The Withdrawal Method

RESPITE

ON SATURDAY evenings the writer named Womack takes a break from his novel and looks after the boy. He goes to the boy's house in the suburbs, far from where Womack lives among the other writers and artists in the city. It is winter and he rides out to the suburbs on his bicycle, wheels up slickly in the slush on the street and chains his bicycle to the fence that pens in the yard, then comes into the house, shivering and wet.

The boy is twelve, and dying of a degenerative illness. He can no longer see, hear, walk, or speak, although there are times when he laughs. This laugh is a cackle, a shriek. If Womack were to describe the laugh in his novel it would become a sudden bolt of blue lightning over an empty, black sea. Womack is a writer of prose, but fancies himself something of a poet also. Womack has studied writing in university and wants his novel to be something new, something fresh and free of cliche; these days he hears cliches even in speech and cringes.

Saturdays are the same, almost without variation: Womack arrives and the boy's mother, Sylvia, is waiting in the den, standing over her son in his wheelchair. She offers thanks and passes the boy off to Womack and disappears into her bedroom, and Womack then hoists the boy out of his wheelchair and props him up against his body and carries him around the house, and the boy moans. The boy moans and moves his legs as if he were walking, but he is not; the boy's legs hang limply from his body, dragging on the floor. Like this Womack manoeuvres the boy, slowly, step, step, step, from room to room around the house.

THE WRITER Womack used to live with a woman named Adriane whom he had that autumn begun to introduce to people as his partner, as though they were business associates or cops. The word arrived into his vocabulary at a party that was both Halloween party and stag-and-doe party for friends of Womack's, friends named Mike and Cheryl who would be married a week before Christmas. In the hallway, Womack's arm draped over Adriane's shoulder, a woman dressed as Fidel Castro introduced another woman, also dressed as Fidel Castro, as her partner, and Womack repeated the word in reference to Adriane. At this, like a child escaping the embrace of a foul-breathed and bearded aunt, Adriane slid out from underneath his arm, nodded at the Castros, and sipped her drink. Later, she confronted him in the kitchen.

Partner? she asked. The kimono of her geisha outfit shimmered and swished.

Sure, Womack told her. His costume was Hockey Player: helmet, gloves, stick. That's what people say now, he said.

Straight people?

Sure.

For the rest of the evening, Adriane adopted a Texan accent when addressing Womack — Yee-haw! Fetch me another drink, pardner! Even so, the new label made Womack feel modern and serious. Gone was the term girlfriend, used for those who had filled that role since his early teens. Now he had a partner. This was heavy stuff.

At midnight Womack and Adriane came home to the place that they had moved into together that July, their place that was not quite loft and not quite studio, their place where a wall divided two long, high-ceilinged rooms in defiance of architectural categorization. You entered the apartment to a kitchen and dining space; through an arched doorway was a living area with a couch and a stereo and the desk with the computer where Womack wrote his novel. At the back of the room, behind drawn curtains, sat their bed. This area they called the bedroom, even though it was not technically a room at all.

Adriane, who worked the next day, went straight to bed. Womack ditched the helmet, gloves, and stick in a closet, sat down at his desk in his uncomfortable chair, turned on his computer, and began typing. The uncomfortable chair had wheels and the floor was warped, slightly. At one point, when Womack's typing relented and he let go of the keyboard, the desk released him gliding into the room until he stopped with a bump against the window on the far wall.

Sitting there under the window, the computer glowing across the room, he could hear Adriane's breathing from behind the curtains. This is what their weekdays had become: dinner or the occasional outing, Adriane falling asleep hours before him, then up early the next morning and off to the counselling centre. Womack would sleep until noon, get up, drink too much coffee, and eventually make it to the computer, to his novel.

In the summer, when they had moved in together, they had bought tropical houseplants and named them: Hangy, the bushy one dangling from the ceiling above the dining table; Jules Fern, whose leafy tendrils spread out over the couch; and, guarding the bedroom, sombre and violet: Jacques Laplante. Back then, Adriane would arrive home and it would be sex, first thing, almost before she was even in the door. Her clothes would come off and so would Womack's and they would romp for a while on the bed, if they made it that far, and afterwards have a nice meal wearing only housecoats and slippers. Then there might be more sex and snacks made in the toaster oven, gobbled dripping cheese over the sink, and finally, clinging to each other in bed: Goodnight Adriane, I love you, and, Goodnight Womack, me too, and Adriane would go in bleary-eyed to work the next morning.

Now this, every night: Womack wide awake at his computer and Adriane asleep behind the curtains. This was the life of couples, he assumed, of partners — functional, pragmatic, a pattern established and repeated with someone who found it mutually tolerable. Womack thought of his parents, marching together through their marriage like soldiers in a military parade. Partners. Life.

