The Constellations

The next morning dawned

THE nExT morning daWnEd hot, still, and sticky. Deb lounged naked on the edge of the bed while Fergus dressed for his trip to the zoo with Eric. When he finished he came to the edge of the bed and leered at her breasts. “A dramatic difference, isn’t it?” she said. “They’re spectacular. Can we keep them?” He kissed each and returned to the piles of papers stacked beneath the windows. Each stack was held in place by books, ashtrays , or—in one case—a candle that dripped wax in seven different colors. “Wasn’t I reading the apocalyptic plague thing in bed last night?” he asked. “You put it in your case so you wouldn’t forget to take it to the office,” she said.“Try to get Eric back here by four. If I don’t beat the worst of the traffic it’ll be midnight before I get to Cypress.” “The heat should wear him out pretty fast,” Fergus said. “I don’t look forward to going.” “If you want my advice, wait until you hear he’s in before you sit down with Roy. That way if they say no there’s no unnecessary hard feelings.” “Eric will get in,” Deb said. Fergus, distracted by combing his hair, spoke offhandedly. “If he does, try to convince Roy instead of steamrolling him. When you want something, you get relentless. I imagine two little men in uniform inside you twisting keys simultaneously.” Deb turned to face him. “Once Maria calls,” she said, “Roy needs to make a decision right away. As the person doing the work on his behalf—no thanks to him, by the way—I think I deserve to have my voice heard.” 148 The Constellations Pink had already risen in her cheeks and on her chest.Practice had taught Fergus that Deb liked best to argue when she felt she had the advantage. That might mean pressures of time or superiority of argument or, as was usually the case, intensity of emotion . Once she started a fracas she never backed down. The only benefit for him was that such times were when he had her fullest attention and received the fullest hearing. “The adversarial process won’t work,”he said quietly.“Roy knows this is an excellent opportunity. But putting aside the fact Roy’s lost his wife and faces the prospect of losing his oldest child—” “Then let him do a better job,” she said. “Deb,” he exclaimed. “You don’t go to a man and tell him he can’t raise his kids.You’ve been married twice.You have brothers. Surely you understand something about the male gender.” “Oh, so that’s what it’s about,” Deb said. “Roy has to make the decision. What’s so wrong with letting him make it and keep his pride, too?” “Macho bullshit,” she scoffed. “He knows he’s barely making it,” Fergus said. “Maybe he gets through the day by blaming the hard times on Jean’s death. Not without some justification, by the way. Even he knows that excuse won’t work much longer, though. You like to correct men on their unenlightened attitudes, Deb, but you’re the one judging Roy by old criteria.I mean,what’s the traditional image? He’s supposed to move on. Duty above all, don’t succumb to grief, don’t make mistakes.” “He was an alcoholic before Jean died,” Deb said furiously. “So what?” he replied.“Jean was an alcoholic, too.” The moment he said it he was sorry—more for picking a more intense fight than for saying something she knew, as well as he did, to be a bald truth. Yet for a moment Fergus wondered if she did know. Did the gauze of loss so alter the image of her sister? He knew Deb was wise. Surely she saw, as he did during their visits , the three or four beers per night, every night, the casual dispatch of the kids to the refrigerator,Jean’s unpredictable rages,the vague disdain when Fergus switched to iced tea after one beer, or when Deb—who preferred wine to beer—abstained altogether. Kevin Cunningham 149 Surely she knew, as he did, the stories of Jean lounging around in her underwear, no doubt too pleasantly buzzed to question this decision.Surely Deb did not take Eric,the source of the stories,as...