and ear throbbing. Not to mention his head. Unless he was very diplomatic, they would be mired in the time-honored (or was dishonored more accurate?) argument about who knew better. From there they—no, she—could move onto the horrors of the paternalistic society. This was a subject upon which Lucy could expatiate endlessly.
“You want to know what I think, Drew? I think when a man says ‘You know that,’ which they do all the time, what they mean is ‘I know that, but you’re too dumb to know that. Hence, I must mansplain.’ ”
He sighed, and when the sigh threatened to turn into a cough, he stifled it. “Really? You want to go there?”
“Drew… we are there.”
The weariness in her tone, as if he were a stupid child that could not seem to get even the simplest lesson, infuriated him. “Okay, here’s a little more mansplaining, Luce. For most of my adult life, I’ve been trying to write a novel. Do I know why? No. I only know it’s the missing piece in my life. I need to do this, and I am doing it. It’s very, very important. You’re asking me to risk that.”
“Is it as important as me and the kids?”
“Of course not, but does it have to be a choice?”
“I think it is a choice, and you just made it.”
He laughed, and the laugh turned into a cough. “That’s pretty melodramatic.”
She didn’t chase that one; she had something else to chase. “Drew, are you okay? Not coming down with something, are you?”
In his mind he heard the scrawny woman with the stud in her lip saying had to be a man about it, and it went pneumonia.
“No,” he said. “Allergies.”
“Will you think about coming back, at least? Will you do that?”
“Yes.” Another lie. He already had thought about it.
“Call tonight, okay? Talk to the kids.”
“Can I talk to you, too? If I promise not mansplain anything?”
She laughed. Well, actually more of a chuckle, but still a good sign. “Fine.”
“I love you, Luce.”
“I love you, too,” she said, and as he hung up, he had an idea—what English teachers liked to call an epiphany, he supposed—that her feelings were probably not much different from his. Yes, she loved him, he was sure of it, but on this afternoon in early October, she didn’t like him much.
He was sure of that, too.
16
According to the label, Dr. King’s Cough & Cold Remedy was twenty-six per cent alcohol, but after a healthy knock from the bottle that made Drew’s eyes water and brought on a serious coughing fit, he guessed the manufacturer might have lowballed the content. Maybe just enough to keep it off the Big 90’s liquor shelf with the coffee brandy, the apricot schnapps, and the Fireball Nips. But it cleared his sinuses most righteously, and when he spoke to Brandon that evening, his boy detected nothing out of the ordinary. It was Stacey who asked him if he was okay. Allergies, he told her, and repeated the same lie to Lucy when she took back her phone. At least there was no argument with her tonight, just the unmistakable trace of chill in her voice that he knew well.
It was chilly outside, as well. Indian summer seemed to be over. Drew had an attack of the shivers, and built up a good fire in the woodstove. He sat close to it in Pop’s rocker, had another knock of Dr. King’s, and read an old John D. MacDonald. From the credit page at the front, it looked like MacDonald had written sixty or seventy books. No problem finding the right word or phrase there, it seemed, and by the end of his life, he had even attained some critical cred. Lucky him.
Drew read a couple of chapters, then went to bed, hoping his cold would be better in the morning and also hoping he wouldn’t have a cough syrup hangover. His sleep was uneasy and dream-haunted. He couldn’t remember much of those dreams the next morning. Only that in one of them he had been in a seemingly endless hallway lined with doors on both sides. One of them, he felt sure, led to a way out, but he couldn’t decide which one to try, and before he could pick one, he woke up to a cold, clear morning, a full bladder, and aching joints. He made his way to the bathroom at the end of the gallery, cursing Roy DeWitt and his besnotted bandanna.