But Womack was writing a novel, and he was doing good work. He had written more than one hundred pages. The words were coming. Sentences spilled into paragraphs spilled into chapters, while on the periphery Adriane came in and out of the apartment like the mechanical bird in a windup clock.

AT THE HOUSE where Womack volunteers, there are two other children, the boy's sister and brother: Jessica and Andrew. They are younger, nine and six, and often play The Game of Life on the den floor while Womack carries their dying older brother around nearby. Womack and the boy step over the two children and their board game, which it seems only Jessica understands and wins convincingly every time, and Womack says, Excuse us, and watches as Jessica takes advantage of the distraction to steal three five-hundred-dollar bills and a husband from the box. Nice characterization, notes Womack.

ONE COLD EVENING a week into November, Adriane came home from yoga class, which she had recently taken up and went to twice a week straight from work. Womack was at the stove, making dinner. Outside, the first snow of the season came sifting down like wet flour from the clouds. It lit briefly on the streets before melting into the grey puddle that soaked the city.

Adriane hung her coat and came into the kitchen. Through the doorway to the other room drifted the sound of the stereo in the next room, playing music. Ah, there's a good Womack, she said, nodding. My little housewife. Her face was pink; icy droplets had collected in her hair and eyelashes.

Womack laughed, stirring a creamy sauce. How were The Youth today?

The Youth were troubled, said Adriane. She pulled the Dictaphone she used for interviews from her pocket, placed it on the kitchen table.

Any good stories?

Adriane snorted, shaking her head. This again, she said.

Oh, come on, said Womack. Who am I going to tell?

Adriane started rifling through the stack of mail on the dining table. Hangy drooped down from above, lush and green. What did you do all day?

What do you think?

She fingered Hangy's foliage. Did you water the plants?

I watered them like a week ago. They're fine.

And the RSVP to Mike and Cheryl about the wedding?

Oh, come on, Ade. They know we're coming.

She held up an envelope. How about the phone bill?

Oh, shoot. Womack stopped stirring.

Adriane looked up. You're kidding, right?

I got busy.

Busy doing what? You were home all day!

Home, working. The spoon stood erect in the coagulating sauce. It's not like I'm just sitting around picking my ass.

I guess if you ever called anyone, you'd probably care if the phone got disconnected.

Was this a fight? wondered Womack. Were they fighting?

Adriane looked at him, the look of an executive evaluating an employee at a time of cutbacks and layoffs. Womack wore the cut-off sweatpants and T-shirt he had gone to bed in the night before. Adriane reached out and pocketed the Dictaphone, then spoke before he could: When was the last time you went outside?

Two nights ago. I picked up sushi, remember?

During the day. For more than errands.

Ade, this is what I do. I'm writing a book.

A novel, she corrected him, smirking.

You go to work with The Youth, I work at home. Okay?

Adriane said nothing. Womack returned to his sauce, which had developed a rubbery skin he now began to churn back in. After a minute, Adriane stood, moved to the front door, and put on her coat.

Where are you going? asked Womack.

To the ATM, said Adriane. She held up the envelope. To pay the phone bill.

WHAT THE BOY likes is doors. He and Womack stop in front of a closed door in the house, a bedroom or a closet, and the boy takes Womack's hand in his and places it on the doorknob, and Womack opens the door and the boy laughs. When Womack closes the door the boy moans and takes Womack's hand again and places it on the doorknob, and this continues until the boy becomes restless, and then they move to a new door in the house. Womack watches the boy delight in the doors and thinks to himself, I should be able to use this as a metaphor for something.

A FEW DAYS later, Adriane came home from yoga and Womack was wearing a shirt and tie. Dinner was on the table: meatloaf and green beans and rice. She disappeared into the den, turned off the music that was playing, then re-emerged in the kitchen.

What's the occasion? asked Adriane. You look like a dad.

No occasion, said Womack. But thank you.

They sat and ate.

How was yoga? he asked.

Good. You should come some time.

Ha! Womack nearly choked on a green bean. Yoga! God, like one of those New Age creeps in a unitard and a ponytail, some white guy named Starfire or Ravi. No thanks.

Adriane looked at him, opened her mouth to say something, but seemed to reconsider and instead filled it with meatloaf.

I've been thinking, said Womack, chewing.

Oh yeah?

Yeah. I've been thinking about maybe volunteering somewhere. You know, getting out and doing something, getting involved. In the community. With people.

Adriane took a sip of water, put the glass back down, waited.

Maybe something with kids, Womack said.

That's a great idea, said Adriane. Womack detected something in her voice, though: hesitancy, maybe. Doubt?

