The Four Temperaments by Yona Zeldis McDonough

some cabbage. Oh, I also have some plain lettuce left from the salad.”
    â€œCabbage! No cabbage, please. But the lettuce and raw carrots would be perfect,” said Penelope.
    â€œWhat about the baby?” Ruth had asked. “Can she have some of the rice pilaf? Or the cooked carrots? She loved how I made them when I came out to visit you.”
    â€œNo, no, that's all right,” said Penelope. “I brought food for her. She'll just eat what Mommy brings,” she said, and nuzzled Isobel's nose with her own.
    â€œWhat can
we do?” Oscar asked Ruth, feeling helpless. He was ashamed of asking Ruth this; he realized that he was the one who had brought Ginny into their lives. Why should his wife help him now?
    â€œI'm not really sure,” Ruth said slowly. “But we ought to do something.”
    â€œHow much longer are they going to be on the East Coast?” Oscar asked.
    â€œOnly a couple of days. They're making it short this year.”
    â€œThank God for small blessings,” he murmured.
    â€œWe should see them before they go. I told Penelope we'd go up to Greenwich for the day. They're staying with Caroline.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œTomorrow. I think you should find a way to be alone with Gabriel. Tell him to stay away from Ginny.”
    â€œWhy should he listen to me?” Oscar said. “He never has before.”
    That night,
Oscar lay stiffly next to Ruth, not daring to touch her, even in the most casual way. Still, he was keenly aware of her presence next to him in the dark. He was sure that she was awake too. He wanted to talk to her—about Gabriel, about Penelope and, most of all, about Ginny. But how to begin? Then there was a loud, long sigh from Ruth. Oscar opened his mouth and said her name very softly.
    â€œI'm here,” she said. “What is it?”
    â€œI wanted to talk to you—”
    â€œAbout her? Ginny?”
    â€œYes, yes, about Ginny,” said Oscar, relieved that she would listen, that she hadn't stopped her ears or thrown him out or barred the doors.
    â€œYou will,” she said calmly. “You'll tell me everything. But not now. For one thing, I don't think I can hear it yet. And we have to think about Gabriel and Penelope. That's the most important thing. More important than you and me. Because we've done our job. Our children are grown. But Isobel . . .” Oscar reached over to take her hand. She didn't return the pressure, but she didn't withdraw her hand either. “Promise me you'll talk to him tomorrow,” said Ruth. “Promise you'll do everything you can.”
    The next
day was cold and clear. Oscar and Ruth took a taxi to Grand Central Terminal and from there the train to Greenwich, Connecticut. Oscar looked out the window at the bare trees, the bright sky, the landscape that was patched and brown. He liked the brief glimpses of the passing houses and liked to imagine the lives they might contain. It took his mind off his own life, and the mess he had made of it. He thought of Ginny too, and although he would be ashamed to have admitted it, he knew that he still wanted her.
    Caroline met
them at the train station; Penelope and Gabriel had slept late and were still at the house with Isobel. “Penelope seems a little tired to me,” said Caroline. “I don't think she's getting enough rest.”
    â€œWell, she's still nursing,” Ruth said sympathetically.
    â€œI know,” said Caroline. “That's the problem. Time to wean that baby if you ask me. But of course Penelope doesn't want my advice. She never did.”
    Penelope's mother lived in a big old house right on the shore of Long Island Sound. The windows all along one side overlooked the water. It was the house in which Penelope had grown up, and the one in which her father had died. She and Caroline were somewhat indifferent to its grandeur. Inside, it had the kind of shabby, genteel elegance Oscar associated with old