she did. It made her feel puny.
“Look at that gull,” said Sport, pointing. A seagull was flapping right over the barge, so close that it looked like a kite tied to the stern with invisible string. “Why do you think he’d be flying like that?”
“Maybe he’s riding a wind current.”
“Maybe he’s looking for dinner.”
“Maybe he’s a she.” This is better, she thought, feeling loose again. That was the thing about really good friends: even when you’d been out of touch, you could pick up right where you left off.
“Maybe he isn’t a seagull at all.” Sport smirked. “He might be a very thin swan.”
“Or an albino crow.” The gull made a raucous, rude squawk and flew away, as if it were offended. They both cracked up.
When the sun got too low and the park got too cold, they walked back toward Sport’s, passing the playground where they had first met. A professional dog walker went 63
by with an oddly assorted pack of lap-dogs, retrievers, and an Afghan hound fanned out on leashes held in both hands.
“How do they do that?” asked Sport as they crossed the street in front of his building. “What if the dogs start to fight with each other?”
“They must hold auditions,” said Harriet.
Sport grinned. “Imagine the rejects. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Kessler, but your Lhasa apso does not play well with others. Little Wudgie has been expelled.’” Harriet looked at him. “Sport? Why did Yolanda—Annie, I mean—get expelled from your school?”
“No idea. One day she was going to class and the next she was gone.”
“It was Thanksgiving weekend, remember?”
“How could I forget?” said Sport gloomily. “It was the dawn of my heartbreak.” He stuck his key in the door that led to his lobby and held the door open for Harriet. They started up the three flights of worn stairs to his walk-up apartment.
“How’s Annie doing?” he asked, his voice tender.
“I wish I could tell you. She’s not speaking to me.”
“Why not?” They turned onto a landing.
“It’s kind of a long story,” Harriet hedged.
“Try me.”
“I kind of spied on her. Followed her places when she didn’t know it.”
“Not cool,” said Sport. “People’s feelings get hurt.”
“Tell me about it,” said Harriet, trying to stifle the misery that had crept into her voice. They were outside the door to Sport’s apartment, marked 4-c with brass figures.
As he fiddled with upper and lower locks, Harriet gazed at the pattern the receding flights of stairs made below them. What’s the right way to describe that? she wondered.
Rectangular spiral? Maybe Matthew would have the right phrase.
Sport swung the door open. “I’m back,” he called out. “With Harriet.” Kate emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel she’d stuck in the waistband of her business suit as an apron. “Well, hello, stranger. We haven’t seen you in way too long.”
“Happy New Year,” said Harriet awkwardly. Kate stood there smiling at her.
“Want to try some of my sourdough?” Sport said. “It came out pretty well.”
“He’s a genius,” said Kate, clapping Sport on the back.
Sport shrugged. “Anybody can bake.”
“That’s what you think,” said Kate. “Remember my buttermilk biscuits?”
“Those were kind of nasty.” Sport grinned.
“Matthew loved them. Of course, he’d eat paperweights if he was writing. I’m going to go change my clothes before I spill tomato sauce all over myself. Make yourself at home, Harriet.” She gave Harriet’s arm a quick conspiratorial squeeze as she passed.
What is with her? thought Harriet, flinching.
Sport went into the kitchen and sawed off two raggedy slices of bread. “Want it toasted?”
“Whatever you think.”
“Plain with butter,” he said, setting the bread on two plates and grabbing a butter knife. His back was to Harriet. “I’m sorry to hear about Annie. I know how you feel. I still miss Yolanda.”
“That’s different,”
“Look at that gull,” said Sport, pointing. A seagull was flapping right over the barge, so close that it looked like a kite tied to the stern with invisible string. “Why do you think he’d be flying like that?”
“Maybe he’s riding a wind current.”
“Maybe he’s looking for dinner.”
“Maybe he’s a she.” This is better, she thought, feeling loose again. That was the thing about really good friends: even when you’d been out of touch, you could pick up right where you left off.
“Maybe he isn’t a seagull at all.” Sport smirked. “He might be a very thin swan.”
“Or an albino crow.” The gull made a raucous, rude squawk and flew away, as if it were offended. They both cracked up.
When the sun got too low and the park got too cold, they walked back toward Sport’s, passing the playground where they had first met. A professional dog walker went 63
by with an oddly assorted pack of lap-dogs, retrievers, and an Afghan hound fanned out on leashes held in both hands.
“How do they do that?” asked Sport as they crossed the street in front of his building. “What if the dogs start to fight with each other?”
“They must hold auditions,” said Harriet.
Sport grinned. “Imagine the rejects. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Kessler, but your Lhasa apso does not play well with others. Little Wudgie has been expelled.’” Harriet looked at him. “Sport? Why did Yolanda—Annie, I mean—get expelled from your school?”
“No idea. One day she was going to class and the next she was gone.”
“It was Thanksgiving weekend, remember?”
“How could I forget?” said Sport gloomily. “It was the dawn of my heartbreak.” He stuck his key in the door that led to his lobby and held the door open for Harriet. They started up the three flights of worn stairs to his walk-up apartment.
“How’s Annie doing?” he asked, his voice tender.
“I wish I could tell you. She’s not speaking to me.”
“Why not?” They turned onto a landing.
“It’s kind of a long story,” Harriet hedged.
“Try me.”
“I kind of spied on her. Followed her places when she didn’t know it.”
“Not cool,” said Sport. “People’s feelings get hurt.”
“Tell me about it,” said Harriet, trying to stifle the misery that had crept into her voice. They were outside the door to Sport’s apartment, marked 4-c with brass figures.
As he fiddled with upper and lower locks, Harriet gazed at the pattern the receding flights of stairs made below them. What’s the right way to describe that? she wondered.
Rectangular spiral? Maybe Matthew would have the right phrase.
Sport swung the door open. “I’m back,” he called out. “With Harriet.” Kate emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel she’d stuck in the waistband of her business suit as an apron. “Well, hello, stranger. We haven’t seen you in way too long.”
“Happy New Year,” said Harriet awkwardly. Kate stood there smiling at her.
“Want to try some of my sourdough?” Sport said. “It came out pretty well.”
“He’s a genius,” said Kate, clapping Sport on the back.
Sport shrugged. “Anybody can bake.”
“That’s what you think,” said Kate. “Remember my buttermilk biscuits?”
“Those were kind of nasty.” Sport grinned.
“Matthew loved them. Of course, he’d eat paperweights if he was writing. I’m going to go change my clothes before I spill tomato sauce all over myself. Make yourself at home, Harriet.” She gave Harriet’s arm a quick conspiratorial squeeze as she passed.
What is with her? thought Harriet, flinching.
Sport went into the kitchen and sawed off two raggedy slices of bread. “Want it toasted?”
“Whatever you think.”
“Plain with butter,” he said, setting the bread on two plates and grabbing a butter knife. His back was to Harriet. “I’m sorry to hear about Annie. I know how you feel. I still miss Yolanda.”
“That’s different,”
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