After dinner, Adriane washed the dishes while Womack retreated to his computer. He took off his tie and typed and deleted and typed some more. Adriane did paperwork at the dining table, the murmur of voices playing from the Dictaphone as she made her transcriptions. Eventually she came into the den, rubbing her eyes, tape recorder in hand.

I'm pooped, she told Womack. Stood there while he stared at the computer screen.

He looked up. Sure, he said. I'm just going to finish this bit, okay?

Adriane turned and disappeared between the curtains. Womack could hear the whisper of clothes coming off and pajamas going on. And then the bedroom light clicking off and the bedside lamp clicking on. He typed these two sentences into his computer.

I'll come kiss you goodnight, Womack called, cutting and pasting the pajama line into another section of his novel. Let me know when you're in bed.

Another click, extinguishing the glow of the bedside lamp. The rustle of sheets. A pillow being fluffed. Silence.

Womack read the section over, then pushed away from the desk on his wheelie chair. Behind the curtains, Adriane lay in bed with her back to him, facing the wall. Womack slid under the covers and put a hand on her back. He felt a tremor in her body. She was masturbating.

Mind if I join you? asked Womack.

Suit yourself, said Adriane, her hand at work between her legs.

Womack reached into his pants and began to coax himself into arousal. Beside him, Adriane's breath came in gasps. After a few minutes, just as Womack was growing hard, she went limp.

Did you finish? he asked.

I'm tired, she said.

Oh.

Outside the snow had become the hiss of light rain.

Okay, said Womack. Sure. Well, goodnight. He leaned in and planted a kiss on the back of Adriane's head. She tensed, slightly.

Everything all right? he asked.

I'm tired, Womack.

Womack lay there, propped up on one elbow, staring at Adriane's back. Eventually, he got up, ducked between the curtains, and sat back down at his computer. He typed volunteering into an Internet search and, with a licorice-scented marker and a stack of Post-It notes, began taking stock of his options.

AFTER AN HOUR or so of Womack carrying the boy around the house, it is time for the boy's supper. This supper is pureed and usually cauliflower. Sylvia emerges from the bedroom looking half asleep, heats up the boy's supper in the microwave, and gives it to Womack to feed to her son. At this time she also gets out some leftovers from the week and heats them on the stove for herself and Jessica and Andrew. When everything is ready, everyone sits down at the table: mother and two children at one end, Womack and the boy at the other.

A WEEK AFTER submitting his online application, Womack was registered with The Fountain Group, an organization that paired its volunteers with families in need of respite care. The family assigned to Womack was named Dunn; their address was included, and a telephone number if Womack wished to call and introduce himself before he visited their home. He did not.

His first Saturday, Womack woke up early. Adriane was sleeping in; it was her day off. Although Womack was not scheduled to be out at the family's home until four that afternoon, he paced around the apartment, wondering what to wear, eating breakfast, then brunch, then a giant toasted sandwich at a few minutes past noon. He felt nauseous and bloated. It was the first day he had not turned his computer on in months.

From Womack's apartment to the Dunns' house took just under a half-hour by bicycle. He rode along the major avenues and boulevards of the city that narrowed into the thin, treelined streets of the suburbs. The trees were leafless. The streets were black with melted snow. Womack pulled up to a squat bungalow with a cracked driveway and a lawn littered with children's toys: Tonka trucks and hula hoops and a few upended sand pails. This was the place.

Inside, Womack met first Sylvia, then Jessica and Andrew, who both stared for a moment at Womack's outstretched hand before bounding off giggling down the hallway — and then, finally, sitting in the kitchen in his wheelchair and moaning, the boy. Womack approached him as one might a lion escaped from its cage: at a crouch, whispering. Sylvia stood behind the chair and secured the boy's head in an upright position. Saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth, strung to his shoulder in gooey threads. The boy's eyes were milky and gazed blankly in the direction of, but not at, Womack.

Hello, whispered Womack.

The boy moaned.

He likes to have his face touched, said the boy's mother. She cupped his ears, demonstrating. The boy laughed, a sudden burst like the crack of a cannon. Womack jumped. He composed himself, squatted beside the boy in his wheelchair, and, looking up at the mother, replaced her hands with his own. The boy shook his head free and moaned. Womack stood.

He just needs to get to know you, explained Sylvia.

The rest of the evening Womack spent at a distance observing the boy's routine: Sylvia fed her son, bathed him, eventually put him to bed. He admired her ease with the boy, the mechanical, almost instinctive acts of jeans being pulled off and a diaper being folded on, pajamas, and then the tenderness of her leaning over and stroking his face while he lay in bed and Womack stood in the doorway, dimming the lights. Motherhood, noted Womack. In the front hall, handing Womack his coat, she told him the following week he would be on his own, and did he feel comfortable doing it all himself?

