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60
gifts. A sunflower for Paul, which wilted in an empty milk
bottle for two weeks. A foam rubber rugby ball, which Max
accidentally threw out of the kitchen window to languish
forevermore where it landed. Or the tin of Scottish
shortbread that Irene ravenously devoured when she was
high. And now someone rang the doorbell, just when we
were voting for or against Claudia and, just as I’d been
hoping, Fergus appeared, bringing me a stretched wine
gum decorated with specks of tobacco, which he pulled out
of his jacket pocket with every intention of sticking it in my
mouth. In his other hand he held a bulging backpack with a
pair of old sneakers strapped to it.
“Man!” said my father, “Don’t tell me you’re going back to
England?”
Fergus put the bag down and shook his head.
“It’s over. She kicked me out. It’s not even been a month,
man. Hello Lu, my baby. Oh, of course, she can’t eat that,
right?”
He bit the wine gum, sucking on it and pulling the bottom
half down his chin. As he closed the door behind him, he
left the gum hanging out of his mouth. He looked so
helpless, a lovesick giant who’d lost his appetite but who,
aware of his preordained duty in the fairy tale, had half
swallowed a dwarf, which was still jiggling its little legs.