memories of him would not intrude on almost every thought? How long did the real memorial service last?
Two doors down, a little girl came down the steps of her house. She hopped, her legs tightly together and her knees bent, making a game of her short descent. She was going to school, her backpack on, a pink lunch box in her hand. Farther down the block, a woman in a red plaid robe came out onto her porch to toss squares of bread to the squirrels gathered on her lawn. Her mouth moved; she was speaking to them, smiling. She tossed the last crumbs and stood for a moment with one hand on her hip, looking up to inspect the sky. Then she disappeared inside.
I watched to see who else might come out, but no one did; the only movement was of an airplane passing overhead. I watched it, imagining the people aboard straightening in their seats, looking down at where they would soon be arriving. From an airplane, the earth always looked so orderly, so gentle. So full of abundance and grace and purposeful intelligence. By day you could marvel at the precise patterns of the cultivated fields. At night, you could see clusters of lights, showing an obvious need for people to be near one another. Who would not be moved, looking down from such a distance, at the evidence of our great intentions?
I brought in the paper I’d ordered last week and went into the kitchen for coffee. I read the news and cut out a photograph I particularly liked: an old man on a city bus, sitting proudly erect and dressed in a three-piece suit. I would paste him into my scrapbook and imagine various destinations for him.
I stood to go to the cereal cabinet and was startled by the sight of Benny, his hair wetly combed, staring expectantly at me through the parted curtains.
I opened the door. “Did you knock? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
“I didn’t knock. I didn’t want to wake you up if you were sleeping.”
“I was sitting right here at the table, reading the paper.”
He looked at the torn-out picture I held in my hand. “What’s that?”
I showed it to him. “You tell me.”
He shrugged, then grinned. “
I
don’t know!”
I looked at the picture again. “Well, where do you think he’s going? Maybe . . . to see his girlfriend?”
Benny looked again, then said, “Nah. He’s on the way to see the doctor. But it’s good news—he’s all better!”
I felt the cold now and pulled at the edges of my robe, tightening it across my chest. “So you were just standing there waiting? For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, come on in.”
He glanced over at his house, where a car was backing out of the garage. “Uh-oh, too late, there’s my mom. I have to go to school.”
I came out onto the back porch and waved at Benny’s mother. She was pretty, a young-looking woman, her hair tastefully streaked. “Good morning!” I said. “I’m Betta Nolan. Thanks for the muffins!”
She shaded her eyes against the sun. “You’re welcome. I’m Carol Pacini. Has he been bugging you?”
“Not at all.”
She turned the car radio down, reached inside her blouse to hike up a bra strap. “Well, if he ever bothers you, just send him home.”
“He’s a pleasure. Really.”
“So are you able to come?”
I stared at her blankly.
“Didn’t Benny ask you to come to dinner tonight?”
“I didn’t have
time
!” Benny said.
“You’ve been there for ten minutes!”
“But she just now opened the door!”
“He didn’t knock,” I said, smiling.
She shook her head. “Get in the car, Benny.” And then, to me, “We’d like to have you over to dinner. Seven-thirty?”
“Yes, thanks. I’ll bring dessert.”
Benny hopped into the car, and as it rolled past, he gave me the thumbs-up sign. I returned the gesture, though, truth to tell, I didn’t know why.
The night before, I’d hung a calendar on the kitchen wall next to the phone. Now, on the square for today, I wrote:
Dinner, 7:30.
Then:
Carol.
Beneath that, in small
Two doors down, a little girl came down the steps of her house. She hopped, her legs tightly together and her knees bent, making a game of her short descent. She was going to school, her backpack on, a pink lunch box in her hand. Farther down the block, a woman in a red plaid robe came out onto her porch to toss squares of bread to the squirrels gathered on her lawn. Her mouth moved; she was speaking to them, smiling. She tossed the last crumbs and stood for a moment with one hand on her hip, looking up to inspect the sky. Then she disappeared inside.
I watched to see who else might come out, but no one did; the only movement was of an airplane passing overhead. I watched it, imagining the people aboard straightening in their seats, looking down at where they would soon be arriving. From an airplane, the earth always looked so orderly, so gentle. So full of abundance and grace and purposeful intelligence. By day you could marvel at the precise patterns of the cultivated fields. At night, you could see clusters of lights, showing an obvious need for people to be near one another. Who would not be moved, looking down from such a distance, at the evidence of our great intentions?
I brought in the paper I’d ordered last week and went into the kitchen for coffee. I read the news and cut out a photograph I particularly liked: an old man on a city bus, sitting proudly erect and dressed in a three-piece suit. I would paste him into my scrapbook and imagine various destinations for him.
I stood to go to the cereal cabinet and was startled by the sight of Benny, his hair wetly combed, staring expectantly at me through the parted curtains.
I opened the door. “Did you knock? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”
“I didn’t knock. I didn’t want to wake you up if you were sleeping.”
“I was sitting right here at the table, reading the paper.”
He looked at the torn-out picture I held in my hand. “What’s that?”
I showed it to him. “You tell me.”
He shrugged, then grinned. “
I
don’t know!”
I looked at the picture again. “Well, where do you think he’s going? Maybe . . . to see his girlfriend?”
Benny looked again, then said, “Nah. He’s on the way to see the doctor. But it’s good news—he’s all better!”
I felt the cold now and pulled at the edges of my robe, tightening it across my chest. “So you were just standing there waiting? For how long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, come on in.”
He glanced over at his house, where a car was backing out of the garage. “Uh-oh, too late, there’s my mom. I have to go to school.”
I came out onto the back porch and waved at Benny’s mother. She was pretty, a young-looking woman, her hair tastefully streaked. “Good morning!” I said. “I’m Betta Nolan. Thanks for the muffins!”
She shaded her eyes against the sun. “You’re welcome. I’m Carol Pacini. Has he been bugging you?”
“Not at all.”
She turned the car radio down, reached inside her blouse to hike up a bra strap. “Well, if he ever bothers you, just send him home.”
“He’s a pleasure. Really.”
“So are you able to come?”
I stared at her blankly.
“Didn’t Benny ask you to come to dinner tonight?”
“I didn’t have
time
!” Benny said.
“You’ve been there for ten minutes!”
“But she just now opened the door!”
“He didn’t knock,” I said, smiling.
She shook her head. “Get in the car, Benny.” And then, to me, “We’d like to have you over to dinner. Seven-thirty?”
“Yes, thanks. I’ll bring dessert.”
Benny hopped into the car, and as it rolled past, he gave me the thumbs-up sign. I returned the gesture, though, truth to tell, I didn’t know why.
The night before, I’d hung a calendar on the kitchen wall next to the phone. Now, on the square for today, I wrote:
Dinner, 7:30.
Then:
Carol.
Beneath that, in small
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