew it was not them he felt, for in the bathroom when he spoke to their faces he had also felt a presence to his rear, watching, listening. It was the walls, it was fatherhood, it was himself. He was not an early drinker but he wanted an ale now; looked at the brown bottles long enough to fear and dislike his reason for wanting one, then he poured two glasses of apple cider and, for himself, cider and club soda. He sat at the table and watched David slice a Jalapeño over the beans, and said: ‘Don’t ever touch one of those and take a leak without washing your hands first.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I did it once. Think about it.’
    ‘Wow.’
    They talked of flavors as Kathi, with her eyes just above rim-level of the pot, her wrists in the steam, poured honey, and shook paprika, basil, parsley, Worcestershire, wine vinegar. In a bowl they mixed ground meat with a raw egg: jammed their hands into it, fingers touching; scooped and squeezed meat and onion and celery between their fingers; the kitchen smelled of bay leaf in the simmering beans, and then of broiling meat. They talked about the food as they ate, pressing thick hamburgers to fit their mouths, and only then Peter heard the white silence coming at them like afternoon snow. They cleaned the counter and table and what they had used; and they spoke briefly, quietly, they smoothly passed things; and when Peter turned off the faucet, all sound stopped, the kitchen was multiplied by silence, the apartment’s walls grew longer, the floors wider, the ceilings higher. Peter walked the distance to his bedroom, looked at his watch, then quickly turned to the morning paper’s television listing, and called: ‘Hey! The Magnificent Seven’s coming on.’
    ‘All right ,’ David said, and they hurried down the short hall, light footsteps whose sounds he could name: Kathi’s, David’s, Kathi’s. He lay between them, bellies down, on the bed.
    ‘Is this our third time or fourth?’ Kathi said.
    ‘I think our fourth. We saw