Womack said, Sure, nodding a bit too vigorously.

When Womack got home, Adriane sat at the kitchen table before an offering of Styrofoam tubs. The Dictaphone sat nearby atop a pile of manila folders. She was reading a book — a travel guide: Southeast Asia on a Shoestring.

Planning a trip? Womack asked, taking his place at the table.

I wish. Adriane stood and began peeling lids off containers, revealing noodles, barbecue pork, and cashew chicken. Sitting back down, she added, I mean, I wish I could afford it.

Sure.

Anyway, I ordered Chinese. She gestured at the food. I didn't feel like cooking.

Fair enough, said Womack. He pulled apart a pair of chopsticks. Looks good.

While they ate, Womack detailed his afternoon spent with the boy. Adriane responded with single words muffled by mouthfuls of food: Yeah? Really? Uh-huh.

He's more… he's sicker than I thought he would be. Like, he can't really do anything for himself. It'll be me doing pretty much everything — feeding him, giving him a bath, changing his diaper.

Adriane looked up. Like his mother does every day?

Oh, she's amazing. Can you imagine? You should see her with him.

Womack didn't know what else to say. What were the words for this? He could only think of cliches — the power of the human spirit, stuff like that. Adriane went back to her meal, chopsticks gathering, plucking. They ate silently, methodically, and when the Styrofoam containers had been emptied, Womack put down his chopsticks and looked across the table at Adriane, this woman he had lived with for five months, his partner. She was leaning over the last few scraps of chow mein, eyes on her travel guide.

So, he said, crumpling the empty food containers one by one under his palm, like a tough guy with beer cans. Southeast Asia.

Yep, she said.

Sounds fun.

Adriane speared a piece of pork with her chopstick, lifted it up, bit down, and sucked the meat into her mouth. Something to read, she said.

Just something to read?

Sure. She rolled her eyes. God, listen to me — sure — I'm starting to even talk the same as you.

Womack ignored this. Well, why not the newspaper? Why not a book? I've got lots of books. He could hear the crescendo of his own voice. You want to borrow a book?

A novel?

Womack paused. When he spoke, his tone was quiet, low, but something uneasy rippled through his voice: What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?

Oh, you know, big writer. You and your novel. She slurped a noodle into her mouth. It whacked against her cheek on the way in, leaving a brown stripe across her face. Am I in there? Is there a bitchy girlfriend character? Is she always nagging the hero to take out the garbage and pay the bills?

Since when do you care about my writing? said Womack, aware, immediately, of his own earnestness.

Adriane stared at him, chewing. The saucy stripe lay like a wound across her cheek. Since when do you care about my writing? she mimicked, standing, carrying her plate behind the kitchen counter, where she slid it among the dirty dishes piled in the sink. This is my day off, she told him. I have to deal with bullshit all week. I want to have my weekends to relax, not get into these stupid arguments about nothing.

Womack looked away. On the table before him, splayed open to a page titled "When to Go," sat the travel guide. Womack imagined Adriane surfing on a ratty shoelace along the river from Apocalypse Now, heads on spikes lining the shores, bullets whizzing through the air. All around, crumpled Styrofoam tubs sat like ruined sandcastles. Womack placed his hands over his ears, tightly. There was a dull echo inside his skull: the empty, hollow rumble of a stalled train.

FEEDING THE BOY is easy; he eats mechanically, unquestioningly. Womack sits the boy in his wheelchair and scoops spoonfuls of pureed food into the boy's mouth, and the boy swallows. At the opposite end of the table sit the boy's mother and brother and sister with their plates of leftovers, but they are in a different world, apart. While Womack feeds the boy, Andrew shovels mashed potatoes and corn at his face, spilling most of it on the floor; Jessica eats demurely, telling stories about which boys at school she dislikes this week; Sylvia takes it all in, nodding, smiling, pushing her food around, hardly eating. Womack feels invisible, as if he were watching their meal through a two-way mirror — collecting evidence for a trial, a detective, or a spy.

IN THE MIDDLE of December, Womack surprised Adriane with dinner reservations at a Vietnamese restaurant. Adriane smiled at this. Encouraged, Womack kissed her on the cheek and took her hand in his as they walked down the street.

At the restaurant, a woman in a Santa hat seated them at a table for two and handed over menus they struggled to read in the dim light. Womack, squinting, made a few suggestions — What about number twenty-three? Or sixteen, the shrimp? — before the waitress arrived and Adriane ordered a bowl of soup.

