cracking sound, it wasn’t only pain I felt. There was this overwhelming relief, like some sort of decision had been made on my behalf.”
Emma faltered. “I keep trying to convince myself that the problem is just school, but I know it’s Steven too. I keep hearing these voices telling me it’s not too late, I can still back out, I can still run.”
He took in her words. A month ago, he would have said that Emma and Steven were fine. Emma looked happy, which at the time seemed sufficient though now was so little. She was in no hurry to leave the car, and it brought to mind a memory of her he’d long forgotten. On family vacations, she’d liked to climb into the way-back of the station wagon, where she’d lie down unbelted as they drove late into the night, her sleep punctuated by the lights of passing cars, safe in the knowledge that when they arrived at their destination, she would be carried inside, to bed.
“What does Steven have to say about all of this?” he asked.
“I haven’t told him. I’m just so glad he’s gone. For the first time in months, I feel like I can breathe,” she said, and in an instant, his arms were around her. It had been ages since he’d held her like this, and he worried his tentativeness was evident, as though a hug were a contortionist’s most challenging feat.
They got out of the car and walked down West End. On the corner of 102nd, a woman was collecting signatures. She had a card table stacked with flyers in shades of fluorescent green and yellow, words in bold and all caps, every sentence erupting in exclamation marks. SAVE OUR NEIGHBORHOOD!!! NO MORE DEVELOPMENT!!!!
He and Emma watched as another woman approached the table and read the flyers. She was wearing orange cowboy boots and a yellow lace dress that, despite the summer heat, was partially covered with a green wool sweater.
“We have a chance to stop this development. The community board is on our side, and we’re prepared to fight,” said the woman behind the table, and smiled encouragingly. “Would you like to sign?” she asked hopefully, even though this oddly dressed woman was probably a resident of the San Souci, the neighborhood SRO whose presence various community activists had protested to no avail.
“You’ll sign, won’t you?” she called as Leon and Emma walked past. She watched him, awaiting recognition.
“We’ve met before. I’m Barbara, I’m friends with Claudia,” she said. “And you must be her daughter,” she said to Emma.
Leon feigned recognition, but not quickly enough because he saw the flicker of hurt on her face, wanting more than a signature.
“I like the new buildings,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes in distaste, yet her mouth revealed an inadvertent smile; having been ignored all day, she was ready for a debate. “Are you aware of the damage done to the quality of life by these monstrosities?”
“I am,” he said. “But what can I do? I like them anyway.”
Glaring at him, Barbara gathered a handful of flyers. “I would assume your wife doesn’t feel the same way. Can you give these to her? I’ve been trying to get her involved.”
“She’s been busy,” Leon said with an apologetic shrug.
“We’re all busy. But someone needs to stop this,” Barbara chided him as she began to pack up the table.
Leon gladly ended the conversation with Barbara, whom he now recognized as the owner of one of the warring dogs he watched from his car. That morning, as the dogs circled and barked, the owners had avoided looking at one another. When intervention was finally required, the owners yanked back on the leashes, and the dogs were momentarily suspended in midair, wet, red mouths open, tongues hanging. Leon couldn’t tell whether the people or the dogs had initiated the bad feelings, but they all shouldered them equally now.
Continuing down the block, he looped his arm through Emma’s to steady her, afraid she might re-injure herself. Once he had a patient so
Emma faltered. “I keep trying to convince myself that the problem is just school, but I know it’s Steven too. I keep hearing these voices telling me it’s not too late, I can still back out, I can still run.”
He took in her words. A month ago, he would have said that Emma and Steven were fine. Emma looked happy, which at the time seemed sufficient though now was so little. She was in no hurry to leave the car, and it brought to mind a memory of her he’d long forgotten. On family vacations, she’d liked to climb into the way-back of the station wagon, where she’d lie down unbelted as they drove late into the night, her sleep punctuated by the lights of passing cars, safe in the knowledge that when they arrived at their destination, she would be carried inside, to bed.
“What does Steven have to say about all of this?” he asked.
“I haven’t told him. I’m just so glad he’s gone. For the first time in months, I feel like I can breathe,” she said, and in an instant, his arms were around her. It had been ages since he’d held her like this, and he worried his tentativeness was evident, as though a hug were a contortionist’s most challenging feat.
They got out of the car and walked down West End. On the corner of 102nd, a woman was collecting signatures. She had a card table stacked with flyers in shades of fluorescent green and yellow, words in bold and all caps, every sentence erupting in exclamation marks. SAVE OUR NEIGHBORHOOD!!! NO MORE DEVELOPMENT!!!!
He and Emma watched as another woman approached the table and read the flyers. She was wearing orange cowboy boots and a yellow lace dress that, despite the summer heat, was partially covered with a green wool sweater.
“We have a chance to stop this development. The community board is on our side, and we’re prepared to fight,” said the woman behind the table, and smiled encouragingly. “Would you like to sign?” she asked hopefully, even though this oddly dressed woman was probably a resident of the San Souci, the neighborhood SRO whose presence various community activists had protested to no avail.
“You’ll sign, won’t you?” she called as Leon and Emma walked past. She watched him, awaiting recognition.
“We’ve met before. I’m Barbara, I’m friends with Claudia,” she said. “And you must be her daughter,” she said to Emma.
Leon feigned recognition, but not quickly enough because he saw the flicker of hurt on her face, wanting more than a signature.
“I like the new buildings,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes in distaste, yet her mouth revealed an inadvertent smile; having been ignored all day, she was ready for a debate. “Are you aware of the damage done to the quality of life by these monstrosities?”
“I am,” he said. “But what can I do? I like them anyway.”
Glaring at him, Barbara gathered a handful of flyers. “I would assume your wife doesn’t feel the same way. Can you give these to her? I’ve been trying to get her involved.”
“She’s been busy,” Leon said with an apologetic shrug.
“We’re all busy. But someone needs to stop this,” Barbara chided him as she began to pack up the table.
Leon gladly ended the conversation with Barbara, whom he now recognized as the owner of one of the warring dogs he watched from his car. That morning, as the dogs circled and barked, the owners had avoided looking at one another. When intervention was finally required, the owners yanked back on the leashes, and the dogs were momentarily suspended in midair, wet, red mouths open, tongues hanging. Leon couldn’t tell whether the people or the dogs had initiated the bad feelings, but they all shouldered them equally now.
Continuing down the block, he looped his arm through Emma’s to steady her, afraid she might re-injure herself. Once he had a patient so
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