Cara said. “Is it a boy?”
“Wow,” said Richard, holding the baby up to show Cara. “Check this out.”
Dorothy nodded. “You have a son, Cara,” she said. She took the baby from Richard, and laid him on the collapsed tent of Cara’s belly. Cara opened her eyes. “A big old hairy son.”
Richard went around to stand beside his wife. He leaned in until his cheek was pressed against hers. They studied the wolfman’s boy, and he regarded them.
“Do you think he’s funny-looking?” Richard said doubtfully. Then the nurse snapped a picture of the three of them, and they looked at her, blinking, blinded by the flash.
“Beautiful,” said the nurse.
Green’s Book
S HE WAS THE TYPE of girl that Green always noticed right away: too thin, dressed wrong, foulmouthed, already drunk and laughing too loud—a shimmying funnel of dust, lightning, and uprooted houses working its way across the room. She had coarse dyed-black hair worn chopped off at the jawline, a wide mouth painted the color of a grape Tootsie Pop, brilliant teeth, pointy black boots, black stockings, and a crinkly black dress that showed off exactly too much of her shoulders and breasts. It was a few seconds, standing in Emily Klein’s living room, shaking hands all around, before Green realized that he knew the girl. And then one moment more of erotic doubt, mingled with a pleasant sense of trouble, before he recognized her. She spotted him. Green hooked an arm around his young daughter’s waist, hoisted her into the air, and turned back toward the door.
“I left something in the trunk,” he told Emily Klein. He fled down the front steps with his squirming burden, looking for all the world like a man who was stealing a child. He stepped back out into the afternoon. The light of a Washington summer, of his earliest childhood, spilled over the dilapidated lawns and trees of the Kleins’ neighborhood, rippling and golden and rank as a pool of gasoline. Green hurried toward his car.
“Put me down!” Jocelyn cried. “You’re mooshing my new dress.”
“Sorry,” said Green, as if he had bumped a passerby. He was not listening to his daughter’s protests.
“Daddy!” It was a cry of fury—choked, deeply offended—such as Jocelyn rarely expressed to Green. The heel of her shoe glanced sharply off his cheekbone. That was when he realized that she had been kicking him the whole way out to the street. No doubt he had made a spectacle of them both.
They reached Green’s car, a new black German sedan with a turbocharged engine. Green stopped, his cheek stinging. He turned the little girl over and set her on her feet. Her cheeks were bright red, her breathing frantic. Green realized that in his haste to flee the woman in the Kleins’ living room he had been constricting the very wind out of his daughter's lungs.
“I’ll fix your dress,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the house. “I’m sorry.”
The dress was a gray-and-white seersucker dirndl, appliquéd on the bib with a basket of blue asters, worn over a stiff white blouse trimmed at the collar with crocheted lace. The shoes, also new, were patent T-straps, liquid and black as the pupil of an eye. Jocelyn’s legs, their pudgy thighs the only trace that now remained of a rather corpulent babyhood, Green had stuffed carefully into a pair of white tights. When Green exercised his rights of visitation—one weekend a month, three weeks during the summer—he dressed her with surprising care and according to outmoded notions of proper feminine attire that horrified his former wife but that, for reasons he chose not to examine, Green found he could not suppress.
Green knelt in front of Jocelyn and tugged down on the hem of her skirt, smoothing it with one hand. He hiked the waistband of the tights, lifting his daughter a full half inch off the ground, and held her suspended until her skinny little bottom—she was just out of diapers—sank back snugly into place. He
“Wow,” said Richard, holding the baby up to show Cara. “Check this out.”
Dorothy nodded. “You have a son, Cara,” she said. She took the baby from Richard, and laid him on the collapsed tent of Cara’s belly. Cara opened her eyes. “A big old hairy son.”
Richard went around to stand beside his wife. He leaned in until his cheek was pressed against hers. They studied the wolfman’s boy, and he regarded them.
“Do you think he’s funny-looking?” Richard said doubtfully. Then the nurse snapped a picture of the three of them, and they looked at her, blinking, blinded by the flash.
“Beautiful,” said the nurse.
Green’s Book
S HE WAS THE TYPE of girl that Green always noticed right away: too thin, dressed wrong, foulmouthed, already drunk and laughing too loud—a shimmying funnel of dust, lightning, and uprooted houses working its way across the room. She had coarse dyed-black hair worn chopped off at the jawline, a wide mouth painted the color of a grape Tootsie Pop, brilliant teeth, pointy black boots, black stockings, and a crinkly black dress that showed off exactly too much of her shoulders and breasts. It was a few seconds, standing in Emily Klein’s living room, shaking hands all around, before Green realized that he knew the girl. And then one moment more of erotic doubt, mingled with a pleasant sense of trouble, before he recognized her. She spotted him. Green hooked an arm around his young daughter’s waist, hoisted her into the air, and turned back toward the door.
“I left something in the trunk,” he told Emily Klein. He fled down the front steps with his squirming burden, looking for all the world like a man who was stealing a child. He stepped back out into the afternoon. The light of a Washington summer, of his earliest childhood, spilled over the dilapidated lawns and trees of the Kleins’ neighborhood, rippling and golden and rank as a pool of gasoline. Green hurried toward his car.
“Put me down!” Jocelyn cried. “You’re mooshing my new dress.”
“Sorry,” said Green, as if he had bumped a passerby. He was not listening to his daughter’s protests.
“Daddy!” It was a cry of fury—choked, deeply offended—such as Jocelyn rarely expressed to Green. The heel of her shoe glanced sharply off his cheekbone. That was when he realized that she had been kicking him the whole way out to the street. No doubt he had made a spectacle of them both.
They reached Green’s car, a new black German sedan with a turbocharged engine. Green stopped, his cheek stinging. He turned the little girl over and set her on her feet. Her cheeks were bright red, her breathing frantic. Green realized that in his haste to flee the woman in the Kleins’ living room he had been constricting the very wind out of his daughter's lungs.
“I’ll fix your dress,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the house. “I’m sorry.”
The dress was a gray-and-white seersucker dirndl, appliquéd on the bib with a basket of blue asters, worn over a stiff white blouse trimmed at the collar with crocheted lace. The shoes, also new, were patent T-straps, liquid and black as the pupil of an eye. Jocelyn’s legs, their pudgy thighs the only trace that now remained of a rather corpulent babyhood, Green had stuffed carefully into a pair of white tights. When Green exercised his rights of visitation—one weekend a month, three weeks during the summer—he dressed her with surprising care and according to outmoded notions of proper feminine attire that horrified his former wife but that, for reasons he chose not to examine, Green found he could not suppress.
Green knelt in front of Jocelyn and tugged down on the hem of her skirt, smoothing it with one hand. He hiked the waistband of the tights, lifting his daughter a full half inch off the ground, and held her suspended until her skinny little bottom—she was just out of diapers—sank back snugly into place. He
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