was kneeling beside Tilly, the wet grass tickling her
thighs and her belly, Henry was there, too, and he picked up Tilly
and was carrying her back into the house. They wrapped her in a
blanket and put her in her bed, and because neither of them wanted
to sleep in the bed where King Spanky was hiding, they lay down on
the sofa in the family room, curled up against each other. When
they woke up in the morning, Tilly was asleep in a ball at their
feet.
For a whole minute or two, last year, Catherine thought she had
it figured out. She was married to a man whose specialty was
solving problems, salvaging bad situations. If she did something
dramatic enough, if she fucked up badly enough, it would save her
marriage. And it did, except that once the problem was solved and
the marriage was saved and the baby was conceived and the house was
bought, then Henry went back to work.
She stands at the window in the bedroom and looks out at all the
trees. For a minute she imagines that Carleton is right, and they
are living in Central Park and Fifth Avenue is just right over
there. Henry’s office is just a few blocks away. All those rabbits
are just tourists.
Henry wakes up in the middle of the night. There are people
downstairs. He can hear women talking, laughing, and he realizes
Catherine’s book club must have come over. He gets out of bed. It’s
dark. What time is it anyway? But the alarm clock is haunted again.
He unplugs it. As he comes down the stairs, a voice says, “Well,
will you look at that!” and then, “Right under his nose the whole
time!”
Henry walks through the house, turning on lights. Tilly stands
in the middle of the kitchen. “May I ask who’s calling?” she says.
She’s got Henry’s cell phone tucked between her shoulder and her
face. She’s holding it upside down. Her eyes are open, but she’s
asleep.
“Who are you talking to?” Henry says.
“The rabbits,” Tilly says. She tilts her head, listening. Then
she laughs. “Call back later,” she says. “He doesn’t want to talk
to you. Yeah. Okay.” She hands Henry his phone. “They said it’s no
one you know.”
“Are you awake?” Henry says.
“Yes,” Tilly says, still asleep. He carries her back upstairs.
He makes a bed out of pillows in the hall closet and lays her down
across them. He tucks a blanket around her. If she refuses to wake
up in the same bed that she goes to sleep in, then maybe they
should make it a game. If you can’t beat them, join them.
Catherine hadn’t had an affair with Leonard Felter. She hadn’t
even slept with him. She had just said she had, because she was so
mad at Henry. She could have slept with Leonard Felter. The
opportunity had been there. And he had been magical, somehow: the
only member of the department who could make the photocopier make
copies, and he was nice to all of the secretaries. Too nice, as it
turned out. And then, when it turned out that Leonard Felter had
been fucking everyone, Catherine had felt she couldn’t take it
back. So she and Henry had gone to therapy together. Henry had
taken some time off work. They’d taken the kids to Yosemite. They’d
gotten pregnant. She’d been remorseful for something she hadn’t
done. Henry had forgiven her. Really, she’d saved their marriage.
But it had been the sort of thing you could do only once.
If someone has to save the marriage a second time, it will have
to be Henry.
Henry went looking for King Spanky. They were going to see the
vet: he had the cat cage in the car, but no King Spanky. It was
early afternoon, and the rabbits were out on the lawn. Up above, a
bird hung, motionless, on a hook of air. Henry craned his head,
looking up. It was a big bird, a hawk maybe. It circled, once,
twice, again, and then dropped like a stone, towards the rabbits.
The rabbits didn’t move. There was something about the way they
waited, as if this were all a game. The bird dropped through the
air, folded like a knife, and then
thighs and her belly, Henry was there, too, and he picked up Tilly
and was carrying her back into the house. They wrapped her in a
blanket and put her in her bed, and because neither of them wanted
to sleep in the bed where King Spanky was hiding, they lay down on
the sofa in the family room, curled up against each other. When
they woke up in the morning, Tilly was asleep in a ball at their
feet.
For a whole minute or two, last year, Catherine thought she had
it figured out. She was married to a man whose specialty was
solving problems, salvaging bad situations. If she did something
dramatic enough, if she fucked up badly enough, it would save her
marriage. And it did, except that once the problem was solved and
the marriage was saved and the baby was conceived and the house was
bought, then Henry went back to work.
She stands at the window in the bedroom and looks out at all the
trees. For a minute she imagines that Carleton is right, and they
are living in Central Park and Fifth Avenue is just right over
there. Henry’s office is just a few blocks away. All those rabbits
are just tourists.
Henry wakes up in the middle of the night. There are people
downstairs. He can hear women talking, laughing, and he realizes
Catherine’s book club must have come over. He gets out of bed. It’s
dark. What time is it anyway? But the alarm clock is haunted again.
He unplugs it. As he comes down the stairs, a voice says, “Well,
will you look at that!” and then, “Right under his nose the whole
time!”
Henry walks through the house, turning on lights. Tilly stands
in the middle of the kitchen. “May I ask who’s calling?” she says.
She’s got Henry’s cell phone tucked between her shoulder and her
face. She’s holding it upside down. Her eyes are open, but she’s
asleep.
“Who are you talking to?” Henry says.
“The rabbits,” Tilly says. She tilts her head, listening. Then
she laughs. “Call back later,” she says. “He doesn’t want to talk
to you. Yeah. Okay.” She hands Henry his phone. “They said it’s no
one you know.”
“Are you awake?” Henry says.
“Yes,” Tilly says, still asleep. He carries her back upstairs.
He makes a bed out of pillows in the hall closet and lays her down
across them. He tucks a blanket around her. If she refuses to wake
up in the same bed that she goes to sleep in, then maybe they
should make it a game. If you can’t beat them, join them.
Catherine hadn’t had an affair with Leonard Felter. She hadn’t
even slept with him. She had just said she had, because she was so
mad at Henry. She could have slept with Leonard Felter. The
opportunity had been there. And he had been magical, somehow: the
only member of the department who could make the photocopier make
copies, and he was nice to all of the secretaries. Too nice, as it
turned out. And then, when it turned out that Leonard Felter had
been fucking everyone, Catherine had felt she couldn’t take it
back. So she and Henry had gone to therapy together. Henry had
taken some time off work. They’d taken the kids to Yosemite. They’d
gotten pregnant. She’d been remorseful for something she hadn’t
done. Henry had forgiven her. Really, she’d saved their marriage.
But it had been the sort of thing you could do only once.
If someone has to save the marriage a second time, it will have
to be Henry.
Henry went looking for King Spanky. They were going to see the
vet: he had the cat cage in the car, but no King Spanky. It was
early afternoon, and the rabbits were out on the lawn. Up above, a
bird hung, motionless, on a hook of air. Henry craned his head,
looking up. It was a big bird, a hawk maybe. It circled, once,
twice, again, and then dropped like a stone, towards the rabbits.
The rabbits didn’t move. There was something about the way they
waited, as if this were all a game. The bird dropped through the
air, folded like a knife, and then
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