Barney stared at him. “You don’t mean that. You can’t live in Limbo alone. And you never had anybody else but her. You could have had me…” His throat constricted without warning, and his eyes began to burn. “… But you didn’t want me. You put me in that hospital and hoped you’d never see me again.”

Daddy seemed now to be somehow subdued—nearly at peace. He said nothing to Barney’s accusation. He finished his drink. When he handed him the empty glass there was a note of resignation in the gesture, but he said nothing.

Barney took the glass and stood up. “Do you want another?”

His father nodded. “The same.”

“Daddy,” Barney said. “I love you. I loved you more than I ever loved her…”

His father nodded silently.

***

Mother was awake now, her eyes staring upward, unfocused. She lay on her back, grasping; her small hands greedily opened and shut. He did not speak to her. She remained silent, wrapped up in her own thoughts, or plans…

***

He fixed gin and orange juice and made himself a cup of instant coffee. The pain was in his stomach. He had always loved that man out there. He had loved him when they flew kites together at the Embarcadero, had loved him when the man took him to see Eddie Cantor at the Fox Theatre on Market Street. He had ridden on Daddy’s back in the living room, rejoicing at Daddy’s warmth, Daddy’s strength. And then, about the time of kindergarten, Daddy had started drinking every night. Once Barney had tried to climb on his back and Daddy had shoved him across the room. Barney had sat down and bawled and his father, huge and now terrifying, had thundered over to him and slapped his face twice and said, “Cry for your Mama; don’t cry in front of me. Or I’ll give you something to cry about.” His breath stank. The rage in his voice was an earthquake.

Standing in the kitchen under the skylight, now, facing the Cat Calendar with 1980 written on it, Barney began crying again. He set the gin and orange juice down on the dishwasher and wept.

And then he heard a sound like the sound of his own crying and turned around, facing the pass-through into the living room. Mother, his greedy infant mother, her face red and twisted, was crying with him. She cried a baby’s cry, furious at a world that did not continuously serve her wishes.

***

When he came out onto the terrace again it was a half hour later. He had decided to make himself a drink, and then another. His mother stopped crying, fell asleep again; her compact, narcissistic self was turned away from him, toward the black back of the couch. He carried two glasses with him: both were rich in gin.

The terrace was very hot. It was midafternoon and the sun was ferocious. Daddy had taken off his coat and sat in rolled-up white shirt-sleeves, still wearing his dark blue tie.