Edward Adrift

says, “you remember how I told you I’m retiring.”
    “Yes.”
    “Your mother has asked me to come with her to Texas, and that’s what I’m going to do—if it’s all right with you.”
    I look at my mother. She’s nodding, smiling at me.
    “Why?”
    “Because we care about each other.”
    He reaches into my mother’s lap and takes her hand in his.
    Holy shit!
    “You mean, like, you’re her boyfriend?” I ask.
    “Something like that.”
    “Something exactly like that,” my mother says.
    I look at them sitting there, holding hands. They look so happy, and that makes me angry. Two days ago, I was holding hands with someone, too. Now look what has happened.
    “How come you didn’t tell me?”
    “Until recently, there wasn’t a lot to tell,” Jay says. “I know you’re surprised, Edward. We were, too.”
    I want him to shut up and never say another word to me. I don’t look at him. I look only at my mother.
    “We’re selling the condo,” my mother says. “We’re going to live full time in Texas.”
    I cannot even believe what I’m hearing.
    “But Jay L. Lamb just told me ‘if it’s all right with you.’ Does that mean I have veto power over this?”
    My mother squeezes Jay L. Lamb’s hand tightly.
    “Not exactly veto power. What Jay wants is your blessing. It’s important to him, and to me, too. I think he’s showing a lot of respect for you by asking.”
    I am dimensions beyond flummoxed.
    “You told me you didn’t want a smelly old man living with you!”
    Jay L. Lamb coughs some of his drink back into his glass, and then he looks at my mother incredulously.
    “That’s what I thought when I said it. And by the way, Jay, you’re not smelly at all. Things change, Son.”
    “How long have things been changing?”
    I sound shrill and angry, and I realize that I
am
shrill and angry and that, furthermore, Dr. Bryan Thomsen’s best advice is not going to help me now.
    “It’s been gradual,” Jay L. Lamb says. “Imperceptible. We’ve spent time together these past couple of years, gone to a lot of the same functions, shared our hearts. It just happened.”
    “You should be happy,” my mother says. “For me, you should be happy.”
    I stand up again and return to the window.
    “I’m not happy, Mother. Not just about this, but about a lot of things.”
    “Let’s talk about it,” she says.
    “No.”
    “I should go,” Jay L. Lamb says. “You two should talk first.”
    “No,” my mother says.
    “Yes,” I say.
    Jay L. Lamb looks like a trapped animal. I take bitter pleasure in this.
    “Jay, please sit down,” my mother says, and he does.
    I turn around and face them.
    “I’m leaving. I’m going home. I can’t believe you are just going to leave here. And with Jay L. Lamb! What would Father think? No wonder you said you don’t miss him.”
    My mother’s face has lost color.
    “I think he would be happy for me, unlike you. But it doesn’t matter. He’s gone, and I’m here. I found someone I want to be with. You’re selfish to be against that.”
    “It’s selfish of you!”
    I leave the condo, and once I’m in the hallway, I run for the elevator. My ribs scream out their objection to this, and I don’t care.
    On the street, I find my new Cadillac DTS. The one Jay L. Lamb bought for me. The one my mother drove to take me away from Cheyenne Wells. The one parked next to Jay L. Lamb’s Volvo.
    I go around to the driver’s side door of the Volvo, rear back my right foot, and kick hard against the door, leaving a size-fourteen impression.
    I return to my car, open the driver’s side door, and climb in. I’m tired. I’m hurt. I’m flummoxed. I wonder how many shitburgers I can be expected to eat.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 23, 2011
    From the logbook of Edward Stanton:
    Time I woke up today: What difference does it make?
    High temperature for Thursday, December 22, 2011, Day 356: Who cares?
    Low temperature for Thursday, December 22, 2011: What does it matter?
    Precipitation for Thursday, December 22, 2011: It doesn’t matter.
    Precipitation for 2011: This doesn’t matter, either.
    New entries:
    Fuck new entries.
    My mother’s Keurig arrived today, brought to my door by the UPS delivery man.
    I walked it through the house, out the back door, across the yard, into the alley, and tossed it into the garbage bin.
    Merry Christmas, Mother.

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 24, 2011
    From the logbook of Edward Stanton:
    Time I woke up today:
    High temperature for Friday,