it, but at family events where Amy once shined, he cannot conceal his longing. His face is taut. I will not be his father. He has a perfectly good father of his own. But I worry about him helplessly, like a father.
After nearly a year, Ginny and I wonder whether we ought to ask Harris if he still wants us to stay. We very much want to, and are fairly sure he’ll say yes. But we shy away from asking because we don’t want him to take the slightest impression that we want out. This is our life. Without Harris and the children to fill it, we would be sitting in Quogue, manufacturing conversations between dark silences. I know we are creating a diversion for the children as well as a differently constructed life for them. Yet we are doing the same thing for ourselves. When Amy died, Ginny and I never had to confer as to where we wanted to be and should be. We had to ask Harris, but not each other. Now, ought we to ask him again? We decide that he will tell us when he wants us to go. And until then, my original answer to Jessie of “forever” stands. If a new woman should enter Harris’s life, as we hope will eventually happen, we know he will choose well. When that occurs, we won’t have to ask then either.
Mrs. Salcetti invites me to visit Jessie’s second-grade class, and talk about writing. I conclude that she did not consult Ms. Carone regarding my prior experience. I know Luxmi, Arthur, and Jaraad from last year’s first grade. I tell the kids I have memorized all their names, and make up a new name for each of them, calling boys Phyllis, girls Ralph, and so forth. Their cries of protest eat up ten minutes. I look over at Mrs. Salcetti. “Am I through?” I ask. She smiles, and points to the clock. “Only forty minutes to go,” she says.
At her insistence, I tell them the plot of my first novel, Lapham Rising, sanitizing it a bit, but staying true to the essentials. Naturally, they are way ahead of me. They analyze the characters I merely describe, noting possible nuances. They explain the theme of my book to me. I become adept at nodding. I have them begin a novel of their own. “Write a first sentence,” I tell them. “And remember, you want the reader to be very interested right away.” Jessie writes, “Once upon a time, there was the best-behaved class in the world.” I ask the children, “From that one sentence, what do you think is going to happen in Jessie’s novel?” Practically all of them shout, “They’re going to be bad!”
Since, once again, it is clear I cannot teach them anything about writing, I decide to lead them in a rousing chorus of “Boppo the Great.” They sing it so boisterously, it nearly bring tears to my eyes. I have them do it again, louder, hoping that Sammy will overhear us.
When, on another day at Burning Tree, I visited Sammy’s class, I decided to drop in on Jessie’s class first, to say hello. Her classmate Arthur saw me in the hall, ran ahead, and announced, “Boppo’s here!” Jessie’s and Sammy’s friends all call me Boppo. So do their teachers. One afternoon I was standing by my car, waiting to pick up Jessie after school and take her to a piano lesson. A teacher, whom I do not know, called out, “Boppo! Are you taking Sammy home, too?” I am become Boppo, even in Bubbies’s school, where I was asked by the principal to play Dr. Seuss one morning to honor the doctor’s birthday. I sat in a rocker, wearing the floppy red-and-white-striped stovepipe, and read The Cat in the Hat to two-and three-year-olds. Wouldn’t it be fun to see Amy at these moments, standing off to the side of a classroom, hands on hips, making an amused frown. Her father, Boppo the Loud and Absurd. Boppo being Boppo. After a visit to Burning Tree, I walked out to the asphalt parking lot, which was bright with sunshine and packed with cars. Everything dead quiet. No one there but Boppo the Great.
Shopping with Carl, I ask how he’s doing. The boys are good,
After nearly a year, Ginny and I wonder whether we ought to ask Harris if he still wants us to stay. We very much want to, and are fairly sure he’ll say yes. But we shy away from asking because we don’t want him to take the slightest impression that we want out. This is our life. Without Harris and the children to fill it, we would be sitting in Quogue, manufacturing conversations between dark silences. I know we are creating a diversion for the children as well as a differently constructed life for them. Yet we are doing the same thing for ourselves. When Amy died, Ginny and I never had to confer as to where we wanted to be and should be. We had to ask Harris, but not each other. Now, ought we to ask him again? We decide that he will tell us when he wants us to go. And until then, my original answer to Jessie of “forever” stands. If a new woman should enter Harris’s life, as we hope will eventually happen, we know he will choose well. When that occurs, we won’t have to ask then either.
Mrs. Salcetti invites me to visit Jessie’s second-grade class, and talk about writing. I conclude that she did not consult Ms. Carone regarding my prior experience. I know Luxmi, Arthur, and Jaraad from last year’s first grade. I tell the kids I have memorized all their names, and make up a new name for each of them, calling boys Phyllis, girls Ralph, and so forth. Their cries of protest eat up ten minutes. I look over at Mrs. Salcetti. “Am I through?” I ask. She smiles, and points to the clock. “Only forty minutes to go,” she says.
At her insistence, I tell them the plot of my first novel, Lapham Rising, sanitizing it a bit, but staying true to the essentials. Naturally, they are way ahead of me. They analyze the characters I merely describe, noting possible nuances. They explain the theme of my book to me. I become adept at nodding. I have them begin a novel of their own. “Write a first sentence,” I tell them. “And remember, you want the reader to be very interested right away.” Jessie writes, “Once upon a time, there was the best-behaved class in the world.” I ask the children, “From that one sentence, what do you think is going to happen in Jessie’s novel?” Practically all of them shout, “They’re going to be bad!”
Since, once again, it is clear I cannot teach them anything about writing, I decide to lead them in a rousing chorus of “Boppo the Great.” They sing it so boisterously, it nearly bring tears to my eyes. I have them do it again, louder, hoping that Sammy will overhear us.
When, on another day at Burning Tree, I visited Sammy’s class, I decided to drop in on Jessie’s class first, to say hello. Her classmate Arthur saw me in the hall, ran ahead, and announced, “Boppo’s here!” Jessie’s and Sammy’s friends all call me Boppo. So do their teachers. One afternoon I was standing by my car, waiting to pick up Jessie after school and take her to a piano lesson. A teacher, whom I do not know, called out, “Boppo! Are you taking Sammy home, too?” I am become Boppo, even in Bubbies’s school, where I was asked by the principal to play Dr. Seuss one morning to honor the doctor’s birthday. I sat in a rocker, wearing the floppy red-and-white-striped stovepipe, and read The Cat in the Hat to two-and three-year-olds. Wouldn’t it be fun to see Amy at these moments, standing off to the side of a classroom, hands on hips, making an amused frown. Her father, Boppo the Loud and Absurd. Boppo being Boppo. After a visit to Burning Tree, I walked out to the asphalt parking lot, which was bright with sunshine and packed with cars. Everything dead quiet. No one there but Boppo the Great.
Shopping with Carl, I ask how he’s doing. The boys are good,
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