fault: at the worst the child brings exhaustion, bad temper... dry-cleaning bills." He shot a glance at Dante, reliving a distant memory. Thoughtfully Dr. Ratkay rubbed his chin. "'Fathers are children for the second time,' as Aristophanes almost said. When you have a child, you see in him yourself as a child. That's part of what you love in him, you see. You love yourself, your younger self. And when you look at him and worry, you do it because you think of all the things you lost, growing up. All the hurt... " He stopped himself, blinked and smiled. "So now, looking at you, you fine, tall, smart young man, I can see all the mistakes I'm going to make with you and your siblings, and your aunt, and my practice, and God knows your mother."
"You? Make mistakes? I thought it was impossible!"
Anton smiled. "I did too, at your age. That was pretty old to be so foolish!"
"Whereas I know I hardly ever do anything right," Dante said. "I must be exceedingly wise."
Anton shook his head, looking sadly at his son through a haze of blue smoke. After a long silence, he said, "No. You're an even bigger fool than I was."
* * *
"Dad seemed a little glum tonight," Sarah remarked to her mother after dinner that evening.
Mother shrugged. Sleeves rolled up to her elbows, she pulled the last few scraps of meat off the turkey's ribs and tossed its skeleton in the garbage. Beside her, Sarah sighed and pulled on an apron, looking over the usual wreckage of dishes Saturday dinner had left in its wake.
"I've never seen your brother carve with such a... scientific interest," Mother remarked.
Sarah started water running in the sink and added a healthy shot of detergent. Aunt Sophie had a deep aversion to dishwashers, which was fine, but as she had retired to her room after dinner, feeling unwell, it left Sarah with a depressing collection to do by hand. "We ought to get the boys in here to help."
Mother laughed. "Jet and Dante did most of the cooking while you snoozed upstairs this afternoon, you lazy thing."
"Yeah, I know." Resigning herself to the inevitable, Sarah rolled up her sleeves and began to scrub. She still felt hungry, but her reflection in the kitchen window told her she had eaten too much.
She hated it.
It was dark now. The lowering clouds had finally made good on their promise; rain creaked and spattered on the kitchen window, running in sudden tear-tracks down the glass. Sarah felt dull and melancholy. Two hours of fitful sleep, snatched in the mid-afternoon, had not made up for the horrors of last night's autopsy. Even Saturday dinner had been subdued: Aunt Sophie grim and moody, Father terse and withdrawn.
Mother clinked and clattered about the kitchen, determinedly cheerful. "When's your next show?"
"Tuesday night at Yuk-Yuks." As Sarah reached to fish another greasy plate out of the dishwater, her eyes involuntarily jumped to the window. Something had moved.
Something had moved outside.
She squinted, trying to see into the rainy night, but it was bright in the kitchen, and the window was crowded with reflections.
Once, years before at a darker time in her life, she had lain in bed in an apartment downtown, listening to the sound of faint screaming, very far away; it had run down her skin in tiny tracks of fear, like cold water. Tonight, straining to see through her own reflection, she felt the same fear sliding coldly down her face.
She leaned forward until her forehead touched the glass, looking through her own reflected eyes. Her heart was racing. Yes—there! Down at the bottom of the wilted garden, not far from the dim bulk of the boathouse.
Wasn't there a child, a little girl, staring up at the lighted window?
Staring in at the warm house from the cold and the rain; a child in jeans and a white T-shirt. A scrap of a girl with water dripping from the brim of a baseball cap.
With a little cry Sarah dropped the plate she had been washing. It smashed as she leapt to the back door, pulled it open,
"You? Make mistakes? I thought it was impossible!"
Anton smiled. "I did too, at your age. That was pretty old to be so foolish!"
"Whereas I know I hardly ever do anything right," Dante said. "I must be exceedingly wise."
Anton shook his head, looking sadly at his son through a haze of blue smoke. After a long silence, he said, "No. You're an even bigger fool than I was."
* * *
"Dad seemed a little glum tonight," Sarah remarked to her mother after dinner that evening.
Mother shrugged. Sleeves rolled up to her elbows, she pulled the last few scraps of meat off the turkey's ribs and tossed its skeleton in the garbage. Beside her, Sarah sighed and pulled on an apron, looking over the usual wreckage of dishes Saturday dinner had left in its wake.
"I've never seen your brother carve with such a... scientific interest," Mother remarked.
Sarah started water running in the sink and added a healthy shot of detergent. Aunt Sophie had a deep aversion to dishwashers, which was fine, but as she had retired to her room after dinner, feeling unwell, it left Sarah with a depressing collection to do by hand. "We ought to get the boys in here to help."
Mother laughed. "Jet and Dante did most of the cooking while you snoozed upstairs this afternoon, you lazy thing."
"Yeah, I know." Resigning herself to the inevitable, Sarah rolled up her sleeves and began to scrub. She still felt hungry, but her reflection in the kitchen window told her she had eaten too much.
She hated it.
It was dark now. The lowering clouds had finally made good on their promise; rain creaked and spattered on the kitchen window, running in sudden tear-tracks down the glass. Sarah felt dull and melancholy. Two hours of fitful sleep, snatched in the mid-afternoon, had not made up for the horrors of last night's autopsy. Even Saturday dinner had been subdued: Aunt Sophie grim and moody, Father terse and withdrawn.
Mother clinked and clattered about the kitchen, determinedly cheerful. "When's your next show?"
"Tuesday night at Yuk-Yuks." As Sarah reached to fish another greasy plate out of the dishwater, her eyes involuntarily jumped to the window. Something had moved.
Something had moved outside.
She squinted, trying to see into the rainy night, but it was bright in the kitchen, and the window was crowded with reflections.
Once, years before at a darker time in her life, she had lain in bed in an apartment downtown, listening to the sound of faint screaming, very far away; it had run down her skin in tiny tracks of fear, like cold water. Tonight, straining to see through her own reflection, she felt the same fear sliding coldly down her face.
She leaned forward until her forehead touched the glass, looking through her own reflected eyes. Her heart was racing. Yes—there! Down at the bottom of the wilted garden, not far from the dim bulk of the boathouse.
Wasn't there a child, a little girl, staring up at the lighted window?
Staring in at the warm house from the cold and the rain; a child in jeans and a white T-shirt. A scrap of a girl with water dripping from the brim of a baseball cap.
With a little cry Sarah dropped the plate she had been washing. It smashed as she leapt to the back door, pulled it open,
Similar Books
