The Corrections. Jonathan Franzen

taken seconds of anything.

      “Is that all you’re going to eat?” Enid said.

      “Yes. That was my lunch.”

      “You’ve lost weight.”

      “In fact not.”

      “Well, don’t lose any more,” Enid said with the skimpy laugh with which she tried to hide large feelings.

      Alfred was guiding a forkful of salmon and sorrel sauce to his mouth. The food dropped off his fork and broke into violently shaped pieces.

      “I think Chip did a good job with this,” Enid said. “Don’t you think? The salmon is very tender and good.”

      “Chip has always been a good cook,” Denise said.

      “Al, are you enjoying this? Al?”

      Alfred’s grip on his fork had slackened. There was a sag in his lower lip, a sullen suspicion in his eyes.

      “Are you enjoying the lunch?” Enid said.

      He took his left hand in his right and squeezed it. The mated hands continued their oscillation together while he stared at the sunflowers in the middle of the table. He seemed to swallow the sour set of his mouth, to choke back the paranoia.

      “Chip made all this?” he said.

      “Yes.”

      He shook his head as though Chip’s having cooked, Chip’s absence now, overwhelmed him. “I am increasingly bothered by my affliction,” he said.

      “What you have is very mild,” Enid said. “We just need to get the medication adjusted.”

      He shook his head. “Hedgpeth said it’s unpredictable.”

      “The important thing is to keep doing things,” Enid said, “to keep active, to always just go.”

      “No. You were not listening. Hedgpeth was very careful not to promise anything.”

      “According to what I read—”

      “I don’t give a damn what your magazine article said. I am not well, and Hedgpeth admitted as much.”

      Denise set her wine down with a stiff, fully extended arm.

      “So what do you think about Chip’s new job?” Enid asked her brightly.

      “His—?”

      “Well, at the Wall Street Journal.”

      Denise studied the tabletop. “I have no opinion about it.”

      “It’s exciting, don’t you think?”

      “I have no opinion about it.”

      “Do you think he works there full-time?”

      “No.”

      “I don’t understand what kind of job it is.”

      “Mother, I know nothing about it.”

      “Is he still doing law?”

      “You mean proofreading? Yes.”

      “So he’s still at the firm.”

      “He’s not a lawyer, Mother.”

      “I know he’s not a lawyer.”

      “Well, when you say, ‘doing law,’ or ‘at the firm’—is that what you tell your friends?”

      “I say he works at a law firm. That’s all I say. A New York City law firm. And it’s the truth. He does work there.”

      “It’s misleading and you know it,” Alfred said.

      “I guess I should just never say anything.”

      “Just say things that are true,” Denise said.

      “Well, I think he should be in law,” Enid said. “I think the law would be perfect for Chip. He needs the stability of a profession. He needs structure in his life. Dad always thought he’d make an excellent lawyer. I used to think doctor, because he was interested in science, but Dad always saw him as a lawyer. Didn’t you, Al? Didn’t you think Chip could be an excellent lawyer? He’s so quick with words.”

      “Enid, it’s too late.”

      “I thought maybe working for the firm he’d get interested and go back to school.”

      “Far too late.”

      “The thing is, Denise, there are so many things you can do with law. You can be a company president. You can be a judge! You can teach. You can be a journalist. There are so many directions Chip could go in.”

      “Chip will do what he wants to do,” Alfred said. “I’ve never understood it, but he is not going to change now.”