The Paris Library(12)

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FOR SUPPER, DAD heated Salisbury steak frozen dinners and set up TV trays. He said it was so we could watch the news, but I knew it was so that Graham Brewster, the grandfatherly anchor, would do the talking for us. Tonight, he interviewed a member of the Union of Concerned Scientists about what would happen in the event of a nuclear war.

“Is Mom getting better?” I asked Dad.

“I don’t know. She seems less tired.”

More than 225 tons of smoke would spew into the air, said the MIT physicist.

“When will she be home?”

“I wish we knew, hon, but Stanch didn’t say. Real soon, I hope.”

The smoke would black out the sun, triggering an ice age.

“I’m scared.”

“Eat something,” Dad said.

No matter how bad things are now, the scientist concluded, they can always get worse.

I moved the meat around with my fork. My belly had stiffened into a boulder, and it beat long and slow, like a confused heart.

After dinner, Dad disappeared into the den. I twirled the telephone cord around my finger and called Mary Louise. The line was busy. If her sister Angel wasn’t on a date, she was on the phone. I glanced around to make sure Dad wasn’t nearby before dialing 5896. Please let Robby be home. “Hello,” he answered. “Hello? Is anyone there?” I wished I could talk to him but didn’t know how. I eased the receiver onto the cradle but didn’t let go right away—his voice, deep and velvety, made me feel less lonesome.

At my bedroom window, I stared up at the full moon. It stared back. The wind snatched at the brittle branches. When I was little and scared of a storm, Mom had pretended that my bed was a boat and that the gusts were waves, the sea slicing to and fro over our lawn, taking us to a faraway land. Without her, the wind was just the wind, howling past on its way to somewhere better.



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TEN DAYS LATER, when Mom came home, she sank onto the bed. Dad prepared a cup of chamomile tea. I lay beside her under the lemon-yellow afghan. She smelled of Ivory soap. Icicles dangled from the roof. Snow tight-roped the telephone lines. The big sky was blue, our world white.

“We’re lucky today.” She gestured toward the window. “Plenty of hawks.”

Sometimes they glided high over the pasture across the street. Sometimes they flew low, searching for mice. Mom said bird-watching was better than TV.

“When I was pregnant, your dad and I cuddled on the window seat and watched robins. I loved their bright breasts, a sure sign of spring, but he didn’t like the way they slurped down worms. ‘Think of it as spaghetti,’ I told him.”

“Ew!”

“You were almost a Robin. After you were born, I told the nurse that was your name, though I knew your dad preferred Lily, because lily of the valley was in bloom when we bought the house. Then I saw you with him, your fingers clasped around his pinkie. They reminded me of the tiny flowers. He leaned down and kissed your belly. The way he looked at you… with such love—I changed my mind.” She told the story often, but today for some reason, she added: “When Dad works, it’s not for himself. He wants us to feel secure. He was poor growing up. Deep down, he’s scared he could lose everything. Do you understand?”

“Kind of.”

“People are awkward, they don’t always know what to do or say. Don’t hold it against them. You never know what’s in their hearts.”

People are awkward. Don’t hold it against them. You never know what’s in their hearts. What did she mean? Something about herself? Or Dad? I heard Mary Louise’s mom say that my dad took himself for a Wall Street stockbroker and that he liked money more than people.

“Dad’s gone an awful lot,” I said.

“Oh, honey, what a pity that babies don’t have memories of how they were cherished. Your dad held you all night long.”

He was an eagle, she said, calm and brave. I’d learned about eagles—both the male and female take turns sitting on the eggs.

“Humans have families,” she continued, “but what about geese?”

I shrugged.

“We say a gaggle of geese.”

“How about sparrows?”

“A host of sparrows.”

“Hawks?”

“A cast.”

Like a bird TV show. I giggled.

“Do you know what they call a group of ravens? An unkindness of ravens.”

It sounded too silly to be true. I scoured her face for the truth, but she seemed serious. “What about crows?”

“A murder of crows.”

“A murder of crows,” I repeated.

It felt like the good old days, back when everything was okay. I hugged her tight, so tight, wishing everything could be like this always. Us, together on the big brass bed, warm inside.



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IN THE MORNING, Dad and I lingered at the kitchen counter with Mom. He said it wouldn’t hurt me to miss a day of school.

“I don’t need babysitters!” Mom said.

“Stanch said you should still be in the hospital,” Dad replied.

We ate our bacon and eggs in silence. The minute we finished, she pushed us out the door. At school, all I could think of was her—at least in the hospital, she hadn’t been alone. In the middle of math, Tiffany Ivers kicked my chair. “Hey, spaz,” she said. “Mr. Goodan asked you a question.” I lifted my head, but he’d moved on. When the last bell rang, I rushed home. From outside, I could see my parents on the window seat. I went around to the back door, entering quietly through the kitchen.