to go through the battements.
SANDY WHEELOCK PICKS KUMQUATS FROM THE TREE IN HER BACKYARD , dropping the tiny orange fruit into one of her daughter’s sand pails. Really she is outside because Chloe came running into the kitchen proclaiming, “The lady is doing tricks on the patio!”
“What lady?”
“Next door.”
“What tricks?”
“Belly tricks!”
Chloe had been unable to clarify (“With her feet!”), and so Sandy went out to see for herself. From the shelter of the kumquat tree, sneaking glances over the fence, she sees a slender young woman in ballet shoes, a T-shirt, and odd black overalls made of a thin, billowy material. Her hair is in a ponytail, and she is standing on a rubber mat and using the back of a metal chair as a barre, resting her heel on it and pressing her forehead against her knee. Then she briefly stands flat on both feet with her heels together before rising onto her toes and lifting one leg out and up so her pink satin shoe is well above her head. In the shaggy grass, a little boy about Chloe’s age plays absorbedly with dandelions and pinecones.
Chloe is leaping and spinning around the yard. Sandy gestures at her to calm down, but the child is lost in her game and begins to accompany herself loudly in the funny, guttural voice she uses for singing and for making her toys speak to one another. Across the fence, the ballet woman and the little boy look up.
“Hi there!” Sandy says.
The woman’s leg descends slowly, less like a leg than a settling wing, and her gaze is curious, wary, divorced from the contortions of her body. Her smile, showing small teeth, is bright and jittery. She bends to untie the pink ribbons and leaves her shoes on the rubber mat as she walks barefoot across the grass, her toes wrapped in white tape. The stranger introduces herself as Joan Bintz, and her little boy is Harry.
“I didn’t realize a family had moved in,” Sandy says. “I only saw a man.” On several evenings, she had spotted him sitting out in the late sun and reading in the same chair Joan was using as a barre. He is handsome in a bookish way, trim and dark, with a narrow face and wire-rimmed glasses, and Sandy is annoyed to discover he is married to someone so lithe, a woman who does ballet alfresco and has a soncontent to play with pinecones. Sandy is still dogged by the weight she gained with Chloe. Hidden by the fence, she runs a hand over her stomach, checking on it. From a distance she guessed Joan would be in her early twenties, but, up close, she looks closer to thirty, a few years younger than Sandy. She is pretty in the way someone so thin can’t help but be pretty, with a jaw both dainty and square, a sharp nose, and eyes that are large, dark, and cautious. Sandy has the impression she has been crying.
“Jacob came out first to find the house,” Joan says. “Harry and I came later. Everything’s still a mess in there. I’m having trouble making myself unpack.” She smiles again, abruptly, quavering.
“I hear you. I still have boxes in the garage, and we moved in four years ago.” Sandy lifts the pail of kumquats over the fence. “Would you like these? This tree hasn’t gotten the memo that the season’s over.”
Gingerly, Joan ventures two fingers into the bucket and extracts one of the little fruit. “Do I peel it?”
“No, you eat it whole.”
Joan holds the kumquat between thumb and forefinger as if it were a quail egg and examines it before opening her mouth and resting it on her tongue. She chews pensively. Sandy wonders if eating is always such a production with her.
“Interesting,” she says when the tiny mouthful has finally made its way down her gullet. “Like a dollhouse orange.”
“Here, take the whole bucket.” Sandy does not care for kumquats. The tangy burst of juice does not make up for the waxiness and bitter oil of their rinds. Gary likes them and plucks them like jujubes from a bowl she keeps on the kitchen counter. “We’ve got a
SANDY WHEELOCK PICKS KUMQUATS FROM THE TREE IN HER BACKYARD , dropping the tiny orange fruit into one of her daughter’s sand pails. Really she is outside because Chloe came running into the kitchen proclaiming, “The lady is doing tricks on the patio!”
“What lady?”
“Next door.”
“What tricks?”
“Belly tricks!”
Chloe had been unable to clarify (“With her feet!”), and so Sandy went out to see for herself. From the shelter of the kumquat tree, sneaking glances over the fence, she sees a slender young woman in ballet shoes, a T-shirt, and odd black overalls made of a thin, billowy material. Her hair is in a ponytail, and she is standing on a rubber mat and using the back of a metal chair as a barre, resting her heel on it and pressing her forehead against her knee. Then she briefly stands flat on both feet with her heels together before rising onto her toes and lifting one leg out and up so her pink satin shoe is well above her head. In the shaggy grass, a little boy about Chloe’s age plays absorbedly with dandelions and pinecones.
Chloe is leaping and spinning around the yard. Sandy gestures at her to calm down, but the child is lost in her game and begins to accompany herself loudly in the funny, guttural voice she uses for singing and for making her toys speak to one another. Across the fence, the ballet woman and the little boy look up.
“Hi there!” Sandy says.
The woman’s leg descends slowly, less like a leg than a settling wing, and her gaze is curious, wary, divorced from the contortions of her body. Her smile, showing small teeth, is bright and jittery. She bends to untie the pink ribbons and leaves her shoes on the rubber mat as she walks barefoot across the grass, her toes wrapped in white tape. The stranger introduces herself as Joan Bintz, and her little boy is Harry.
“I didn’t realize a family had moved in,” Sandy says. “I only saw a man.” On several evenings, she had spotted him sitting out in the late sun and reading in the same chair Joan was using as a barre. He is handsome in a bookish way, trim and dark, with a narrow face and wire-rimmed glasses, and Sandy is annoyed to discover he is married to someone so lithe, a woman who does ballet alfresco and has a soncontent to play with pinecones. Sandy is still dogged by the weight she gained with Chloe. Hidden by the fence, she runs a hand over her stomach, checking on it. From a distance she guessed Joan would be in her early twenties, but, up close, she looks closer to thirty, a few years younger than Sandy. She is pretty in the way someone so thin can’t help but be pretty, with a jaw both dainty and square, a sharp nose, and eyes that are large, dark, and cautious. Sandy has the impression she has been crying.
“Jacob came out first to find the house,” Joan says. “Harry and I came later. Everything’s still a mess in there. I’m having trouble making myself unpack.” She smiles again, abruptly, quavering.
“I hear you. I still have boxes in the garage, and we moved in four years ago.” Sandy lifts the pail of kumquats over the fence. “Would you like these? This tree hasn’t gotten the memo that the season’s over.”
Gingerly, Joan ventures two fingers into the bucket and extracts one of the little fruit. “Do I peel it?”
“No, you eat it whole.”
Joan holds the kumquat between thumb and forefinger as if it were a quail egg and examines it before opening her mouth and resting it on her tongue. She chews pensively. Sandy wonders if eating is always such a production with her.
“Interesting,” she says when the tiny mouthful has finally made its way down her gullet. “Like a dollhouse orange.”
“Here, take the whole bucket.” Sandy does not care for kumquats. The tangy burst of juice does not make up for the waxiness and bitter oil of their rinds. Gary likes them and plucks them like jujubes from a bowl she keeps on the kitchen counter. “We’ve got a
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