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: : : DURING WINTER BREAK, FLETCHER AND Cassandra fought. They were supposed to be going to see Fletcher's family for a holiday dinner, and on the drive out he once again instructed her on the two things that he didn't want her to talk about. Her previous marriage. Her child. That was how it started. He'd given her these warnings before but when she heard them this particular time, on this particular car ride, her face went rigid and she said —You know what? Forget it. I want to go home.
—But you can't go home, Fletcher said. —You're supposed to be meeting my parents. They're expecting you.
—They're not expecting me, Cassandra said. —Not the real me. The mother. The divorced woman. That's me, Fletcher. That's not who they're expecting. They're expecting some version of me that you just made up—
Fletcher tried to defend himself, and the defense slid into argument, where she called him selfish and he called her irrational, and by about that point Fletcher realized that if they tried to just put this conversation on hold and show up at dinner the result would not be particularly pretty. So they pulled into a Burger King parking lot, and Fletcher made a call home, offered up some bullshit story to buy time. We got a flat tire. (Cassandra, listening, glared.) We're going to be a little bit late. No, no, we should still be there. But they sat there in the lot, and as the sun began to set outside the argument opened into a proliferation of sub-arguments. Eventually Cassandra kept saying it's fine, forget it, let's just go, but Fletcher kept saying I don't want to go with you angry at me, and when they returned to that basic impasse the third or fourth time he had to make another call. He said that something else had gone wrong with the car (he left the details vague because he couldn't think of any that seemed passably believable) and that he thought it would be best if they just headed home. Yes, I'm sorry. Yes, I'm disappointed, too. (Cassandra faced the window.)
In the end they apologized. They both cited stress. Fletcher's behind on his dissertation; he'd hoped to have it done by summertime, at least a draft, and now he feels like he'll be lucky to have even an outline. Cassandra officially has her certificate but needs to find work. She interviewed at the Newberry Library but they ended up taking someone else.
—Plus the holidays always stress me out, she said. —It's like, Christmas always feels like the time when Rick and I compete most strongly for Leander's love. Rick gets him for a whole week, and he just showers him with presents; he knows I can't afford that kind of shit, on what he pays me in child support I can barely afford to keep Leander fed and clothed. And so it gets to the point where Leander comes home and is like there are better toys at Daddy's house. And, you know, what do you say to that? Just what the fuck do you say to that? It's like—it's so hard, being a single mom, it's like you just constantly feel like your status as a mother is constantly being assailed. And what I like about hanging out you is that I don't ever feel that way when I'm with you; I feel like you know that I'm a mom and you accept it and you're not, like, judging my ability to be a mom—
—I think you're a great mom, Fletcher said. His head in her lap at this point.
—But when you remind me that you haven't told your parents—
—Yeah, says Fletcher. —I get it.
—It makes me feel like you're ashamed of me, of that part of me—
—No, says Fletcher. —Yeah. I get it. I'll tell them.
One thing at a time, though. He doesn't want the news to follow too closely on the heels of the fishy "car trouble" story, lest his mom work out the link between the two. He waits until he stops hearing his mom say how disappointed she was that he missed the dinner, and then he tells her. —Listen, he says into the phone. He's looking into his Rothko print. —There's something I have to tell you. It's easy, in the end, to say the words. It is exactly as simple as the articulation of any other fact.
—Goodness, his mother says, when he's through. —I wish you'd told us earlier.
—I'm telling you now, Fletcher says. His voice is completely flat. It says: none of this is up for debate. It says: this is the way things are going to be. Accept it.
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