this afternoon. I'm packing my stuff. I'm not coming back."
Still not looking at her, a mask of professional calm on his face, Mike stood and got himself a plastic fork from a jar of them on the next table. He sat again, poised the fork for use, but didn't use it. “We agreed,” he said, “that just now, just now and for a while, there wasn't going to be any of this."
"No,” she said. “ You agreed."
A quick dart of Mike's eyes to the others in the room. “If you want,” he said carefully, “we can go somewhere, outside...."
"I'm taking the calculator,” she said. “If that's okay. I know you use it all the time but I did pay for it and I can't do anything without it."
"Rosie. You're acting out.” He looked up at her at last, levelly, candor and control projected from his narrow eyes. “You know, I really feel like you're breaking a bond. Like a little kid. As though you can't see me, see me as a person. We agreed that with my work and my research and my, that we would put off any discussions.” His voice had sunk to a low murmur. “Until a turnaround time."
"Your Up Passage Year.” Rosie stopped pacing. “We agreed about Rose, too."
His head sank at that, as though it were unfair. His fork counted four in the air. “We can't talk about this here, we can talk if you want to talk about it...."
"It's not to talk about,” Rosie said. “It's an announcement."
"And Sam?” he said, looking up again.
"Sam's coming with me."
Mike began to nod slowly, saddened but not surprised. “Just like that,” he said.
She flushed. This was the hard part. She had arguments for this part too, but they hadn't ever completely convinced her, and she didn't dare embark on them. “For a while,” she said tersely.
"And be brought up,” he said, “by Beau Brachman."
Quick as a cat attacked, Rosie shot back: “And who would you leave her with? Rose?"
Again Mike's head sank. Then he smiled, shook his head, chuckled, taking another tack. “Rosie,” he said. “Rosie, Rosie, Rosie. Are you really jealous of her?” A grin began to spread across his face. “Really? Or is it something else? Something else about Rose, I mean."
She only stared, arms uncrossing.
"No, really, you and she being good buddies there for a while. That could be tense-making. Gee, we were all good buddies, you know, weren't we, one time there, one night.” His voice had sunk again to a murmur, which the broad grin made horrible. “I thought maybe you had a little thing for her."
She couldn't throw the pie of grains, it wouldn't hold together, but she swept it up with both hands and pressed it into his grin so suddenly that he couldn't prevent it.
"There,” she said, “there,” more to herself than to anyone else, and turned away as Mike leaped up knocking over his chair and wiping bran from his face furiously. The others there had stood too and were hurrying over, but Rosie was gone, walking the wooden corridor steadily, quickly, in time with her steady hard heartbeats, and dusting bits of sticky meal from her fingers.
There, she said to herself again when she was seated in the suffocating car. There. There there there. The dogs sniffed and panted at her impatiently as she sat waiting for her heartbeat to slow.
Stupid. Stupid thing to do.
But what an awful, what an awful impossible man. She put the key in, turned it, nothing happened, she had a swift dreadful vision of a whole chain of events including return to The Woods, telephone calls, a wrecker, apologies, a ride home with Mike, and then saw that she had the car in the wrong gear. She fixed that, and the car started with a roar.
Almost as though he chose to be awful. Didn't have to be and chose to be. That couldn't be so, but it was just as though. It made it hard to forgive him. It always had, always. She reached up, tears beginning to burn and sparkle in the orbits of her eyes, to adjust the rear-view mirror. It came away in her hand.
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Still not looking at her, a mask of professional calm on his face, Mike stood and got himself a plastic fork from a jar of them on the next table. He sat again, poised the fork for use, but didn't use it. “We agreed,” he said, “that just now, just now and for a while, there wasn't going to be any of this."
"No,” she said. “ You agreed."
A quick dart of Mike's eyes to the others in the room. “If you want,” he said carefully, “we can go somewhere, outside...."
"I'm taking the calculator,” she said. “If that's okay. I know you use it all the time but I did pay for it and I can't do anything without it."
"Rosie. You're acting out.” He looked up at her at last, levelly, candor and control projected from his narrow eyes. “You know, I really feel like you're breaking a bond. Like a little kid. As though you can't see me, see me as a person. We agreed that with my work and my research and my, that we would put off any discussions.” His voice had sunk to a low murmur. “Until a turnaround time."
"Your Up Passage Year.” Rosie stopped pacing. “We agreed about Rose, too."
His head sank at that, as though it were unfair. His fork counted four in the air. “We can't talk about this here, we can talk if you want to talk about it...."
"It's not to talk about,” Rosie said. “It's an announcement."
"And Sam?” he said, looking up again.
"Sam's coming with me."
Mike began to nod slowly, saddened but not surprised. “Just like that,” he said.
She flushed. This was the hard part. She had arguments for this part too, but they hadn't ever completely convinced her, and she didn't dare embark on them. “For a while,” she said tersely.
"And be brought up,” he said, “by Beau Brachman."
Quick as a cat attacked, Rosie shot back: “And who would you leave her with? Rose?"
Again Mike's head sank. Then he smiled, shook his head, chuckled, taking another tack. “Rosie,” he said. “Rosie, Rosie, Rosie. Are you really jealous of her?” A grin began to spread across his face. “Really? Or is it something else? Something else about Rose, I mean."
She only stared, arms uncrossing.
"No, really, you and she being good buddies there for a while. That could be tense-making. Gee, we were all good buddies, you know, weren't we, one time there, one night.” His voice had sunk again to a murmur, which the broad grin made horrible. “I thought maybe you had a little thing for her."
She couldn't throw the pie of grains, it wouldn't hold together, but she swept it up with both hands and pressed it into his grin so suddenly that he couldn't prevent it.
"There,” she said, “there,” more to herself than to anyone else, and turned away as Mike leaped up knocking over his chair and wiping bran from his face furiously. The others there had stood too and were hurrying over, but Rosie was gone, walking the wooden corridor steadily, quickly, in time with her steady hard heartbeats, and dusting bits of sticky meal from her fingers.
There, she said to herself again when she was seated in the suffocating car. There. There there there. The dogs sniffed and panted at her impatiently as she sat waiting for her heartbeat to slow.
Stupid. Stupid thing to do.
But what an awful, what an awful impossible man. She put the key in, turned it, nothing happened, she had a swift dreadful vision of a whole chain of events including return to The Woods, telephone calls, a wrecker, apologies, a ride home with Mike, and then saw that she had the car in the wrong gear. She fixed that, and the car started with a roar.
Almost as though he chose to be awful. Didn't have to be and chose to be. That couldn't be so, but it was just as though. It made it hard to forgive him. It always had, always. She reached up, tears beginning to burn and sparkle in the orbits of her eyes, to adjust the rear-view mirror. It came away in her hand.
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