“Guardianship,” he finally managed.
“Yes?” said Evan Rosen, the Spring Breaker with the 4.0.
“Well … of what?”
Mr. Goldman let out a single choke of laughter. “Of your sister,” he said deliberately, as if Lewyn were stupid, which, in this particular instance, wasn’t far off. At the word “sister,” he had thought, of course, of Sally. And if Sally was somehow in need of his guardianship, was Johanna also asking her, or—even worse—Harrison to sign guardianship papers for Lewyn himself? Was this more of our mother’s eternally enforced togetherness, absurdly reaching into some future past even her own demise?
Then the baby tossed her cup onto the parquet floor again, and they all looked at her, and Lewyn understood. “Wait, for her?”
“Don’t worry,” our mother said, as if they were discussing where to order takeout. “Just a way of making our wishes known.”
“And this is your wish?” he asked her with true disbelief. “Me? That I’m her guardian?”
“Well, not just you,” our mother said, sounding the slightest bit impatient. “All three of you. The three of you should be responsible for your sister. I mean, who else?”
Anyone else, Lewyn thought. He had a horrible image of himself, Harrison, and Sally sitting at the family dining table as the baby masticated its dinner. Which of the three of them could conceivably care for this? Which of the three of them would want to? It seemed incredible that Johanna didn’t recognize the state of her own family, which was that he and Sally and Harrison couldn’t get far enough away—first and foremost from one another, but equally from our parents, and it should go without saying from this unasked-for and utterly ill-advised extraneous Oppenheimer. Not one of the triplets was coming home again, not in any sustained way. Was she out of her mind?
But he signed. Of course he signed. What was he supposed to do in front of these very competent and professional people?
Four days later he repacked his bag and took a cab to the Cornell Club to pick up the chartered bus back to campus. It was brutally early on a morning that promised very little for the day ahead, and he shoved his suitcase into the hold and went up into the bus to find a seat. Even on this less-than-social occasion Lewyn couldn’t escape the sense that everyone else in the group seemed to know one another and be on friendly terms. Chatter hummed down the length of the aisle as he passed, moving closer to the back and the remaining empty seats. People looked up, decided he was not worth smiling at, and went back to their conversations.
He took a seat at the very back, just beside the toilet; a deliberate move, meant to discourage company, but as the seats continued to fill, his gamble looked less and less promising. He kept his head down, reading then rereading the same page of his book on Mary Cassatt for his art history seminar, willing himself not to look up as first one, then another, then another shadow preceded a new arrival down the aisle, until finally one stopped, indisputably beside him, and a little voice said, “Well, hello.”
Lewyn, reacting in his every nerve ending, looked up—but barely up—into the glowing face of the girl from Jewish Life. In the supernova of that moment, he could not remember her name, a fact made even more appalling because, incredibly, she remembered his.
“It’s Lewyn, right?” she said merrily, wedging her backpack under the seat beside him.
Lewyn nodded, stricken and mute.
“Who brought the Jesus freaks to our Seder.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. It was all he could think of, and it was amazing he was able to say anything at all.
“Oh, it’s all right. We thought it was hilarious. Well, the rabbi was a bit freaked, but she’s kind of uptight. You don’t mind if I sit here?”
Of course, he nodded. “I mean, of course not. Is it full?”