million.”
Joan smiles—unforced for the first time—and reaches for the pail. “That’s so nice.”
Though she would never say so, Sandy holds the opinion that mothers who keep their figures have sacrificed less than mothers who have widened and softened. Furthermore, though the idea is only half formed and well buried beneath her good nature, she suspects thin, maidenlike mothers, who might more easily find newmen, of being less committed to their children than she is. Joan is a very thin mother to be sure—and, at first appraisal, maybe too tightly wound—but her gratitude for the kumquats softens Sandy, who says, “It’s none of my business, but are you okay?”
Joan’s eyes well up. She bends her head, hiding behind the fence. Sandy observes that her forehead is perhaps higher and rounder than ideal and is gratified by the imperfection. “I’m a little homesick,” she says.
“For where?”
“Nowhere, really. I just feel uprooted. It’s fine. I’ll settle in.”
“Moving is very stressful,” Sandy says. “You’re stressed—you’d be a freak if you weren’t. Do you want to come in for a cup of tea or something? Shot of tequila?”
But Joan has noticed Chloe, who is still dancing. “How old is your little girl?”
Chloe stands on one foot and hops in a circle, arms straight up over her head like she is riding a roller coaster. Sandy studies her, trying to see what has interested Joan, but only sees a child at play. “She just turned four.”
“Harry is four, too. Does she take dance?”
“No. She does tumbling.”
Joan fingers her ponytail, frowning. Sandy doesn’t want to have to talk about Joan’s ballet shoes, the exercises at the chair, the flexibility that the husband must enjoy. “What does your husband do?” she asks.
And Joan’s answer sends a thrill through Sandy because she and Gary know Chloe is gifted. There can be no doubt, Gary says. Their daughter observes more keenly and learns more rapidly than any child he has ever met. Gary should know, too—he was a gifted child and an excellent student until he got bored in high school and stopped trying. He’s always wished someone had challenged him. “Aren’t teachers supposed to inspire you?” he says. “None of mine could have inspired paint to dry.” And his dad had been a dud, and his baseball coach hadn’t liked him. With a little encouragement, alittle recognition, who knows how high he might have risen? Admittedly, he’s great at his job, but, given half a chance, he might have done something more significant than managing the leasing office at the mall. He might have made the big leagues or been a professor or a doctor or something. Sandy was never very studious, and she worried when she was pregnant that her genes would drag down Gary’s. But even when Chloe was a baby, Gary could see all the smart things Chloe did, and now Sandy just wants to get her tested already, stamped as gifted, so they can relax.
“Come inside,” she tries again. “Have something to drink. Bring your son.”
Joan looks back at her house, her discarded ballet shoes. “I should finish.”
“Oh, come on,” Sandy says. “Live a little.”
In a few minutes, Joan is at her front door, her white-taped toes and battered feet in a pair of rubber sandals, a cardigan over the billowy overalls even though it is eighty degrees out, her son hanging from her hand. This, Sandy knows, ushering them inside, is the beginning of something. They will live the next part of their lives side by side, their children growing up in tandem. Even though she doesn’t quite like this thin, wary woman yet, she will try to be her friend. They are neighbors.
“ WELCOME! ” JACOB SAYS , OPENING THE DOOR FOR THE WHEELOCKS . “Come in before you blow away.” It is October, and the Santa Anas are in full force—dry, prickly autumn winds that whip trees around and howl at windows and rattle leaves along the gutters and pile them in the corners of
Joan smiles—unforced for the first time—and reaches for the pail. “That’s so nice.”
Though she would never say so, Sandy holds the opinion that mothers who keep their figures have sacrificed less than mothers who have widened and softened. Furthermore, though the idea is only half formed and well buried beneath her good nature, she suspects thin, maidenlike mothers, who might more easily find newmen, of being less committed to their children than she is. Joan is a very thin mother to be sure—and, at first appraisal, maybe too tightly wound—but her gratitude for the kumquats softens Sandy, who says, “It’s none of my business, but are you okay?”
Joan’s eyes well up. She bends her head, hiding behind the fence. Sandy observes that her forehead is perhaps higher and rounder than ideal and is gratified by the imperfection. “I’m a little homesick,” she says.
“For where?”
“Nowhere, really. I just feel uprooted. It’s fine. I’ll settle in.”
“Moving is very stressful,” Sandy says. “You’re stressed—you’d be a freak if you weren’t. Do you want to come in for a cup of tea or something? Shot of tequila?”
But Joan has noticed Chloe, who is still dancing. “How old is your little girl?”
Chloe stands on one foot and hops in a circle, arms straight up over her head like she is riding a roller coaster. Sandy studies her, trying to see what has interested Joan, but only sees a child at play. “She just turned four.”
“Harry is four, too. Does she take dance?”
“No. She does tumbling.”
Joan fingers her ponytail, frowning. Sandy doesn’t want to have to talk about Joan’s ballet shoes, the exercises at the chair, the flexibility that the husband must enjoy. “What does your husband do?” she asks.
And Joan’s answer sends a thrill through Sandy because she and Gary know Chloe is gifted. There can be no doubt, Gary says. Their daughter observes more keenly and learns more rapidly than any child he has ever met. Gary should know, too—he was a gifted child and an excellent student until he got bored in high school and stopped trying. He’s always wished someone had challenged him. “Aren’t teachers supposed to inspire you?” he says. “None of mine could have inspired paint to dry.” And his dad had been a dud, and his baseball coach hadn’t liked him. With a little encouragement, alittle recognition, who knows how high he might have risen? Admittedly, he’s great at his job, but, given half a chance, he might have done something more significant than managing the leasing office at the mall. He might have made the big leagues or been a professor or a doctor or something. Sandy was never very studious, and she worried when she was pregnant that her genes would drag down Gary’s. But even when Chloe was a baby, Gary could see all the smart things Chloe did, and now Sandy just wants to get her tested already, stamped as gifted, so they can relax.
“Come inside,” she tries again. “Have something to drink. Bring your son.”
Joan looks back at her house, her discarded ballet shoes. “I should finish.”
“Oh, come on,” Sandy says. “Live a little.”
In a few minutes, Joan is at her front door, her white-taped toes and battered feet in a pair of rubber sandals, a cardigan over the billowy overalls even though it is eighty degrees out, her son hanging from her hand. This, Sandy knows, ushering them inside, is the beginning of something. They will live the next part of their lives side by side, their children growing up in tandem. Even though she doesn’t quite like this thin, wary woman yet, she will try to be her friend. They are neighbors.
“ WELCOME! ” JACOB SAYS , OPENING THE DOOR FOR THE WHEELOCKS . “Come in before you blow away.” It is October, and the Santa Anas are in full force—dry, prickly autumn winds that whip trees around and howl at windows and rattle leaves along the gutters and pile them in the corners of
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