23. Magnus
MAGNUS
My mother has left a stack of the cards on her desk.
I pick one up before she reaches the doorway. The paper is heavy. She commissioned these after I told her the plans for Dulcie and Kit were over. This isn’t a delivery arranged months ago and forgotten. The envelope lying beside them carries yesterday’s note to the printer about additional copies.
“You could have called,” she says.
I put Dulcie’s photograph beside the card.
“Who received one?”
“The family. A few close friends. People have been asking.”
“The list.”
“Magnus, it was a courtesy.”
I lift the top sheet beside the envelopes. Names and postal addresses, with telephone numbers and email addresses in the adjoining columns. She has marked the recipients as each envelope went out.
“This is everyone?”
“Yes. You’re making far too much of this.”
Cressida appears behind her. I hadn’t known she was here. She looks from the sheet in my hand to my phone on the desk.
“She’s called you, then.”
“Arthur sent her the card. My aunt followed it with a request that she stop punishing me.”
My mother folds her arms. “Benedict is a perfectly good family name.”
“It’s Cressida’s father’s name. My son’s name is Kit Ludlow. The date is correct. The name and godmother announcement are not.”
“Dulcie has made her preference very clear.”
“It is his name. You will use it.”
Cressida comes into the room. “You promised that name to me.”
“Yes.”
“In front of everyone.”
“Yes. I made a promise I had no right to make. I broke it. You can tell anyone you like.”
She stares at me. I have spent so long managing what she can say that the absence of an argument leaves her with nowhere to put her next sentence.
“You can’t pretend none of it happened.”
“I’m not going to.”
I take a photograph of the list, then lift the original from the desk.
“A retraction goes to everyone today. From me.”
“I won’t have you humiliating me over a card,” my mother says.
“You used it to overrule my son’s mother after I told you there would be no arrangement with Cressida. You knew his name when you commissioned it.”
She glances at the printer’s note. “I thought you might regain some sense.”
“This is what I’m doing with it.”
I open a message and type the wording where they can see me doing it.
My son is Kit Ludlow. His birth date is correctly stated on the recent card.
His mother, Dulcie, chose his name, and her decision stands.
Cressida has not been appointed his godmother.
I was responsible for announcing otherwise before his birth.
The recent card was sent without either parent’s approval and is retracted.
Please use Kit’s correct name and do not repeat the godmother announcement.
I read it once, remove a word that makes the mistake sound mutual, and send it to the first recipient.
My mother watches the screen. “Are you satisfied?”
“No.”
I put the list in my coat pocket.
“You will meet Kit when Dulcie chooses to invite you. If she doesn’t, you will not.”
“You’d keep my grandson from me?”
“I won’t help you get around his mother.”
I leave while she is still deciding whether to follow me into the hall.
At the brownstone I work through every marked name on the list. Each person receives the same wording in an individual email or message. For the few without either address, I call, read it to them, and send a signed paper copy as well. I reach them all before the evening is over.
My aunt says she understood Dulcie was being difficult. I tell her Dulcie has described what happened accurately and that any further questions about my conduct should come to me.
Arthur listens without interruption.
“Does Dulcie know you’ve sent this?” he asks.
“I’m telling her when it’s done.”
“Then finish.”
I do.
Three days later, I bring the wording and the list to an agreed visit at the rental.
Dulcie reads them while Kit lies across my knees, looking past me at the window. She checks the recipients against the marks showing how each was contacted. When she finishes, she folds the paper and puts it beside her phone.
“Arthur called. He said he’d heard from you.”
“They all have.”
I wait for something more before I catch myself doing it.
Kit moves his head. I adjust my hand, and Dulcie watches the movement without stepping toward us. I’ve held him at each visit she’s allowed. I’ve changed diapers under her instruction and learned that rushing because he objects only makes the job take longer.
“How long do you think we—” I stop.
Her eyes lift to mine. “What?”
I could change the sentence. Ask how long until he needs feeding. There is always a smaller lie available.
“I wanted to ask when you might know whether there’s a chance for us.”
She looks at the paper again.
“Fatherhood and money aren’t installments on forgiveness.”
“No.”
“Neither is correcting what your mother sent.”
I look down at Kit. He grips the edge of my finger, using all the strength in his hand.
“I want there to be a way to know I’m getting closer,” I admit.
“I know you do. I can’t give you a schedule for how I feel.”
“You don’t have to.”
The answer costs more to mean than to say. I stay with it while she studies me.
She is going to the pharmacy, an errand we discussed before I came. Fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty. Kit has been fed; the things I might need are on the table beside the chair. Eunice is two streets away. Dulcie goes through nothing twice.
At the door she turns. “Call if you need me.”
“I will.”
When she leaves, the house becomes very quiet. Kit waits less than a minute to start crying.
I check the diaper. The changing takes longer than I want it to. I have put the clean one just beyond reach, and I have to gather everything closer before I start. Kit’s heel catches my sleeve. I free it gently, remembering Dulcie showing me that hurrying my hands makes him angrier.
Afterward, I hold him against my shoulder.
He spits a little milk onto my sweater. The cloth is on the chair, exactly where she said it would be.
I get it without putting him down. There is nothing impressive about the sequence, and that is part of what I am learning.
He needs the next thing done whether anyone notices or not.
He objects to being still, so I walk slowly between the sofa and the window. On the third journey he stops crying. On the fourth I realize I am explaining the furniture.
“That’s your grandfather’s influence,” I tell him.
By the time Dulcie comes back, he is looking over my shoulder at a patch of light on the wall. She takes off her coat and smiles at him.
I don’t offer an account of how well I did unless she asks.
Over the following days, I move two recurring work meetings and keep the afternoon visiting times clear. My assistant asks whether the changes apply next month too. I tell her yes. We put the shorter internal review earlier and find another place for the standing call.
A longer meeting with people outside the company remains where it is; moving my own calendar does not make everyone else available. I leave that problem visible instead of pretending a cleared square means I have solved being a father.
Some commitments won’t move that easily. I stop putting them all in the category of things Dulcie will have to work around.
At my next visit, Kit stays awake for more of it. Dulcie tells me about a drawing one of the children made for him. I ask whether he’s looked at it yet. She laughs and says he tried to eat it.
The sound stays with me after she stops.
Before I leave, I ask if she would consider a short evening out with me.
“Somewhere you choose. A time that suits you. If you don’t want to, the next visit stays exactly as we’ve arranged it.”
She looks at me, then at the coat in my hands.
“I’ll think about it.”
I want to ask when. Instead I say goodnight.