We All Sleep in the Same Room Read Online Free PDF Page B

morning vigor evaporates like an untended pot of boiling water.
    At half past noon, I tell Raina she should go out if she wants while I stay and put Ben down for his nap. Ben is too tired to protest after his untimely shock into wakefulness this morning, and is actually grateful to have one of us lie with him.
    After sending Ben on a forced trip to the toilet, we lie down on his short, freshly made bed and I read to him from The Polar Express . He’s asleep before the train makes it to the North Pole. I’m tired too, but it’s too cramped for me to sleep and my mind continues to churn.
    I gaze at my son’s handsome face: a mop of dark brown hair, a thin upturned nose, a dimpled chin. Six months ago, he’d been red complexioned, chubby in the cheeks and under the neck, but overnight it seemed the baby-fat had fallen away and he’d emerged, like a tulip bulb from beneath a winter frost, a knockout. Three-year-olds are cute, particularly in the eyes of their progenitors, but Ben stopped traffic. I can’t recall a subway ride where he hasn’t been the recipient of lavish praise. Frank reports the same. It’s hard to say what exactly is so appealing about his appearance. But there it is: a universal charm. Ben’s a natural with a crowd. Cal sees profit and counsels Raina on starting him in modeling and acting. I’ve tried to picture my son in a Pull-Ups commercial. All those smiling children on TV have to belong to somebody.
    I fix on his eyes. His eyes are mine.
    My mind stumbles on last night’s walk home. Ninth Avenue glows and sways with the novelty of Friday-night New York. Snarling, shiny-eyed faces realized by drink and privilege. The windows of cabs, limos, sports bars, chic eateries.
    I’d paused in the entryway of my building, staring into the antique mirror. Music was spilling out of one of the units upstairs. This was a rarity ever since Raina and I’d been grandfathered into our rent-stabilized one-bedroom apartment in one of the tamer buildings on the block. Her father, Dr. Stoltz, a professor of urban planning at NYU, had put her on the lease before retiring to a nursing home in Connecticut.
    It turned out the music was coming from our place. The Beatles maybe. As I climbed the stairs, laughter and stomping joined the mix. I peered through the peephole in the front door.
    Ben danced into view. He was naked and twisting wildly, mimicking the break-dancers he’d seen in Union Square. Then Frank’s slight figure. He too was naked, save for a pair of boxer-briefs. I was shocked and momentarily frozen. Things looked bizarre and sinister in a way that’s hard to explain. My right hand balled into a fist tight enough to ache. What was he doing here? And where was Raina? But then Frank disappeared and returned with pajamas, which he waved coaxingly in front of Ben.
    â€œI don’t want to get dressed,” my son moaned.
    â€œSorry,” said Frank, hitting pause on the stereo, “but you’re going to catch cold. We can’t start the music again until you put on your pajamas.”
    Ben started to cry, but it wasn’t one of those deep cries. It was the same I’m-not-getting-just-what-I-want cry that gets me flustered because I know he’s not going to listen to me.
    But Frank held his ground. He said something like, “C’mon man, you gotta cooperate, I want to keep dancing too, but it’s time to put on some clothes. I’m gonna put on mine. Then we can listen to two more songs before bed.” Ben looked to his belly for a moment of reflection, before conceding, “Alriiiight,” and allowing Frank to dress him.
    Alright? I couldn’t believe it. Ben never cooperates like that with me when I’m laboring to get him out the door in the morning. Not that quickly. Frank was good. Really good.
    I saw for the first time that Ben’s hair was wet. My son didn’t like to wear clothes after a bath.