Soup? said Womack. He looked apologetically to the waitress. Why don't we share a couple things?

I'm not that hungry, said Adriane. She gazed around the restaurant, up at the walls decorated with posters and maps of Vietnam, at the shelves of ornaments by the door. A few booths over, a couple were drinking with their arms entwined.

Womack decided on the shrimp dish for himself, plus a half-litre of house wine for the two of them, to share.

The waitress left, smiling. Womack looked at Adriane, then over at the romancing couple, then back at her. He rolled his eyes.

What's wrong with that? she asked.

Nothing, said Womack. Just a little cheesy.

They were silent until the food and wine arrived, and even then, their meal was only punctuated by Womack asking, How's your soup? to which Adriane responded, Good, how's your shrimp? to which Womack responded, Good, and then Adriane slurped her soup and Womack chewed his shrimp, which were not good at all but overcooked and rubbery, and when the meal was over Adriane put it on her Visa and they left the restaurant and walked home, Womack behind Adriane, single file.

Back in the apartment Adriane went directly to bed, and Womack, tipsy from all the wine he'd drunk alone, sat at his desk with the computer monitor off, staring at the blank screen.

WHEN HE IS full, the boy moans. Womack excuses himself from the table with the boy's dishes, rinses them in the sink, stacks them in the dishwasher, and then wheels the boy into his bedroom. Womack sits on the bed and tells the boy, You need to digest your food. The boy moans and rocks slightly in his wheelchair. Womack looks out the window of the boy's room, at the sun setting or the children's swing set in the backyard, and thinks about the novel he is writing. He has wanted for some time for this boy to become a character — someone tragic, his novel lacks pathos — but how to write about a dying child without resorting to sentimentality, to cliche?

THAT THURSDAY, two days before Mike and Cheryl's wedding, Adriane announced to Womack that she would only be able to make it to the reception.

There's this Hot Yoga class starting on Saturday afternoons, she told him over a dinner of fish sticks and peas. If I don't go to the first one, they won't let me sign up.

Hot Yoga? said Womack, stabbing at a single pea with his fork. Ade, these are two of my best friends.

Really? When was the last time you talked to them? Halloween?

Whoa, said Womack. The pea rolled away; he put down his fork.

I'll he there for the reception — that's what matters. They won't even notice me missing at the ceremony. And you know how I feel about church and religion and all that.

I've cancelled volunteering for the day, Ade. You don't think you could just do your Hot Yoga some other time? He looked at her. What the fuck is Hot Yoga, anyway?

Sorry, she said, and reached across the table, unexpectedly, to squeeze Womack's hand. He felt something like warmth at this contact and hated himself for that.

At the wedding ceremony Womack sat at the end of a pew in the back of the church, the space beside him conspicuously empty. When Cheryl came up the aisle he turned with everyone else, beaming, trying to catch her eye. She stared ahead, some strange mix of terror and joy on her face, and walked deliberately through the middle of the congregation as though she were trying to ignore everyone there.

After the vows and photos and everything else, and the two hundred-person congregation had shifted to the community centre across town, Womack found his seat at a table with strangers, right near the front of the reception hall. The folded card on his plate read Womack + Guest. The room began to fill, and Womack kept asking the woman on the other side of the empty chair between them what time it was, before, finally, just as the head groomsman was about to give his speech, Adriane came breezing in. She was dressed in black pants and a black sweater, and her hair was still wet from the shower.

Thanks for showing up, whispered Womack as she sat down.

Adriane shook out her napkin and laid it across her lap. That was some hot yoga.

Right, said Womack, and pulled away.

The speeches began. They were long. Adriane sat there, her back to the stage, staring into space. Womack drank a few glasses of wine and began to feel disappointed that he hadn't been asked to speak. He would have been good. He was a writer, for fuck's sake.

Then the speeches were over and Cheryl was standing up at the front with a big white bouquet, back to the crowd, and a cluster of women were gathered jostling at the front of the hall. The deejay got on the microphone and everyone joined in the countdown, and at Zero! Cheryl launched the bouquet upwards over her head, and even before it landed, Womack could trace the trajectory, could see in horror that it was coming toward his table. When it smacked down on Adriane's plate he could only stare into all those flowers, the ivory gloss of them. He was aware vaguely of Adriane saying something like, Oh, fucking fantastic, and felt nothing when they got home later and her first move was to the kitchen, where she stuffed the entire bouquet into the trash underneath the sink.

