The Hazards of Good Breeding by Jessica Shattuck

Author:Jessica Shattuck
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company

When he comes back up to the kitchen, there are no lights on and the sink is overflowing with dirty dishes. It is a gray day, cool from the rain this morning. Eliot is hunched over a book at the table.

Jack flicks the overhead light on. “You want to go blind?” he says.

Eliot stares at him, blinking. “You can’t go blind from reading.”

“In the dark,” Jack says. He takes a carton of milk out of the refrigerator and pours cornflakes into a bowl. There is a loud pattering as what is left of the night’s rain blows off the trees and against the side of the house. Jack leans on the counter and takes a spoonful of cereal; the milk has gone sour. “Shit,” he says, spitting into the sink.

“The milk is bad,” Eliot volunteers in a calm voice.

“Well, thanks for telling me.” Jack dumps the rest of the carton over the dirty dishes in the sink. The refrigerator offers little else by way of breakfast: a half loaf of wheat bread and no butter, three greasy white boxes of Chinese food leftovers, an empty pizza box, a bag of mini-carrots, ketchup, mustard, and chutney. The vegetable drawer is full of peppers and broccoli and mushrooms, which Caroline buys and steams for herself to eat in the place of normal food. “What did you eat?” he asks Eliot, who glances at the clock. It is nearly one, Jack realizes. He has been down there for hours.

“Toast.”

“With . . . ?”

Eliot shrugs and turns back to his book. “Plain.”

A sour milk smell is now rising from the sink. A surge of disgust shoots through Jack’s gut. He throws the empty milk carton into the trash, which is full to the top. It bounces back out and falls to the floor. “I’ll go get donuts,” he says without picking it up. “What kind do you want?”

“I don’t want any,” Eliot says without looking up this time.

Jack stares at the crown of his blond head bent over the book. What kind of boy does not want donuts? What kind of boy likes to read in the dark all morning? His son has become unknown to him over the last seven months. It is as though he is staging some sort of strike or protest.

“Okay,” Jack says.

“Has Rosita sent you her new address yet?” Eliot’s voice accosts Jack as the screen door screeches open under his hand. It is not a question, but a demand Eliot makes at least once a month.

Jack straightens and looks back at his son. “No,” he says evenly. “She hasn’t.”

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