GERHARD SCHNEIBEL
Meat on the Bone When he was in his prime, he used to beat her, and she could smell it coming on— the way people do storms. She’s in the kitchen telling Jessica, my wife, that he excreted testosterone from his pores. I’m muddling my way through the assembly of our new electric cradle in the living room. “Now that he’s had his heart attack, though, I come and go without even thinking about the consequences,” she says. There’s a silence. She’d come over from next door uninvited. I tighten the last screw, plug in the cradle, and watch it swing. When Jessica comes into the living room, she hoists Curtis’s tiny body up on her shoulder and slips her breast back into her ruffled shirt. Curtis seems to enjoy the cradle, his eyes bright and the roll of fat under his chin wet with slobber. He watches the mobile turning above his face. Jessica looks over, and I know she wants me to say something, so I blurt out: “Doris, it was so nice of you to bring by the cake.” “I know it’s hard with a little one,” Doris says, standing near Jessica. “My own children were a mountain of work, but it was worth every minute. So many women don’t seem to understand that anymore. I’m happy to see your wife is breastfeeding.” I walk Doris to the front door and, on her way out, she tells me: “I’d better go get Mike his lunch. The cardiologist gave us a meal plan, and I don’t want him snacking on junk.” With her gone, I go back in the living room where Jessica is looking out the glass back door. I put my hands on her shoulders. Mike’s two dogs are bounding between his yard and ours, snapping at one another and rolling in the grass. “I know you don’t like them,” I say. “I don’t. It’s like she comes over here to check if I’m even feeding the baby.” “I think she’s trying to help because she knows we don’t have family in the area. I was talking about the dogs …” Raleigh Review | 25
