32 I drift off of the train, in and out of Bao and then into the neighborhood where the usual group of jobless, yet suited, ghosts wander by wide-eyed and dazed; random Terraxes run out of steam and stop dead in their tracks, only to be picked up for parts by the everpresent E.C.s; and a flash mob of black-clothed kids appear as if from the ether, holding their places as long as they can before the black helicopters swoop-in. It is a reminder that things never quite change, not noticeably , subtly maybe, incrementally certainly, but mostly they hold steady; it’s the way of the world. I wonder what that means for Ricky, Shelley and me, and what that means about work, because I can’t imagine going back so soon, and I can’t imagine how that will change by tomorrow. And then I’m home, really home. I stop out front. I take a deep breath. I walk in. “Hello, sir,” E.C. says, “welcome home.” It seems odd to think of E.C. as a friendly face, but he does represent home, and seeing him means I’ve made it back, for now. “Hello E.C.,” I respond, “how have you been? You look like you lost some weight.” “Very funny sir,” E.C. says, “Shalla is out getting Joey as we speak. Are you thinking of making something special?” “Yes, I am, lobster, actually, they had some nice-looking ones at Bao,” I say raising the bag in my hand to eye level. “I’m also thinking about macaroni and cheese for Joey.” O R P H A N S 112 “Good choices sir,” E.C. replies, “and don’t forget, Shalla likes just a splash of butter sauce with her lobster and Joey likes his macaroni and cheese baked.” “Ha-ha, I think I know that, anything else I should know?” I say, forcing myself to laugh, because I do know that, don’t I? I don’t know. “No sir, I started boiling some water for you, but otherwise , I think you got it; now relax, you will be fine, they will be fine,” E.C. says. “Thanks E.C.,” I say as I turn toward the elevator and head up to the apartment. Once inside I head to the kitchen and go about making dinner. I place the lobsters in the large pot of boiling water in front of me and then the macaroni in the sauce pan next to that. “Small sauce pan please,” I say, “and some butter.” The metallic arm extends from the slot and places the sauce pan on a free burner. The arm retreats back into slot and re-emerges with some butter it places into the sauce pan. “Let’s also do some asparagus please,” I say. “Yes sir, and how about some Hollandaise sauce to go with that,” E.C. asks, “Shalla likes that as well.” Of course she does. I knew that too, right? “Of course,” I say, which is how I continue as we prepare dinner, dutiful, efficient, focused, never thinking about what has occurred while I was gone, much less what is to come when Shalla and I actually see each other, or the fact that I will be leaving again tomorrow. I also try to ignore the fact that I don’t quite trust that I still know my own family. That somehow during the time that passed when I was away I either forgot the pertinent facts about our lives, their likes and dislikes, their fears and joys, or that maybe those facts have changed. [3.229.122.112] Project MUSE (2024-03-19 12:26 GMT) B E N TA N Z E R 113 I may be ready to pick right up where we left off, but that doesn’t mean they are as well. On some level, I fear they are not who I think they are, or worse, that what I think I know is a construct of my own making, and mine alone. “Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaady!” Joey is tearing into the kitchen, hugging me, climbing up my legs and springing into my now-waiting arms. I squeeze him until he tries to wrestle free, nuzzling his awesome five-year-old neck, smelling his five-year-old skin and running my fingers through his hair. Does he seem taller? Thinner? Has he lost more of his baby fat? And baby teeth, are there...