All That Is Left Is All That Matters by Mark Slouka

Author:Mark Slouka
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Published: 2018-05-29T16:00:00+00:00

1963

HE HEARD ONE CHAIR CREAK, THEN THE OTHER. A game was on the radio. “I’ve got to work on that piece today,” he heard his father say. “Good for you,” said Mr. Hauser’s voice. “Really,” his father said.

“Los Angeles Angels—dumb name for a baseball team,” said Mr. Hauser.

“Maybe they think it’ll bring them luck,” said his father.

A burst of laughter came from the float on the lake, which he could see through a crack in the wallboards. A half dozen people—marked, like croquet poles, by the horizontal stripes on their bathing suits—milled about, some settling into folding chairs, others standing around with drinks in their hands.

“How long you think before one of ’em falls in?”

“Weissman in ten,” said his father.

It was very hot. A small spider had built a web between the frame of the bed and the metal leg. The web was spotted with gnats. The spider seemed to be sleeping. He blew on it but it didn’t move. A dusty pencil with a broken tip was lying by the wall and he picked it up and poked a hole in the web like a small dark window, then moved the pencil in a circle to make the hole bigger and the spider ran across the web and then back again.

“Is she out there?” said Mr. Hauser’s voice.

“No.”

“What about him?” Mr. Hauser said.

“The kid? Not likely.”

“If I was Leventis, I’d shoot him.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“I’d think about shooting him, then.”

They were quiet for a moment.

“Where is everybody?” said Mr. Hauser.

“Mary’s out at the A&P. I don’t know where Harold is. Fishing, I think.”

It was hot under the bed. When Harold turned his head to the side a little, he could see watery shapes moving slowly up the walls. It felt funny to hear his father call his mother by her name.

“Another?” his father said.

“What the hell.”

“I think he wants to surprise me.”

“Who?”

“Harold,” his father said. Through the open door he could see his father’s white, hairy feet in their sandals walk across the floor. He tried not to laugh.

“So what do you think he’ll do?”

“Who? Leventis?” His father was in the kitchen. “He’ll either leave her or he won’t.”

“What’s to stay for?” said Mr. Hauser. A cicada started its long, uphill climb. “Still, I guess you can see it from the little punk’s point of view. I mean, look at her.”

His father laughed. “A minute ago you were gonna shoot him.”

“Him, not me. Anyway, tell me you’d push her little boat away if she rowed up to your rickety dock one night while Mary was out at the A&P.”

“I’m not going to tell you that,” his father said from the kitchen. He could hear ice cubes dropping into a glass. “So is that a metaphor—rickety dock?”

“It’s a misstrike.”

“Ah.”

“Something to think about, you have to admit,” said Mr. Hauser.

“Her little boat? Oh, I think we’ve all thought about it.”

He heard his father spin the metal cap back on, then the clink of the bottles touching under the sink. He thought about coming out—he was tired of being under the bed—but didn’t.

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