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: : : FLETCHER'S SITTING AT THE KITCHEN TABLE in Cassandra's apartment, leafing through the pages of Everything. He draws a red slash mark through a whole stanza. Horrible, he thinks. It's a little after nine. The coffeemaker gurgles, the new pot is almost done. Fletcher gets up, stretches, groans.
—Fresh cup? he asks.
—Sure, Cassandra says, absently. She's busy making a grim face at her calculator. A pencil is sticking out of her hair. He sets her refilled mug down next to her and she gives him a brief look, a quick smile, before returning to the pile of bills. He watches her and he thinks she looks so tired. He wants to help her. He wishes he knew how.
In his bedroom, Leander says —Daddy? At first Fletcher's not sure who he means.
Leander calls out again, for Daddy. Fletcher feels some weird, dissonant set of emotional notes ring in him. He looks at Cassandra, who shrugs, as if to say Don't ask me to explain that kid.
Leander, in his yellow Polartec pajamas, comes through the doorway. He looks at Fletcher sleepily and says —Will you read me the aardvark book, Daddy?
He's not sure that he wants to be called Daddy—and he's especially unsure that Cassandra wants to hear Leander get mixed up about who exactly Daddy is—so he thinks I've got to nip this in the bud. He goes over and crouches next to Leander. —Listen, he says. —I'll read you the book, but—you probably shouldn't call me Daddy.
—Mommy said I could, Leander says.
—She did? Fletcher says. They both look over at her for explanation. She gestures wearily with her hands and opens her mouth but she doesn't say anything.
—Well, Fletcher says, —Mommy and I will talk about it and we'll get back to you on it. Now, come on, I'll read you the book—but then, sleep, okay mister?
—Okay, says Leander.
It doesn't take long for Leander to fall asleep, and Fletcher returns to the kitchen. —So, he says. —Mommy says it's okay?
—Does it bother you? she says.
—Does it bother me, Fletcher says. He's not sure that it's quite the right question. —It's weird, I guess—I wasn't exactly prepared for it.
—He has to call you something, Cassandra says. —And, I don't know, Mr. Klingman just doesn't sound—
—No, Fletcher says, —not Mr. Klingman. What about, I don't know, Uncle Fletcher?
—Bad idea, Cassandra says. She puts her arms around his neck and bites his ear, then whispers —If he starts thinking that you're actually his uncle we're going to have a lot of explaining to do.
—What about if he starts thinking that I'm actually his dad?
Cassandra lets him go and looks down at the bills again. —He's five years old, she says stonily. —He knows who his real dad is.
—So maybe he should call me fake dad.
—No, Cassandra says. She looks squarely at him. —I don't like that. Leander wants to know what he should call you; he wants to know who you are, what you are to him, what you are to me. And you're not my brother. You're not a fake replacement for Rick. You're—you're the person I love. And I believe that Leander should understand that.
Fletcher thinks about this.
—And what are you to him? Cassandra continues. —When you're here I want you to behave like a dad towards him—you know this. And Leander knows that I expect him to treat you with the same respect with which he treats me, with the same respect with which he treats Rick. It's important to communicate these things clearly to a kid, and you can't communicate clearly when you make up these dumb euphemisms. So mostly? Mostly I just want to tell him yeah, okay, Fletcher is your dad. Your dad in addition to Rick?—sure. But still your dad. Kids are smart—they can understand this idea.
—Hm, Fletcher says.
—But I want to know—does it bother you? Cassandra asks. —I know it gives you a weird sort of—
—No, Fletcher says. —It doesn't bother me.
—That's the right answer, Cassandra says, and she goes back to writing checks.
Fletcher thinks about how things might have gone if he'd given the wrong answer. He looks down at his poem again; twiddles the pen in his fingers restlessly. He spends a minute drawing an ornate red curlicue in the margin of the page. Then he asks: —Does Rick know? That Leander calls me that?
—I don't know, says Cassandra, not looking up from her credit card statement. —And I don't care.
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