dog.
“Is he a full-blooded collie?” the person asks. “Does he have papers?”
“He doesn’t say,” Jackson smiles.
After all these years, six, Jane is a little confused by Jackson. She sees this as her love for him. What would her love for him be if it were not this? In turn, she worries about her love for David. Jane does not think David is nice-looking. He has many worries, it seems. He weeps, he has rashes, he throws up. He has pale hair, pale flesh. She does not know how she can go through all these days, each day, embarrassed for her son.
Jane and Jackson lie in bed.
“I love Sundays,” Jane says.
Jackson wears a T-shirt. Jane slips her hand beneath it and strokes his chest. She is waiting. She sometimes fears that she is waiting for the waiting to end, fears that she seeks and requires only that recognition and none other. Jackson holds her without opening his eyes.
It is Sunday. Jane pours milk into a pancake mix.
Something gummy is stuck in David’s hair. Jane gets a pair of scissors and cuts it out.
Jackson says, “David, I want you to stop crying so much and I want you to stop pretending to bake in Mommy’s cupcake tins.” Jackson is angry, but then he laughs. After a moment, David laughs too.
That afternoon, a woman and a little girl come to the house about the dog.
“I told you on the phone, I’d give you some fresh eggs for him.” the woman says, thrusting a child’s sand bucket at Jane. “Even if you decide not to give the dog to us, the eggs, of course, are still yours.” She pauses at Jane’s hesitation. “Adams,” the woman says. “We’re here for the ad.”
Jackson waves her to a chair and says, “Mrs. Adams, we seekno personal aggrandizement from our pet. Our only desire is that he be given a good home. A great many people have contacted us and now we must make a difficult decision. Where will he inspire the most contentment and where will he find canine fulfillment?”
Jane brings the dog into the room.
“There he is, Dorothy!” Mrs. Adams exclaims to the little girl. “Go over and pet him or something.”
“It’s a nice dog,” Dorothy says. “I like him fine.”
“She needs a dog,” Mrs. Adams says. “Coming over here, she said, ‘Mother, we could bring him home today in the back of the car. I could play with him tonight.’ Oh, she sure would like to have this dog. She lost her dog last week. A tragedy. Kicked to death by one of the horses. Must have broken every bone in his fluffy little body.”
“What a pity!” Jackson exclaims.
“And then there was the accident,” Mrs. Adams goes on. “Show them your arm, Dorothy. Why, I tell you, it almost came right off. Didn’t it, darling?”
The girl rolls up the sleeve of her shirt. Her arm is a mess, complexly rearranged, a yellow matted wrinkle of scar tissue.
“Actually,” Jackson says, “I’m afraid my wife has promised the dog to someone else.”
After they leave, Jackson says, “These farm people have the souls of animals themselves.”
The dog walks slowly back to the kitchen, swinging its high foolish hips. David wanders back to the breakfast table and picks up something, some piece of food. He chews it for a moment and then spits it out. He kneels down and spits it into the hot-air register.
“David,” Jane says. She looks at his face. It is calm and round, a child’s face.
It is evening. On television, a man dressed as a chef, holding six pies, falls down a flight of stairs. The incident is teaching numbers.
SIX , the screen screams.
“Six,” David says.
Jane and Jackson are drinking whiskey and apple juice. Jane is wondering what they did for David’s last birthday, when he was five. Did they have a little party?
“What did we do on your last birthday, David?” Jane asks.
“We gave him pudding and tea,” Jackson says.
“That’s not true,” Jane says, worried. She looks at David’s face.
SIX TOCKING CLOCKS, the television sings.
“Six,” David
“Is he a full-blooded collie?” the person asks. “Does he have papers?”
“He doesn’t say,” Jackson smiles.
After all these years, six, Jane is a little confused by Jackson. She sees this as her love for him. What would her love for him be if it were not this? In turn, she worries about her love for David. Jane does not think David is nice-looking. He has many worries, it seems. He weeps, he has rashes, he throws up. He has pale hair, pale flesh. She does not know how she can go through all these days, each day, embarrassed for her son.
Jane and Jackson lie in bed.
“I love Sundays,” Jane says.
Jackson wears a T-shirt. Jane slips her hand beneath it and strokes his chest. She is waiting. She sometimes fears that she is waiting for the waiting to end, fears that she seeks and requires only that recognition and none other. Jackson holds her without opening his eyes.
It is Sunday. Jane pours milk into a pancake mix.
Something gummy is stuck in David’s hair. Jane gets a pair of scissors and cuts it out.
Jackson says, “David, I want you to stop crying so much and I want you to stop pretending to bake in Mommy’s cupcake tins.” Jackson is angry, but then he laughs. After a moment, David laughs too.
That afternoon, a woman and a little girl come to the house about the dog.
“I told you on the phone, I’d give you some fresh eggs for him.” the woman says, thrusting a child’s sand bucket at Jane. “Even if you decide not to give the dog to us, the eggs, of course, are still yours.” She pauses at Jane’s hesitation. “Adams,” the woman says. “We’re here for the ad.”
Jackson waves her to a chair and says, “Mrs. Adams, we seekno personal aggrandizement from our pet. Our only desire is that he be given a good home. A great many people have contacted us and now we must make a difficult decision. Where will he inspire the most contentment and where will he find canine fulfillment?”
Jane brings the dog into the room.
“There he is, Dorothy!” Mrs. Adams exclaims to the little girl. “Go over and pet him or something.”
“It’s a nice dog,” Dorothy says. “I like him fine.”
“She needs a dog,” Mrs. Adams says. “Coming over here, she said, ‘Mother, we could bring him home today in the back of the car. I could play with him tonight.’ Oh, she sure would like to have this dog. She lost her dog last week. A tragedy. Kicked to death by one of the horses. Must have broken every bone in his fluffy little body.”
“What a pity!” Jackson exclaims.
“And then there was the accident,” Mrs. Adams goes on. “Show them your arm, Dorothy. Why, I tell you, it almost came right off. Didn’t it, darling?”
The girl rolls up the sleeve of her shirt. Her arm is a mess, complexly rearranged, a yellow matted wrinkle of scar tissue.
“Actually,” Jackson says, “I’m afraid my wife has promised the dog to someone else.”
After they leave, Jackson says, “These farm people have the souls of animals themselves.”
The dog walks slowly back to the kitchen, swinging its high foolish hips. David wanders back to the breakfast table and picks up something, some piece of food. He chews it for a moment and then spits it out. He kneels down and spits it into the hot-air register.
“David,” Jane says. She looks at his face. It is calm and round, a child’s face.
It is evening. On television, a man dressed as a chef, holding six pies, falls down a flight of stairs. The incident is teaching numbers.
SIX , the screen screams.
“Six,” David says.
Jane and Jackson are drinking whiskey and apple juice. Jane is wondering what they did for David’s last birthday, when he was five. Did they have a little party?
“What did we do on your last birthday, David?” Jane asks.
“We gave him pudding and tea,” Jackson says.
“That’s not true,” Jane says, worried. She looks at David’s face.
SIX TOCKING CLOCKS, the television sings.
“Six,” David
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