AFTER THE Boy digests dinner it is time for his bath, and Womack fills the tub and strips the boy down and lifts him up and eases him into the water, which Womack takes great care to ensure is the right temperature. The water sloshes around and Womack struggles for a simile to describe it to himself in his head, but the boy is floundering about in the water and needs calming, so Womack abandons similes and instead attempts to soothe the boy by putting his hands over the boy's ears. The boy's thrashing subsides; he sinks down into the water with Womack's hands on his face, smiling, laughing. Then Womack sponges the boy down and shampoos his hair, and when the boy is pink and rosy and clean, Womack lifts him out of the tub and towels him off.

TWO WEEKS BEFORE Christmas Womack decided to buy a turkey. At the supermarket he scooped one from the deep freeze and brought it home on his bicycle in his backpack. When Adriane came home that evening from yoga, after she turned off his music and reappeared in the kitchen, Womack opened up the refrigerator door and displayed it to her, proudly, as if it were something he himself had constructed or laid.

Better keep it in the freezer, said Adriane.

Yeah?

Well, it's not going to keep in there forever.

Doesn't it look delicious?

Adriane eyed the turkey, a pinkish lump nestled between the milk and pickles. It looks like a dead bird, she said.

Womack slammed the fridge door. For fuck's sake, Ade.

What? She was laughing at him.

Can you get excited about anything?

A turkey? You want me to get excited about a turkey?

Well, something.

Adriane shook her head and went into the den. Womack followed her and stood in the doorway, watching her remove the Dictaphone from her pocket, place it softly on the coffee table, then pick up Southeast Asia on a Shoestring and start reading.

So when are we going? he asked.

Adriane laughed, turning the page. You think you could afford it?

Womack faltered. He could feel what was coming, knew it from so many bad TV shows, the script of The Couple's Fight.

What is this? he asked her finally.

What is what?

This. You. Never home. And when you are, acting like I don't exist — not talking, disappearing into that book, going to bed.

Don't you ever get tired of just sitting around? There was something tired and pleading in Adriane's eyes. Womack did his best not to read it as pity.

You want to take a vacation? he demanded. Take a vacation. Go. I'm not stopping you. I'll lend you an extra shoestring if you want.

Oh, put it in your novel, writer. Adriane sighed, closed the book, and flopped back on the couch. She was silent. Womack was silent. Then there was a loud click from the Dictaphone. They both looked down at it sitting almost guiltily on the coffee table.

What the hell? he asked, moving across the room.

Adriane stood. Don't, she said.

But Womack was already there, the recorder in his hand, hitting the Eject button, popping the cassette out of the recorder. What's this? You're taping our conversations?

Adriane was reaching toward him, a nervous expression on her face.

Give that to me.

Womack slid the cassette back into the Dictaphone, hit Rewind for a few seconds, then Play.

From the speaker, his own voice — tinny, but audible: Can you get excited about anything?

And then Adriane's: A turkey? You want me to get excited about a turkey?

His, more incredulous and desperate than he remembered: Well, something.

And so on, their voices, back and forth. Finally, Adriane's, Oh, put in your nov- was cut off, and the tape began to whine before snapping to a stop.

Womack stood for a moment, silent, gazing at the Dictaphone in his hand as if it might speak up and offer an explanation. Adriane sat down on the couch.

How long have you been doing this? Womack asked, his back to her.

Adriane said nothing.

He rewound the cassette, farther this time, letting the counter wind backwards a few hundred digits. He pressed Play.

Here he was: I guess so, yeah. This was followed by hiss, the odd clank of something metallic. Chewing. Womack watched the wheels of the cassette turn, waiting. Then, himself again: So, Southeast Asia.

Yep, she said.

Sounds fun.

A pause. Her: Something to read.

Just something to read?

Womack hit Stop. Christ, he said. You're messed up, you know that? He took the cassette out of the recorder, turned it over in his hands.

There was a sigh from the couch, but Womack refused to look over. He wiggled his finger into the empty space at the base of the cassette, hooked it under the tape, and began pulling, pulling — not angrily, but purposefully, the wheels spinning, however many of their recorded arguments unravelling into piles of glistening black ribbon at his feet.

AFTER BATHING THE boy, Womack has to get a diaper on him, which is always a struggle. With one hand Womack lifts the boy's legs and holds them together at the ankles, knees bent, while with the other he hoists up the boy's backside and attempts to wedge the diaper underneath. Occasionally the diaper ends up the wrong way on, but by then Womack is often so exhausted he says, Fuck it, to himself, and pulls the boy's pajamas on over the backward diaper and gives him some pills. The boy might at this point again be moaning. Womack does the hands-on-the-ears thing. It has become a reflex. The boy grins, gurgling, cooing. With his hands cupped over the boy's ears, Womack looks down at him, at the boy lying on the bed in his pajamas, something like delight on his face, and he tries not to think the expected thoughts of fortune and misfortune, chance and fate.

