Christ, Desmond thought, what a lot of nervy bullshit that was, with his wife sitting out on the deck, seconds away from going into labor. He hated this type of cad on principle, marrying for security and acceptance while running around with men on the side. He adjusted himself in his pants and started walking toward the kitchen. When he looked up, he saw Gerald standing at the end of the passageway glaring at him. He had a large tub of ice cream tucked under one arm and a dripping spoon in his hand. When their eyes met, Gerald stepped back into the shadows. Desmond stopped for a second and felt the blood rush from his face. Then he reassured himself the child was only six, probably hadn’t seen anything, and wouldn’t understand what had been going on even if he had.

In the kitchen, Gerald was standing near the sink wearing a hard little pout.

“Good ice cream?” Desmond asked, keeping his tone as cheerful as possible. When the child said nothing, Desmond tried again. “What flavor is it?”

“I’m not supposed to eat ice cream before bed,” Gerald announced. Something in his deep voice and the tone made it sound like a proclamation of his moral superiority.

Desmond winked at Gerald and said: “I won’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret.”

“I’m not supposed to keep secrets with strangers,” Gerald stated, as if Desmond had proposed something unwholesome.

“No, of course not. Good idea. Well, you sleep tight.”

Before Desmond had a chance to make it out of the kitchen, Gerald said, “I saw you talking to Uncle Brian.”

Desmond stopped and turned. “I’m sure you did,” he said. “He’s a nice man, your Uncle Brian.”

“He doesn’t like me,” Gerald said. “He called me fatty and told Jane she should put me on a diet.”

“Oh. Well that wasn’t very nice.” In the dim kitchen light, Gerald looked a good deal smaller and more pathetic than he had a few minutes earlier. A sad kid more than anything, clumsy, shorn, and wearing a striped jersey that was stained with melted ice cream. Desmond went over to him and squatted down until he was Gerald’s height. “I think you’re the nice one, not your uncle. Do you want me to help you put away the ice cream?”

Gerald scooped out a heaping spoonful and then said quietly, “Yes, please.”

Difficult age, Jane had said. Difficult mother-son relationship might be more to the point. Still, he could feel Gerald glaring at his back as he walked out to the porch and a loud clap of thunder rattled the windows.

Nine

True Enough

1.

“It’s cramped,” Desmond said, “but there’s something appealing about living out of an armoire and a boxy little refrigerator. I guess it makes me feel young again. Like a student.”