The Water-Method Man

With exaggerated patience, Ralph leaned across the aisle and smiled at Colm. 'Hey, Colm?' he said gently. 'Don't look at the camera, OK?'

Colm looked at his father, seeking guidance on whether or not he had to obey Ralph.

'Oil,' Bogus whispered.

'Oil,' repeated Tulpen, like a chant. Then she started laughing, and Colm broke up too.

'Oil,' Colm chanted.

Kent appeared typically baffled by the experience, but Ralph Packer, who was at least a keen observer of detail, put his camera down.

And after the zoo - the pregnant animals, the molting coats, the controlled little kingdom, from wart hog to cheetah - and after God knows how many feet of film, not of the animals but of the main character, Tulpen, Bogus and Colm ditched Ralph and Kent and the two thousand dollars' worth of movie equipment.

Ralph never really put the camera away. It hung in that heavy shoulder bag like a pistol in a holster, but you knew it was a pistol of large calibre, and you never forgot that it was loaded.

Tulpen and Bogus took Colm to a puppet show for kids in the Village. Tulpen knew all about such things: when museums put on films for the kids, when there were dances and plays and operas and symphonies and puppet shows. She knew about them because she herself was more interested in seeing them than things for adults; most of those were awful.

Tulpen hit it right every time. After the puppet show they went to a place to eat called The Yellow Cowboy, which was full of old film posters from Western movies. Colm loved it and ate like a horse. Afterwards, he fell asleep in the taxi. Bogus had insisted they take a cab, not wanting Colm to see any subway happenings at night. In the back seat, Trumper and Tulpen almost fought over whose lap Colm was going to lie in. Tulpen gave in and let Trumper hold him, but she kept her hand on Colm's foot.

'I just can't get over him,' she whispered to Trumper. 'I mean, you made him. He's part you.' Trumper looked embarrassed, but Tulpen went on anyway. 'I didn't think I loved you this much,' she told Bogus. She was crying a little.

'I love you too,' he said hoarsely, but he wouldn't look at her.

'Let's have a baby, Trumper,' she said. 'Can we?'

'I have a baby,' Trumper said sourly. Then he made a face, as if he couldn't stomach the self-pity he'd heard in his own voice.

She couldn't stomach it either. She squeezed Colm's sleeping foot. 'You selfish bastard,' she told Bogus.

'I know what you mean, but I do love you, I think,' he said. 'It's just such a fucking risk.'

'Suit yourself, Jack,' Tulpen said, and let go of Colm's foot.

Tulpen took Biggie's request that she and Trumper not be too familiar with each other more seriously than Trumper did. She arranged for Colm to sleep in her bed, facing the turtles and fish. Bogus was to sleep with him, if he could remember not to reach out and goose the child in the middle of the night. She slept on the couch.

Trumper listened to Colm's sweet breathing. How fragile children's faces are in sleep!

Colm woke up from a dream in the half-light before dawn, wailing and shaking, whining for a drink, demanding that the fish be quiet, claiming that a mad turtle had attacked him, then falling asleep again before Tulpen could bring him the water. She couldn't believe that a boy could be so worldly in the daytime and in such terror at night. Trumper told her that it was perfectly natural; some kids have rough nights. Colm had always been a wild sleeper, hardly ever passing two nights in a row without an outcry, mysterious and never explained.

'Understandable,' he muttered to Tulpen. 'Considering who the kid's lived with.'

'I thought you said Biggie was good with him,' Tulpen said, worried. 'And Couth too, you said. You mean Couth?'

'I meant me,' Trumper said. 'Fuck Couth,' he mumbled. 'He's a wonderful person ...'

Tulpen was also struck by how totally children wake up in the morning. Looking out the window, Colm was a babble of talk, thinking what he wanted to do, prowling Tulpen's kitchen.

'What's in the yogurt?'

'Fruit.'

'Oh, I thought it was lumps,' Colm said, eating on.

'Lumps?'

'Like in cereal,' said Colm. A-ha! Bogus thought, so Biggie is lousy with cereal. Or perhaps the overtalented Couth is responsible for the lumps?

But now Colm was talking about museums, wondering if there were any in Maine. Yes - for ships, Tulpen thought. Here in New York there were ones for paintings and sculpture and natural history ...