Sons and Other Flammable Objects by Porochista Khakpour

Author:Porochista Khakpour
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
Published: 2007-05-20T16:00:00+00:00

He thought it was possible that it was hypnosis: Lala’s eyes drilling deep into his like that, waiting for his something that neither was sure was coming—but it was worth however long she had just sat there for if only Darius would give her that something, she insisted, all eyes—and so there he was pretending to think back, squinting his eyes for effect, mustering the energy to scratch a temple even as he imagined thinkers did, praying that his wife wouldn’t lose patience with him, praying that instead she’d just tire of this and move on and leave him alone, and even if she didn’t, he prayed that somehow, miraculously, her eyes looking at him like that would hypnotize him and then he’d fall into some semiconscious state that he was sure had to count as a sleep of sorts.

“December 2000, Darius,” she began whispering, whispering as if pleading, he interpreted, either that or he had hallucinated her whisper, or perhaps his ears were now giving way, too, that suddenly her speaking voice was registering as a whisper, Oh God. “December 2000, almost a year ago, you and Xerxes in New York. You and your son … an argument? C’mon, you.”

It was like a riddle. That idea cracked him up for a second and he felt the laughter, like an only superficially soothing cough medicine, suddenly unnaturally lubricate his guts. It was good—temporary, but good. “Give me a hint,” he said, hoping she would laugh back.

She scowled. “This is pathetic,” she said, still speaking barely audibly. She thought back to that December 2000 week, discovering Gigi, perhaps Marvin, the long walks, the feeling of liberation, still expecting phone calls that didn’t come until the day of Darius’s arrival. “Not a single call that whole week but the day you were coming back, from the airport. I asked you how he was and you kept saying you’d tell me when you got here. Which you didn’t. You know what else you said, Darius? You said he was doing badly. You made it sound like he hated us. That’s a really cruel thing to say when you know you’re never going to talk about it again, don’t you think?”

She had a good memory. Once, he did, too. As if in homage to that old mind of his, a sentence, as good a duplicate as could be processed out into his extramental universe, leaked out of him: “I said, ‘I don’t want to talk about him ever again.’”

She nodded. “And yet here you are, going to do it. Darius, if you don’t, I am taking you to a hospital—no, better yet, an insane asylum. You want that?”

He didn’t. He wanted to remind her that they both knew he didn’t belong like that—he was just … temporarily disabled. Still, that woman, his wife, you couldn’t count on her—there was no telling what she could be capable of. The insane asylum could arrive like another bad chapter. “Okay, okay … it’s coming … I can … I can feel it … slowly.

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