Dale Loves Sophie to Death by Robb Forman Dew Page A

fury of his customers. In the unusual heat the cars glistened ominously, and Martin even became fearful. All summer he had protected himself from the sudden desperation of a previously complacent society by steeping himself in what he considered to be the remarkable serenity of Ellen’s house. It was a balm for his spirit. One could remain convinced, in that carefully contrived environment, of one’s relevance in the world. But in that gas line the only things that seemed important, all at once, were fuel and food and sex. And—also—the helium balloons.
    He turned to Claire, who was still working with ribbons there on the carpet. “I think we might be able to get them filled at Newberry’s,” he said.
    Claire didn’t care about the balloons so much, but she looked at him with an expression of resignation. “Look, why don’t I phone first? It’s so hot to drive around, and we’ll only waste gas. Where’s the phone?” Martin showed her through the house into the kitchen and rinsed their beer glasses while she telephoned discount stores and any dime stores she could find listed in the book, but she had no luck. Finally, they gave up and carried all the presents Claire had bought and wrapped out to the car, leaving behind them a litter of tiny slivers of paper and odds and ends of ribbon strewn across the rug where she had been sitting. It hadn’t occurred to either of them to sweep them away; the house didn’t seem to be anyone’s property. Their plan was to take the party, completely assembled, out to the farm, because it had become apparent over the week that Ellen had no intention of making an exception to her habit of non-celebration, even for Claire’s daughter, Katy, of whom she was very fond, and who would be five years old on Saturday. In fact, Ellen had seemed cross and edgy all week, and Martin had boxed himself into the position of being Claire’s conspirator.
    One evening Martin had been sitting down on the grass with Katy and Claire so that they formed a triangle. Katy was talking about her birthday. “Well, Katy,” Martin said then, “you’re probably feeling very sad. In a few days you’ll have the very last evening of ever being four years old. Think of that! It will be the last time you’ll look over and see those horses with four-year-old eyes, the last time you’ll go swimming in your four-year-old skin. And you’ll never wake up four years old again!”
    His own children usually took this up wildly: “And the last time I have to go to bed at an eight-year-old hour! The last time I’ll get an eight-year-old allowance!” But sitting there in the grass at age thirty-eight, and looking around him at Claire, who was frowning, and Katy, who watched him with alarm, Martin realized what he was saying, and he was ashamed of himself.
    “So,” he went on, “your mother and I will go into town Saturday morning and buy everything that’s simply too old for a four-year-old but just right for someone as old as five. When you still had so long to go before you would be five, I didn’t want to tell you how much better it is than being four. You’ll be much smarter, and you’ll be able to swim faster, of course. And you’ll be surprised at how soon you’ll even be much taller!” But all the while he talked to Katy with her tiny wedge of a face and wispy, colorless hair like her mother’s, he was plagued with sorrow that year after year he had remorselessly inflicted on his own children the desolate message of their mortality. Why had he done that? And as though it were a joke? Perhaps he had thought that they could avoid it if they knew about it, because that was what he wished; they were the repository for all his life’s care.
    Claire looked up at him, relieved. “If you really would drive me to town on Saturday, it would be a big help. I haven’t wanted to ask Ellen or Vic. I’m not so sure they’re too enthusiastic about this party.”
    As a rule, the Hofstatters did not give