something similar to happen to Roberta, but it never did. It was like attending a memorial brunch for someone he’d never met, alongside the not-so-merry widow.
He tried to change the subject without making too great a leap, and he mentioned a book he’d read about disturbances in the food chain as species were facing extinction. It seemed to work. They talked about books for a while—she belonged to a reading club—and then Edward brought up his birding. “Birds!” she exclaimed. “I love them, too!” She pulled out the phone again and showed him a close-up of two budgies in a gilded cage. “That’s Alice and Petey,” she said. “I’ve taught them to hop right onto my finger.”
She held her left hand up, perch-style, and Edward noticed that she was wearing a wedding ring. He tried to remember when he’d stopped wearing his. Not long after he had given Bee’s clothes away. And right after Sybil had chided him aboutit, he’d erased Bee’s message from their voice mail by taping a new one over hers. “This is Edward Schuyler,” he said into the mike. “Please leave a message.”
When he played it back, he sounded affectless, almost robotic. On the second try, he coughed and had to do it all over again. The whole process seemed haunted by the past, but at last he got it right. Two days later, Julie called him. “What happened to Mom’s message?” she asked before breaking into tears. It seemed that she’d been calling the number, the way he had, just to hear her mother’s voice. “Dear, we have to let go,” he said, as much to himself as to her, and then listened in silence while she wept.
“And I’ve taught them to talk, too,” Roberta was saying proudly, startling him back into the moment. “Petey is up to six words now.”
No bird imitations
,
please
, he silently begged.
And no more pictures
.
As he drove Roberta home, he remembered Karen Leslie’s unexpected, almost violent kiss in the parking lot of the Paper Moon. He was pretty sure nothing like that would happen this time, nor did he want it to, but what if she asked him to come inside, out of simple courtesy? Edward was courteous, as well, and he wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings. But he didn’t think he could chance it. She might have a shrine to her dead husband in there, replete with flickering votives and a whole gallery of photos. And he didn’t want to see or hear her caged birds, positive now that
Vince
was one of the six words in Petey’s vocabulary.
He needn’t have worried. When he escorted Roberta up the steps to her town house, she said she’d had a wonderful time, flashed a brave smile, and gave him another little hug. Then she went inside, shutting the door firmly behind her.
What Women Want
“N ever again,” Edward said. He was in another busy restaurant, this one a long, dim room on Columbus Avenue, filled with the vibrant conversation of adults recently released from the company of children. Bruno’s was more of a bar, really, but they served halfway decent food from a limited menu, and this was where several members of Fenton’s faculty, and the faculties of a couple of nearby public schools, often hung out on Friday afternoons and evenings.
When Bee was still alive, Edward had only occasionally joined them; he’d preferred to start the weekend back in Englewood with her. And for several months, those dark, antisocial months after her death, he still hardly ever showed up at Bruno’s. But gradually he was lured into that after-school ritual, and the company of other people who weren’t in a hurry to get home, either.
He was sitting in a booth, sharing a pitcher of beer and a bowl of popcorn shrimp with Frances Hartman and Bernie Roth, in whom he’d begun to confide a little about his adventures in the dating world. They were both unattached. Frances, in her early or mid-fifties now, had been married and divorced years before and seemed to have sworn off men recently. At just past sixty, slight,
He tried to change the subject without making too great a leap, and he mentioned a book he’d read about disturbances in the food chain as species were facing extinction. It seemed to work. They talked about books for a while—she belonged to a reading club—and then Edward brought up his birding. “Birds!” she exclaimed. “I love them, too!” She pulled out the phone again and showed him a close-up of two budgies in a gilded cage. “That’s Alice and Petey,” she said. “I’ve taught them to hop right onto my finger.”
She held her left hand up, perch-style, and Edward noticed that she was wearing a wedding ring. He tried to remember when he’d stopped wearing his. Not long after he had given Bee’s clothes away. And right after Sybil had chided him aboutit, he’d erased Bee’s message from their voice mail by taping a new one over hers. “This is Edward Schuyler,” he said into the mike. “Please leave a message.”
When he played it back, he sounded affectless, almost robotic. On the second try, he coughed and had to do it all over again. The whole process seemed haunted by the past, but at last he got it right. Two days later, Julie called him. “What happened to Mom’s message?” she asked before breaking into tears. It seemed that she’d been calling the number, the way he had, just to hear her mother’s voice. “Dear, we have to let go,” he said, as much to himself as to her, and then listened in silence while she wept.
“And I’ve taught them to talk, too,” Roberta was saying proudly, startling him back into the moment. “Petey is up to six words now.”
No bird imitations
,
please
, he silently begged.
And no more pictures
.
As he drove Roberta home, he remembered Karen Leslie’s unexpected, almost violent kiss in the parking lot of the Paper Moon. He was pretty sure nothing like that would happen this time, nor did he want it to, but what if she asked him to come inside, out of simple courtesy? Edward was courteous, as well, and he wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings. But he didn’t think he could chance it. She might have a shrine to her dead husband in there, replete with flickering votives and a whole gallery of photos. And he didn’t want to see or hear her caged birds, positive now that
Vince
was one of the six words in Petey’s vocabulary.
He needn’t have worried. When he escorted Roberta up the steps to her town house, she said she’d had a wonderful time, flashed a brave smile, and gave him another little hug. Then she went inside, shutting the door firmly behind her.
What Women Want
“N ever again,” Edward said. He was in another busy restaurant, this one a long, dim room on Columbus Avenue, filled with the vibrant conversation of adults recently released from the company of children. Bruno’s was more of a bar, really, but they served halfway decent food from a limited menu, and this was where several members of Fenton’s faculty, and the faculties of a couple of nearby public schools, often hung out on Friday afternoons and evenings.
When Bee was still alive, Edward had only occasionally joined them; he’d preferred to start the weekend back in Englewood with her. And for several months, those dark, antisocial months after her death, he still hardly ever showed up at Bruno’s. But gradually he was lured into that after-school ritual, and the company of other people who weren’t in a hurry to get home, either.
He was sitting in a booth, sharing a pitcher of beer and a bowl of popcorn shrimp with Frances Hartman and Bernie Roth, in whom he’d begun to confide a little about his adventures in the dating world. They were both unattached. Frances, in her early or mid-fifties now, had been married and divorced years before and seemed to have sworn off men recently. At just past sixty, slight,
Similar Books
