WINTER ' FOURTEEN
about. I hoped then that my father was enjoying himself somewhere, in Canada or Mexico, that Sylvia
was wrong.
Sylvia came in, two martinis in her right hand. Her face was flushed. She swayed, giggling over the
low-pitched rumble of conversation. A man in a sweater vest and newsboy cap danced around the
Christmas tree, laughing, nearly knocking it over. A young woman grabbed him by the hand, leading
him out the door. He pretended to bow as he left.
“I could have given her something.” Nicky took a long swig. He slammed the Pabst hard on the
table. “A better shake. She’s always the Romantic. Some people are fucking stuck.”
I wondered at that moment if I would end up in New York or San Francisco, and whether Sylvia would
remain in that apartment alone. If she’d marry Nicky, or some other man, someone I hadn’t known. I
thought she wouldn’t.
Sylvia ambled over to the couch, placing herself between Nicky and me. She stretched her arms,
and let out a grunt.
“Well, are you men picking on Sylvia?” she said, half-jokingly. “Poor Sylvia.”
“That and the whole ball of wax,” Nicky said. Sylvia shook her head.
“What’s with Nicky?” I said, trying to keep my temper. “What business does he have here?”
Sylvia took a long swig of her martini, staring at the books that lined the mahogany shelves next to
the Christmas tree. The Sun Also Rises. Bend, Sinister. The Real Life Of Sebastian Knight.
“You spoil the boy, Sylvia,” he said, his voice rising. “He doesn’t know a thing about the world. He
plays at detectives and spies, and thinks he knows everything.”
“He’s all right, Nick,” Sylvia said cooly. “I think you’ve had a drink too many.”
Sylvia tried to smile, turning away. She stood at the window, among the men and women, laughing
and smoking, talking about accounts at work, trips to Paris. I wanted to comfort her somehow, but I
couldn’t. I just wanted Nicky out of our lives.
“Matthew here needs a man,” he said. “I wonder what that husband of yours would have done. Of
course, you’ll cover up, pretend it’s not an issue. That’s your problem, Sylvia. The boy needs to wake up.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I said. I wanted something to happen, something to make itself
known right away. “That’s none of your business. I should kick your ass from here to Michigan City.”
“You do what you have to Nick,” Sylvia said sharply, trying to brush me away, as though that would
make everything all right. “I’m sorry if my choices don’t suit your ethos.”
Nick smiled at me, conveying a sort of condescension, a sense that I would never see the world as
he had or would. I pictured my father there, a young man with one of those pencil-thin mustaches.
Sylvia alone in the kitchen late at night. She was someone should have had a chance in life, but who
had to learn about the world too young, someone who still saw the world through the prism of nicely
wrapped dreams.
“Get the hell up, Schmidt,” I said. I raised my fists, the way I’d seen in the movies. There are multiple
ways to fight, things I knew little of, but I knew two things, thanks to Frank Lawrence: You can fight
for the sake of feigning victory, or you can fight to win.
I tried to strike Nicky square in the face, but he was quick on his feet. He pushed hard. Not a
nervous push, but a full heave, uninhibited. And that’s how he knocked me square into the coffee table.
I lay there for a minute or more, with the once-welcoming lights blinding me. I could feel a throbbing
The Linnet's Wings