The Kept Man by Jami Attenberg

Author:Jami Attenberg [Attenberg, Jami]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Tags: Adult
ISBN: 9781594489525
Google: MgCj1ttv-2cC
Amazon: B0042P5A2M
Barnesnoble: B0042P5A2M
Goodreads: 1489519
Publisher: Riverhead Trade
Published: 2007-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

part three

22.

Freddy is sitting on the fire-escape stairs leading up to the floor

above Missy’s apartment, and I am leaning on the railing next to

the window that opens into Missy’s kitchen. His eyes are still

swollen from tears, but he is calm now, three puffs from a thick

joint did the trick. His suit jacket is off, strewn somewhere inside

amongst an array of family members and hot dishes, large alu-

minum trays of tamales and fried plantains and rice, one stockpot

of chicken and rice soup, and another full of some sort of fish

soup, and bowls of mango and papaya and coconut. Everyone is

talking and eating and occasionally crying and then laughing, it

seems, at nothing at all. Laughing to fill up space in the room. Be-

fore I went outside with Freddy, I had been leaning on a wall in a

corner by myself, feeling a little freaked out. What am I doing

here anyway? I don’t even know this woman. I don’t know how fu-

nerals work. I guess I need to learn, that’s what I’m thinking. I had 1 9 0

J a m i A t t e n b e r g

started plotting Martin’s wake—who I would invite, what I would

wear, where we would have it, what I would serve, what music I

would play. How much Xanax I would need. In six years, I’ve never

once pictured how it would all end, how I would end that phase of

my life, of his life, and move onto the next one. A gush of air and

energy flushes through me. There could be an end to it all.

And then Missy sees me standing in a corner by myself; she

jerks her head up and around and over an older woman with

thick dark dyed hair and penciled-in eyebrows that make her

look cruel; and she pinches Freddy’s arm, whispers in his ear,

and then he sails across the room, kisses my cheeks, takes off

his jacket and leads me outside. There I watch him roll the

joint efficiently, a pinch from a plastic bag, a swift turn of

paper, a lick, a twist, and he’s done. It all happened so fast, and

now everything is slow because of the one hit I took, cautiously,

knowing full well that if I took in too much I would head down

a long, uncomfortable path.

I haven’t smoked pot regularly since high school, when I be-

gan falling into the same pattern every time I smoked: my head

swirled too much, closed in on me, and I quickly found myself

thinking in circles. I was always doomed by the end, doomed to

miss my mother, to hate my father, to wish my brothers were

near me to protect me, or, alternately, so I could protect them.

This same path is one of comfort for Freddy. I can see he

suddenly feels easier in his skin after the first few hits, as if

he’s been thinking of it all day, like a businessman at the office

waiting to come home and put on his slippers and pick up the

remote control, sit back, and relax. I would think his habit was

sort of dangerous but it’s only pot, and also, I simply couldn’t

tolerate any more of his tears tonight.

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