Part 12 (1/2)

I said, ”Lipwise you've still got it, baby.”

Her face was serious and still, but her eyes glittered. ”You ain't seen nothing yet,” she said.

It was late when we were through. Most of our clothing was scattered about and the bedspread was badly wrinkled. I lay on my back with my heart pounding and my chest heaving in air. Susan lay beside me. She held my hand.

”Have you overexerted?” she said.

”Your resistance was fierce,” I said.

”Umm,” she said.

From the living room there was the faint sound of the television, which Paul had left on. The image of it gesticulating to an empty room pleased me.

”Just what do you plan to do with that boy, cookie?” Susan said.

”I thought we might want to talk that out,” I said.

”We?”

”You know about kids.”

”I know about guidance,” Susan said. ”There's a difference.”

”I'll need help.”

”You'll need more than that. The boy is bound to be difficult. Even without knowing him one could predict that. My G.o.d, he's chattel in a divorce settlement. What do you know about the needs of a neurotic adolescent?”

”I thought I'd ask you,” I said.

”Based, on my experience with you?” she said.

”I'm not neurotic,” I said.

Susan turned her face toward me. In the half-light she was smiling. She squeezed my hand. ”No,” she said, ”you aren't. You're complicated, but you are not even a little bit neurotic”

”The kid needs to get away from his parents,” I said.

”That's not the conventional wisdom, except in cases more extreme than this.”

”Maybe the conventional wisdom is right,” I said, ”if the choice is to get into the welfare-youth services-foster-home system.”

”But not if he's going to be with you?”

”Not if he's going to be with me,” I said.

”You think you can make life better for him?”

”Yes.”

”How long do you plan to keep him?”

”I don't know.”

”It's hard enough to raise children you love,” Susan said. ”I've seen it from the failure end, over and over, parents whose kids are just a G.o.dd.a.m.ned mess. Parents who love them and have presided over the complete botching of their lives. I think your eyes are bigger than your stomach on this one, dear heart.”

”How about that property in Maine,” I said.

Susan propped up on one elbow. ”Fryeburg?” she said.

”Yeah. I told you I'd build a house on it”

”When you got a chance, you said.”

”This is the chance.”

”You and Paul?”

”Yes.”

She was quiet, lying naked beside me, on her right side with her head propped on her right elbow. Her lipstick was smeared. The intelligence in her face was like energy. It seemed almost to s.h.i.+mmer. That she was beautiful was only the first thing you noticed.

”Work release,” she said.

”The kid's never been taught how to act,” I said. ”He doesn't know anything. He's got no pride. He's got nothing he's good at. He's got nothing but the tube.”

”And you plan to teach him.”

”Ill teach him what I know. I know how to do carpentry. I know how to cook. I know how to punch. I know how to act.”

”You're not so bad in the rack either, big fella.”

I grinned. ”We'll let him work that out on his own, maybe.”

She shook her head. ”You make it sound simple. It's not. You don't teach people unless they want to learn. It's not just an intellectual exercise. It's a matter of emotion, of psychology. I mean the boy may be positively pathological.”

”He's got nothing to lose,” I said, ”Compared to an afternoon of game shows on TV, anything is up. For crissake, the kid watches soap operas,” I said.

”So do I,” Susan said.

”Well, your degeneracy is already established,” I said. ”Besides you do others things.”

”Only with you, sweet potato.”

”You want to get in on this?” I said.

”The salvation of Paul Giacomin?”