Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel

29


“I can’t do this stupid homework,” Travis says. “I hate Mr. Houseman. He’s stupid!”

“Let me see,” I say, and stop peeling potatoes. At the kitchen table, Travis is holding his forehead in his hands, his usual way of conveying anguish.

He looks up at me, frowns. “You’re no good in math!”

“Well, just let me see. And for your information, I got an A in algebra.”

“This is not that,” he says.

And it isn’t. I don’t quite understand what it is. Something close to geometry, though, and I still remember taking my geometry midterm when I was a sophomore in high school. I passed the time by drawing designs for evening gowns on the back of the exam; everything on the front of the page only annoyed me.

“I’m afraid you’re failing this class,” my teacher had told me later, sadly. He was speaking in a very quiet voice. A whisper, really.

“I know,” I had whispered back.

“Why don’t you come in after school a few times a week? I’ll give you a little extra help.”

“Okay,” I’d said, thinking, oh please, no. But I had gone and Mr. Seidel had patiently drawn angles and worked through proofs, explaining at each step what he was doing and why. For my part, I had watched his hand as he wrote, admiring his neat penmanship, looking carefully at his wedding ring, wondering what his wife was like. When he finally looked up and asked me if I understood, I responded with a blank gaze. He’d given me a D– as an act of remarkable kindness.

“Can one of your friends help you?” I ask Travis.

“No.”

“Well, call Dad, then. He’ll know how to do it.”

“He’s on a stupid business trip.”

“Oh. Right. Well, then, I’m sorry, Travis. I don’t know what to tell you. I guess you’ll just have to talk to your teacher tomorrow.” I go back to the potatoes, out of enemy territory. I’m so glad I’m finished with school. If I were told to go home and spend my evening doing homework—in five subjects, no less!—I’d start screaming.

“Can I call King?” Travis asks.

Of course. Why hadn’t this occurred to me?

“Sure. It’s 247-8893.”

“You know it by heart?”

“Yes,” I say. And then, “I mean, it’s an easy number.”

Travis goes into the family room to make the call. He hates his math class, and I don’t blame him a bit. But he’s going to have to get through it, or he’ll end up like me.

“King knew how to do it,” Travis says, coming back into the kitchen. “It’s easy.”

Well. His spirits have improved.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks. And when I tell him, he doesn’t offer his usual wounded commentary. Yes, his spirits have improved immeasurably.

Just before I go to sleep, I rub my hands over my breasts. Pain, on both sides, again. This has been happening a lot, all of a sudden. It can’t be cancer. Cancer doesn’t hurt. Cancer doesn’t show up on both sides. I must be starting to have breast pain when I ovulate. Rita always does. I turn onto my side, burrow into my pillow, think about whether it is time to ovulate. And then I open my eyes wide and lie still as death. I have just figured out my weight gain.

I sit up, slide into my slippers, go downstairs to look at the kitchen calendar with hands that are shaking. No X on any day last month. Or the month before. I press my fingers to my mouth, dry now, sticky. I sit at the table. How could I not have known this? This is exactly what happened with Travis. And I’d been so angry, because everyone else I knew had lost weight the first trimester. Not me. My appetite had been amazing. I’d gained and gained.

I push my face into my hands, moan. But then, hearing the front door open, I compose myself. Edward comes into the kitchen, heads for the refrigerator, then sees me.

“God,” he says. “I just had the date from hell. Remind me tomorrow to kill myself. What a relief to see you.”

Edward is such a pleasant man; I like him so much. He used to be a baby.

I burst into tears.

Edward leaves the refrigerator door open, comes to sit opposite me, takes my hand. “What?” he says. “What happened? Oh God, is it Travis?”

“Not exactly,” I say.