crazy. You couldn’t fob that stuff off on a Bowery bum.”
“Oh dear, I hope you’re wrong,” Miranda said. “I thought we could invent a new cocktail or something.”
“Lots of luck,” said Bren. “Just lots and lots of luck, Mom.”
The kitchen was nearly dark except for the fire and the light from the refrigerator, into which Rose peered with wrinkled nose. “Leftover brussels sprouts,” she said. “Turnips, cabbage, and something that might be last week’s spaghetti with clam sauce.”
“Steaks in the freezer,” Miranda countered. “The kind you can thaw in no time—baby peas and French fried potatoes.”
Bren laughed and turned on the lights, suddenly feeling better than he had all day. “Take your choice,” he said, “but I’m with Mom. This is definitely a steak and French fries night.”
“Food to banish the supernatural?” Miranda asked with a knowing smile. “Well, we can try. Get a potato peeler, Bren, and we’ll whip up a hearty, all-American meal.”
Chapter Seven
Bren woke Saturday to see the leaves of the maple outside his window drenched with a light of such purity and grace that he seemed to be looking out on the first morning of creation. He knew that he would spend not only the evening, but the entire day in Central Park, first with his father, then with his new love. What more could one ask of life? He stretched, feeling the inner contentment of one who has suffered much to arrive at a just reward. The days of rain and of what still seemed like rather unrewarding drudgery for Eli, the traumatic afternoon of the frogs—all, Bren felt, had brought him this perfect Saturday.
After a hasty breakfast, he snapped on Shadow’s leash and headed for the park. It was still early by his father’s standards, but they had a favorite place, and Bren knew he could go there and be confident that Bob would turn up. From the entrance at Eighty-first Street he turned north on a winding, hilly path and came at last to the quiet shores of the small lake near 103rd Street. Here he slipped off Shadow’s leash and watched the big dog gallop along the shore and finally dash into the water up to his chest. There were weeping willows on the margins of the lake, their green cascades now laced with chains of gold. Each tree had been a castle to Bren when he was small. Now he found a short stick and stood under a shimmering canopy to throw it again and again for Shadow until his father arrived.
Bob West came jogging in white shorts and a red shirt with an alligator on the pocket. He was carrying a large bag full of things that could be thrown and caught.
“Hey, Bren,” he said, panting to a halt under the willow tree and dumping his bag on the ground.
“Hey, Dad. How’s it going? Down, Shadow, you ass!”
“Not bad. How about this weather? What did you do to deserve this?”
“Plenty,” Bren said, “but let’s not talk about that.”
“I brought a batch of stuff to throw,” his father said proudly, pointing at the bag.
Bren picked up a football and ran with it across the green field that sloped up from the lake. He threw it hard, and Bob caught it on the run and threw it back. They did this for some time to the frustration of Shadow, who ran back and forth under the ball and never managed to get his teeth into it.
“You’re getting good at this,” Bob commented when they paused for breath. “Too bad you’ll never play the rest of the game. Even if they have it wherever you go to college, it’ll be much too late to start.”
“That’s all right,” Bren said. “Believe it or not, Dad, I can live the rest of my life without having some giant knock me down in the mud and step on my face.”
“You’ve actually got a point,” his father admitted. “I never cared for it myself.”
Bren laughed. “Then why be sorry that I’m missing all that ghastly fun?”
“I don’t know. It seemed like a proper, fatherly sentiment.”
“You’re weird. Let’s play something
“Oh dear, I hope you’re wrong,” Miranda said. “I thought we could invent a new cocktail or something.”
“Lots of luck,” said Bren. “Just lots and lots of luck, Mom.”
The kitchen was nearly dark except for the fire and the light from the refrigerator, into which Rose peered with wrinkled nose. “Leftover brussels sprouts,” she said. “Turnips, cabbage, and something that might be last week’s spaghetti with clam sauce.”
“Steaks in the freezer,” Miranda countered. “The kind you can thaw in no time—baby peas and French fried potatoes.”
Bren laughed and turned on the lights, suddenly feeling better than he had all day. “Take your choice,” he said, “but I’m with Mom. This is definitely a steak and French fries night.”
“Food to banish the supernatural?” Miranda asked with a knowing smile. “Well, we can try. Get a potato peeler, Bren, and we’ll whip up a hearty, all-American meal.”
Chapter Seven
Bren woke Saturday to see the leaves of the maple outside his window drenched with a light of such purity and grace that he seemed to be looking out on the first morning of creation. He knew that he would spend not only the evening, but the entire day in Central Park, first with his father, then with his new love. What more could one ask of life? He stretched, feeling the inner contentment of one who has suffered much to arrive at a just reward. The days of rain and of what still seemed like rather unrewarding drudgery for Eli, the traumatic afternoon of the frogs—all, Bren felt, had brought him this perfect Saturday.
After a hasty breakfast, he snapped on Shadow’s leash and headed for the park. It was still early by his father’s standards, but they had a favorite place, and Bren knew he could go there and be confident that Bob would turn up. From the entrance at Eighty-first Street he turned north on a winding, hilly path and came at last to the quiet shores of the small lake near 103rd Street. Here he slipped off Shadow’s leash and watched the big dog gallop along the shore and finally dash into the water up to his chest. There were weeping willows on the margins of the lake, their green cascades now laced with chains of gold. Each tree had been a castle to Bren when he was small. Now he found a short stick and stood under a shimmering canopy to throw it again and again for Shadow until his father arrived.
Bob West came jogging in white shorts and a red shirt with an alligator on the pocket. He was carrying a large bag full of things that could be thrown and caught.
“Hey, Bren,” he said, panting to a halt under the willow tree and dumping his bag on the ground.
“Hey, Dad. How’s it going? Down, Shadow, you ass!”
“Not bad. How about this weather? What did you do to deserve this?”
“Plenty,” Bren said, “but let’s not talk about that.”
“I brought a batch of stuff to throw,” his father said proudly, pointing at the bag.
Bren picked up a football and ran with it across the green field that sloped up from the lake. He threw it hard, and Bob caught it on the run and threw it back. They did this for some time to the frustration of Shadow, who ran back and forth under the ball and never managed to get his teeth into it.
“You’re getting good at this,” Bob commented when they paused for breath. “Too bad you’ll never play the rest of the game. Even if they have it wherever you go to college, it’ll be much too late to start.”
“That’s all right,” Bren said. “Believe it or not, Dad, I can live the rest of my life without having some giant knock me down in the mud and step on my face.”
“You’ve actually got a point,” his father admitted. “I never cared for it myself.”
Bren laughed. “Then why be sorry that I’m missing all that ghastly fun?”
“I don’t know. It seemed like a proper, fatherly sentiment.”
“You’re weird. Let’s play something
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