just one more story.”
“And how do you know all this?” she asked in a chilly voice, and then was alarmed at how real it sounded. But she saw him catch the slight twinkle in her eyes, and her alarm faded.
“I remember from when I was a baby,” he said, and stuck his tongue into his cheek.
She made a skeptical face at him.
“Okay, my mother said my baby brother was just like me, and I remember him being like that.”
They sat in smiling silence for a few moments. Then Lars said, his massive brow corrugating in an effort to be diplomatic, “Hon, have you been thinking about going back to work?”
“Not really, why? Do we need the money?” She wondered if he had another costly purchase in mind—he was prone to costly, work-heavy enthusiasms.
“No, no, we’re doing all right.” Which at least meant his current hobby, a 1912 Stanley Steamer automobile, hadn’t done anything expensive to itself lately.
“Well, why do you ask, then?”
“You’ll think this is dumb, prob’ly, but yesterday I opened the suitcase on the top shelf of our closet because I forgot what it was doing up there, and I found it was full of Em’s baby clothes. And a smell came out of them, just like she smelled when she was new, and all of a sudden I thought how nice it would be to have another baby.”
He wasn’t looking at her when he said this. Afraid she might laugh at him, she thought. “And you think perhaps the choice for me is either going back to work or having another baby?” This time the chill in her voice was not faux.
“No, no!” he hastened to say. “No, what I was thinking was that maybe you were thinking about going back on the cops. Because I know you miss it. But if you’re not thinking about it, maybe you could think about a baby brother or sister for Em.”
He still was looking away. So he missed the look of compassion she gave him. Back before they married, they’d agreed they wanted a big family, at least four children. But Emma was more expensive and a whole lot more work than either had anticipated. Most of the labor fell on Jill—which was okay, because it was her choice. And she loved it. Mostly. And just lately she had been thinking that one wasn’t enough. It was kind of nice that dear Lars was thinking so, too.
Her silence drew his attention, and he turned to look at her, his pale gray eyes looking into her light blue ones. They both started smiling at the same time.
G ODWIN was watching an old movie on cable. It was Bette Davis month, and she was starring in The Petrified Forest . Bette Davis, he reflected, had been a terrific actress, sweet and vulnerable in some roles, defiant and angry in others, ironic and sarcastic in still others. Whatever the role called for, there she was, living it, graceful or clumsy, defensive and vulnerable, snotty, witty, beautiful—sometimes even homely, but always true to the role.
He was knitting another in his endless series of white cotton socks—not that he needed another pair. What he needed was an excuse for staying up late. Some customers who knew him would be sure to notice he was tired tomorrow and ask if he’d been out on a date. He didn’t want to lie and say yes—but he also didn’t want to say he stayed up late to watch a Bette Davis marathon. So he knit, because saying he got involved in knitting was almost the truth, and something Crewel World customers would definitely understand.
But he was really staying up late because he wanted to think. Like his parents before him, he had grown up doing homework while watching TV, sometimes with music also playing. He believed all those distractions somehow helped him focus.
But it didn’t seem to work this time. Maybe because he’d seen The Petrified Forest before, several times, and he didn’t think it one of her better efforts—Ms. Davis was very young in this movie, not the gallant ruin she would be many years down the road. It made him aware that one day he, too, might be a ruin—and
“And how do you know all this?” she asked in a chilly voice, and then was alarmed at how real it sounded. But she saw him catch the slight twinkle in her eyes, and her alarm faded.
“I remember from when I was a baby,” he said, and stuck his tongue into his cheek.
She made a skeptical face at him.
“Okay, my mother said my baby brother was just like me, and I remember him being like that.”
They sat in smiling silence for a few moments. Then Lars said, his massive brow corrugating in an effort to be diplomatic, “Hon, have you been thinking about going back to work?”
“Not really, why? Do we need the money?” She wondered if he had another costly purchase in mind—he was prone to costly, work-heavy enthusiasms.
“No, no, we’re doing all right.” Which at least meant his current hobby, a 1912 Stanley Steamer automobile, hadn’t done anything expensive to itself lately.
“Well, why do you ask, then?”
“You’ll think this is dumb, prob’ly, but yesterday I opened the suitcase on the top shelf of our closet because I forgot what it was doing up there, and I found it was full of Em’s baby clothes. And a smell came out of them, just like she smelled when she was new, and all of a sudden I thought how nice it would be to have another baby.”
He wasn’t looking at her when he said this. Afraid she might laugh at him, she thought. “And you think perhaps the choice for me is either going back to work or having another baby?” This time the chill in her voice was not faux.
“No, no!” he hastened to say. “No, what I was thinking was that maybe you were thinking about going back on the cops. Because I know you miss it. But if you’re not thinking about it, maybe you could think about a baby brother or sister for Em.”
He still was looking away. So he missed the look of compassion she gave him. Back before they married, they’d agreed they wanted a big family, at least four children. But Emma was more expensive and a whole lot more work than either had anticipated. Most of the labor fell on Jill—which was okay, because it was her choice. And she loved it. Mostly. And just lately she had been thinking that one wasn’t enough. It was kind of nice that dear Lars was thinking so, too.
Her silence drew his attention, and he turned to look at her, his pale gray eyes looking into her light blue ones. They both started smiling at the same time.
G ODWIN was watching an old movie on cable. It was Bette Davis month, and she was starring in The Petrified Forest . Bette Davis, he reflected, had been a terrific actress, sweet and vulnerable in some roles, defiant and angry in others, ironic and sarcastic in still others. Whatever the role called for, there she was, living it, graceful or clumsy, defensive and vulnerable, snotty, witty, beautiful—sometimes even homely, but always true to the role.
He was knitting another in his endless series of white cotton socks—not that he needed another pair. What he needed was an excuse for staying up late. Some customers who knew him would be sure to notice he was tired tomorrow and ask if he’d been out on a date. He didn’t want to lie and say yes—but he also didn’t want to say he stayed up late to watch a Bette Davis marathon. So he knit, because saying he got involved in knitting was almost the truth, and something Crewel World customers would definitely understand.
But he was really staying up late because he wanted to think. Like his parents before him, he had grown up doing homework while watching TV, sometimes with music also playing. He believed all those distractions somehow helped him focus.
But it didn’t seem to work this time. Maybe because he’d seen The Petrified Forest before, several times, and he didn’t think it one of her better efforts—Ms. Davis was very young in this movie, not the gallant ruin she would be many years down the road. It made him aware that one day he, too, might be a ruin—and
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