TWO NIGHTS AFTER the incident with the Dictaphone, Womack and Adriane had another argument that, with Adriane in bed and him sitting before his computer, filled Womack with shame and embarrassment. He recalled himself screaming things like, Will you think of someone other than yourself, for once? and Adriane crying and screaming back, When was the last time we did anything fun?

As Womack sat there, from behind the curtains in the bedroom came the light whistle of a snore, the creak of bedsprings as Adriane turned in her sleep. Womack pictured her, wrapped in the covers — but the image included him, lying next to her, staring into her face as she slept. A hard knot rose in his throat. Womack sighed deeply, rose from the uncomfortable chair, pushed through the curtains, and stood looking down at Adriane, her eyes closed, mouth half open, hair splayed across the pillow.

Hey, he said.

A pasty, smacking sound from her mouth.

He sat down on the bed, reached out, and prodded her with his fingertips. Hey.

Adriane rolled over. What time is it?

Ade, this isn't right. Us sleeping in the same bed.

What? She sat up.

Us, like this. I can't do it, act like nothing's wrong, lie down next to you. I can't sleep like that. Like, physically, I can't sleep.

Okay?

So maybe one of us should sleep on the couch. Like we could take turns, or whatever.

Look at you, she said. Her mouth was a crescent-shaped shadow in the dark.

Me?

Making decisions. I'm impressed.

What are you talking about?

I'm talking about you, actually doing something for a change. Not just sitting back and watching and then going to your computer and typing it all down.

I'm sorry?

You know, it's too bad you wrecked that tape I was making. I was planning on playing it back for you, so you could actually hear yourself. Like, for real, instead of the version you make up in your head.

What would you know about that?

Listen, she said, kicking the covers off. I think one of us sleeping on the couch is a great idea. And I volunteer myself. Seriously. No problem. The bed's all yours.

And then she ducked through the curtains and was gone. Womack looked down at the S-shaped indentation her body had imprinted on the mattress. Lying down, curling his own body to fill the shape, he could smell Adriane's hair on the pillow. He pulled the sheets around him and cocooned himself within the heat she had left behind.

WOMACK'S LAST TASK before he puts the boy to bed is to give him water. This is not as simple as running the tap into a cup and tipping it down the boy's throat; while pureed foods are not a problem, the boy chokes on liquids. Drinking is a complicated, almost medical procedure. The boy has been outfitted with a sort of valve above his belly button. It looks to Womack like a valve you might find on a pair of children's water wings: a little tube that juts out of the boy's stomach and a stopper on a flexible hinge that plugs and unplugs the opening of the tube. In the corner of the bedroom, Womack sits the boy down in his wheelchair, lifts his shirt to expose the valve, and attaches a tube connected to an iv bag hanging from the ceiling. Water from the bag drips along the tube and directly into the boy's stomach. Womack sits back, waiting, and watches the boy drink.

ONE OF THE last nights before Adriane moved out, Womack came home from volunteering and she was sleeping in the bed, the curtains open. The blankets on the couch were still there, crumpled in a woolly ball from where she had kicked them that morning. It was early, barely nine o'clock. Womack stood between the open curtains, looking down on her lying there, listening for the whistle of her breath. There was silence. Womack knew she was awake.

Hey, he said, getting into bed.

There was no reply, but Womack could feel her shifting, moving closer.

Hey, he said again.

Adriane turned over. Womack reached out and put his hand to her face, felt the wetness of tears on her cheek.

Just sleeping, right? said Adriane. No fooling around.

Womack nodded, avoided saying anything about old time's sake.

He slid one arm underneath her neck, another around her back, his thigh between her legs. Their faces were close. Her breath was salty and hot.

I miss you, he said.

Adriane sniffed.

He kissed her, then, felt her lips against his, but the kiss felt only like a gesture: a handshake, a nod, a wave goodbye. Then she turned and he curled tightly into her back and closed his eyes. After a few minutes like this, he felt her body relax as she fell asleep. Her breath came in deep, restful sighs.

Womack lay there, the tickle of Adriane's hair against his face. Sleepless minutes became an hour. An hour became two. He was hot. He kicked the covers off. Another hour passed. Womack thought, Sleep, sleep. He tried to match his breathing to hers. Eventually, he rolled away, releasing her, and sat up. Legs dangling off the bed, Womack looked at Adriane over his shoulder. Her face.

In the kitchen Womack filled a mug with milk and put it in the microwave, which whirred to life and cast a yellow glow in the dark kitchen. He leaned back on the counter in front of the refrigerator, smiled, then reached forward, opening the freezer. A cold blast of air, and there was the turkey, surrounded by ice-cube trays and Tv dinners and Tupperware.

