“I didn’t realize,” Lewyn heard himself say.
“If guys had a sense of smell they wouldn’t be able to stand their own company,” said the redhead. He was closer to Lewyn’s age.
“I’ll go change her,” said his mother, taking the stroller as Lewyn stepped instinctively away from it. “Lewyn, this is Mr. Goldman.” She meant the nearly bald man. “And, I’m sorry, please tell me your name again,” she said to the one who’d waited in the hall.
“Evan Rosen,” he said, extending his hand. Lewyn shook it.
“Can I get you anything?” Evan Rosen said.
It took Lewyn a second to understand that this question was directed to him.
“Oh, no. Thanks.” He took the chair his mother had vacated. There were some pages from a white legal pad, covered with her familiar cursive. He saw the name of a company or, he supposed, a person named S. S. Western. Before he could see more, Mr. Goldman had cleared the pages away.
“Understand you’re on your spring break,” he said as he did. “No South Padre Island for you?”
“Oh. No. Not my scene.”
“I think Evan here made his way down to Florida on a couple of occasions.”
“Cabo,” said Evan Rosen, with a nostalgic smile. “Better class of individual.”
“You’re at Cornell, I think? Or are you the other one?”
Lewyn briefly considered claiming to be the “other one.” But his mother would be back soon.
“Cornell, yes.”
“You like it? I went to Dartmouth.” This was Rosen, and something of a non sequitur.
“Yeah, sure. Cold winters.”
“Not as cold as Hanover!” He said this as if there was a serious competition underway. “And you’re studying?”
Yes, of course, he nearly said. Why, because everyone, even these two who knew him not at all, believed that only the other one had any aptitude at all. Then he realized.
“Oh. I don’t know yet. Maybe art history.”
“Art history!” said Evan Rosen. “Now that’s unusual.”
Lewyn could hear the stroller squeak-wobbling toward them along the hall. Maybe they could leave now.
“No, it’s a good idea,” said Mr. Goldman. “In this family, to have someone who knows about art.”
Johanna was maneuvering the stroller into the room. The baby now had her juice cup, and all seemed temporarily well in her world.
“Right,” said Mr. Goldman. “Lewyn, there are a few things that need your signature.”
“Ba,” said the infant. She had grown tired of her juice cup and let it drop to the floor. Then, abruptly, she was outraged by this turn of events.
Goldman stood to take some papers from the tall man who’d just entered the conference room, then set them down in front of Lewyn. There were Post-its every couple of pages, feathering the right edge. “Sign here,” he told Lewyn. “Wherever there’s a Post-it, it’s either a signature or your initials. Here’s a pen,” he said, handing Lewyn his own. He kept the cap, as if he didn’t trust Lewyn to return it when he was done.
“What am I signing?” he whispered to Johanna.
“Guardianship,” she said. “It’s not why I came in, but Mr. Goldman reminded me we need to do it. With you here in the office he didn’t want to miss the chance. He had the paralegal work on it while we were doing the other thing.”
He stared at her, but she wasn’t even looking at him. She was reaching down beneath his chair for the plastic cup, which she returned to the baby with a maternal cluck.