Graham’s and Audra’s were not the only universes. There were also other universes—hidden ones, secret ones. Little pocket universes scattered around and you slipped into them unexpectedly, like when you stopped into a bodega for milk and discovered a cardboard display stand of Sucrets or Love’s Baby Soft perfume or some other long-defunct product. Origami Club was in one of those pocket universes, and Graham and Audra had to take Matthew there on the day after the wedding. (At nine o’clock in the morning on the day after the wedding, to be precise.)
Origami Club was held in Clayton’s apartment, and the first unusual thing was that Clayton’s apartment building was on a street Graham had never heard of and he thought he knew every street in Manhattan. Walter Street? Where the hell was that? On the Lower East Side, as it turned out. And although the building looked like all the other low red-brick buildings around it, it had a bright green door, which made Graham think of enchanted forests. There was no doorman and the hallway had black-and-white hexagonal tile and smelled deeply of cabbage and rent control. Matthew gazed around curiously, as though they were on the set of a play.
They rode a creaking elevator up to the fourth floor and pushed the buzzer for apartment 4A. A thin, excitable-looking man in his late fifties answered immediately, giving the impression he had been crouching right behind the door.
“Come in, come in!” he said. “I’m Clayton Pierce.”
They shook hands with him and then he led them down a hall through a cluttered apartment. The doors to the rooms that opened off the hallway were all open, and glancing in, Graham saw that every single object—every bedspread, lamp shade, picture, curtain, hand towel, tissue box, wastebasket, vase, throw pillow, candleholder, hamper, and doorknob—either was made out of origami or had a picture of something made out of origami on it. It seemed that possibly the only thing not made out of origami was the white-haired woman who popped out of the kitchen to greet them, although she was wearing earrings made out of itty-bitty origami cranes.
“Hello,” she said cheerfully. “I’m Clayton’s wife, Pearl. You must be the Cavanaughs. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
“We’ve been looking forward to this, too,” Audra said. “Matthew especially.”
In the dining room, two other men, also in their fifties, were seated at the table. Clayton made a sweeping gesture and said, “Everyone, welcome Matthew!” He glanced at Graham and Audra. “And…non-folders.
“Matthew,” Clayton said. “This is Manny and Alan.”
“Hello,” Matthew said in his soft clear voice.
“Is it true you folded Lang’s Tarantula?” the man named Manny asked.
“Yes,” Matthew said. “But I couldn’t do it the first time and got all frustrated and cried a long time.”
Graham closed his eyes. He remembered that evening well. He would have preferred Matthew had been up all night with the croup or whooping cough.
“That happens,” Manny said. “Did you try it again?”
“Uh-huh.” Matthew pulled out a chair and sat down. “But the creases weren’t sharp. I like the creases to be sharp.”
“Well, naturally,” Clayton said.
“That’s neat paper,” Matthew said.
“It’s imported from Thailand,” Alan said.
Matthew hauled his backpack onto his lap and unzipped it. “I have some regular paper. Should I get it out?”
“He does have very small fingers,” Alan said to Clayton. “That might be useful when we do Kamiya’s Wasp.”
“We can use tweezers like we’ve always done,” Clayton said testily. “We accept new members on the basis of skill, not finger size. Otherwise we’d have a roomful of—of—I don’t know what.”
“People with very small fingers,” Matthew said softly.
“Exactly,” Clayton said. “Now, Matthew, today we’re going to be making Ermakov’s Mantis Shrimp and that has box-pleating collapses. Do you know how to do those?”
“Yes,” Matthew said. “Will you help me if I get stuck?”
“Of course,” Clayton said. “Well, within reason.”
Something was wrong here. So obviously wrong that Graham almost could not figure it out. But he glanced at Audra and saw she felt it, too.
Normally, Graham and Audra (especially Audra) had to act as a sort of lubricant for any social interaction Matthew had. And not just a mild lubricant, like Vaseline or butter—we’re not talking about anything as minor as a stuck zipper here—but a heavy, industrial lubricant, like motor oil or axle grease. Oh, the playdates and lunches Graham had sat through with Matthew and another child, while Audra said things like, “Matthew loves the Wiggles! Don’t you, Matthew?”
“Yeah.”
“He especially likes the red one. Murray, I think. Who’s your favorite, Jimmy?” Or Tommy. Or Zachary. Or Ross.
“I like the yellow one.”
“Matthew likes him, too! Right, Matthew?”
“Not really.”
“Well, he sort of likes him. I mean, he doesn’t dislike him. But I guess he probably likes the blue one best. And he really loves that song about fruit salad. What song do you like, Timmy?”
“The one about the car.”
“Matthew, too! Right? Toot! Toot! Remember, Matthew? Listen, maybe after we finish lunch, you guys could watch The Wiggles together? What do you think, Matthew?”
And on and on. Until you understood—truly understood, on an emotional level—why simultaneous interpreters have the highest suicide rate of any profession. And now here was Matthew, chatting away, holding his own, while Graham and Audra stood there, as superfluous as the leftover screws that roll around on the floor after you assemble a bookcase.
As if realizing this, Pearl turned to them and said, “Now, you two run along and enjoy your day. Matthew will be just fine here. You can come back and pick him up around four.”
“Four?” Audra said, glancing at Graham. “But what about lunch?”
“We’ll give him lunch here,” Pearl said calmly.
Oh, well, now that was a problem. Matthew did not eat lunch at other people’s houses. It had been tried; it could not be done. It led to tears, often on the sides of both Matthew and the hostess. Other people’s mothers didn’t understand that Matthew would not eat their brand of ketchup, their flavor of potato chip, their variety of cereal, their make of apple juice. It had to be utterly and completely familiar or he wouldn’t touch it. No sandwiches cut in triangles, no generic Oreos, no off-brand grape jelly. And then there were the people who actually expected Matthew to sit down with their families and eat meat loaf or chicken pot pie. (The world is full of reckless fools—Graham had not realized that before Matthew began trying to eat meals at other people’s houses.)
“It would be better if we stopped back and picked him up before lunch,” Graham said.
“But I don’t want to leave early!” Matthew said. Honestly, this day was full of surprises.
“Well, maybe we could come back and bring you something to eat—” Audra began.
“I’m sure we can manage lunch,” Pearl said, obviously unaware that Matthew’s past was littered with the corpses of women who said “I’m sure we can manage lunch.” “I always make the boys something to eat.”