In the den, Womack sat down with his warm milk on the uncomfortable chair and turned on his computer. He sipped at the milk while things booted up, thinking of the turkey in the freezer: a last sad attempt at domesticity, futile and abandoned and collecting the white fur of frost.

When the computer was ready, he opened up the file on the desktop that was his novel and sat there, reading it over, rolling slightly this way and that. He leaned back. The milk was done. He let the cup rest in his lap, stretched out his legs, and the next morning when Adriane woke, she found him asleep in the chair underneath the window, the computer's screensaver whirling around on the other side of the room.

ON THE BOY's bed are a harness and guardrail to prevent him from rolling out over the course of the night. These Womack once forgot to put in place; he realized the following morning and promptly called the boy's mother to make sure the boy had not cracked his skull open over the course of the night. The boy had not. Sylvia explained that every night after Womack leaves the house, she checks on her son and kisses him goodnight.

NOW IT is the last Saturday before Christmas. Next week the family has told Womack to take the day off. A holiday. But today Womack is scheduled to head out there on his bicycle, to go through his routine with the boy of opening doors and supper and bathtime and bedtime.

In his place that he now inhabits alone, in his place that is not quite loft and not quite apartment, his place that contains just under half as much furniture and two tropical houseplants fewer than it did a few weeks prior, Womack gets ready for his day of volunteering. He eats a sensible lunch of a bowl of soup, a bagel, and an apple. The coffee maker is gone, so instead Womack makes a cup of tea, which he sips while he edits a draft of his novel, not yet complete but still printed out and lying in two stacks on the kitchen table. He works with a blue pen on the stack of paper to his right. The completed pages he turns over and adds to the stack to his left. If he were honest with himself, he would admit that he cannot write anything new; the editing gives him something to do.

When it is time to leave, Womack finishes the page he is working on, stands, puts on his coat and hat and gloves, checks for the key to his bike lock in his pocket. At the door on his way out, he pauses for a moment, looking back across the kitchen, at the refrigerator, at the freezer.

At the family's house Sylvia is waiting, as always, with her son in his wheelchair, but this time the other children are decorating a Christmas tree in the corner of the room. Andrew is hanging ornaments with methodical symmetry; Jessica is wrapping the branches in silver tinsel. A blue macaroni angel looms above. Womack removes his coat and hat and gloves, lowers his backpack to the ground.

What's in the bag? asks the boy's mother.

Ah, says Womack. A little present.

He opens the zipper, and, shaking the backpack a bit, produces the turkey.

A turkey, says Sylvia. Beside her, the boy begins to moan.

I thought we could maybe have it tonight, says Womack, cradling it like an infant, adding, Together.

That's very kind of you, says Sylvia, but I think it's still frozen. It'll take at least a day to thaw before we can even think about cooking it.

Womack wavers at this, feeling vulnerable and foolish.

Hastily, Sylvia holds out her hands for the turkey. But if you're not going to eat it, we'd love to keep it for another time.

Womack smiles. The boy moans. Okay, says Womack.

The rest of the afternoon is spent predictably: the walking about, the doors, supper, the boy's bath. Womack lies the boy down on his bed, lifts the boy's legs up in the air, does his best to get the diaper on. Next: pajamas. Outside the December sky glows a dull orange. Womack closes the blinds of the boy's bedroom, pulls back the covers, starts to lift the latches on the guardrail to secure it alongside the mattress.

When the boy is safely in bed, Womack's duties will be over for the evening. He will cross the hall and knock on Sylvia's bedroom door. He will hear the click of the lock and the door will open and Sylvia will smile a tired sort of smile and say, Thank you, Martin, Merry Christmas, and Martin Womack will say, No problem, Merry Christmas to you too. He will say, See you in two weeks, Sylvia, and Sylvia will say, Yes.

But tonight, Womack realizes, in the den Jessica and Andrew will not be packing up The Game of Life, Jessica having won again, her little car packed with the blue and pink pegs of a successful family, her bank account bursting, her assets bountiful. They will have finished decorating the tree. They might be watching a movie, a Christmas movie, the tree blinking coloured lights from the corner of the room. Goodbye, Womack will whisper, as he puts on his coat. Jessica will say, Your turkey's in the fridge, not turning from the movie, and Andrew will wave and grin.

And so Womack will leave the family. He will head outside and unchain his bicycle and hop up onto it and push off and begin to pedal his way home, where his half-written novel waits for him on his kitchen table. The bicycle will cut down the darkened streets of the suburbs, heading toward the city and the novel. The streets will be black and wet with melted snow and spangled golden with streetlights, and riding back home along them, through the winter night, will tonight feel to Womack a little bit like falling.