grinning face.
“And this is the man who brought you back, baby.”
I grinned and waved my hands, and she laughed.
“He’s our hero,” she said, and when I giggled in what I was sure then to be my triumph, she said, “Yes he is. I wish he was here too.”
One more day—an awful, interminable day, filled with tears and silences after questions and accusations—and we were in the car.
She had been fiddling around on her computer, looking things up, putting it together in the morning, after he left, silent and stiff-backed. Oh, how it must have stung him, those words: You didn’t do anything to help! McGill saved our baby, and the best you could do was sulk!
He hadn’t said anything to her, but he came to see me in the night, clutching the waistband of his pajama bottoms, damp-eyed and snuffling, declaring his love for me. “I hope you’ll remember that, no matter what happens,” he said, and touched my cheek.
She strapped me into the child seat behind her. It offered a terrible view, and that made me fussy. After all these years, I must admit that I was acutely curious as to where precisely McGill bedded down at night. In all of our transactions, the McGill family only ever came to me. Never had I had occasion or opportunity to play the visitor.
We sped along blacktop. She braked three times—the last time hard enough to leave skid-marks—before the surface under the wheels grew rougher, and gravel popped up against the underside. The brilliant blue sky above me disappeared behind a canopy of leaves, and soon after that, the car slowed and lurched to one side as she negotiated a narrow turn, onto an even rougher surface. And then we came to a stop and she climbed out.
“Wish me luck,” she said, and kissed my forehead before unbuckling me and lifting me out of the seat, and the car.
We were in a small clearing in the middle of the woods. In the middle of that, was a house that I could only guess belonged to McGill.
It was made of wood, its walls shingled in rough, dark cedar, and happily, it had but a single storey to it. The shadow of the trees all around kept grass from growing, but there had been some attempt at a little garden underneath the living room window. The nose of an old Lincoln poked out from underneath a carport. There was a metal shed behind that.
Although it was the middle of summer, the space here had a chill to it. I fussed, and she held me close, and she fussed too, in her way. She took a step toward the house, and another one—then stepped back. She looked back at the car, and shook her head, and said, “damn” in almost a sob. She might have gotten into it, too, if she’d been left to her devices.
But—lucky her—she was rescued.
“Mrs. Reesor?”
McGill stood at the door. He was wearing an old bathrobe. A cigarette dangled between thumb and forefinger, and he flicked ash away onto the steps. His hair stood up on one side—no doubt where he’d slept.
She turned to him, holding me close. “Hey, you,” she said.
“How—” he frowned. “How did you find me here?”
“Online,” she said. “I looked up your address online.”
“It’s not under my name.”
“It’s not. But it is under your mother’s.”
He didn’t say anything to that.
“Look,” she said finally. “I’m sorry for coming here like this. I . . . I hoped it would be okay, but maybe it’s not.”
“It’s okay.” He dropped the cigarette to the steps, and put it out with the heel of one bare foot. “Is Simon all right?”
She nodded. “He’s fine.” And she held me up, jiggling me like a carnival prize. I giggled appropriately. “See?”
“He looks good.” McGill set his head forward and squinted at her. “Really good. So you’re here . . . why?”
She giggled, inappropriately. She let her bangs fall over her eyes. She smiled at him through them. “I remember now,” she said softly.
McGill’s mouth hung open stupidly for a second. “Mrs.
“And this is the man who brought you back, baby.”
I grinned and waved my hands, and she laughed.
“He’s our hero,” she said, and when I giggled in what I was sure then to be my triumph, she said, “Yes he is. I wish he was here too.”
One more day—an awful, interminable day, filled with tears and silences after questions and accusations—and we were in the car.
She had been fiddling around on her computer, looking things up, putting it together in the morning, after he left, silent and stiff-backed. Oh, how it must have stung him, those words: You didn’t do anything to help! McGill saved our baby, and the best you could do was sulk!
He hadn’t said anything to her, but he came to see me in the night, clutching the waistband of his pajama bottoms, damp-eyed and snuffling, declaring his love for me. “I hope you’ll remember that, no matter what happens,” he said, and touched my cheek.
She strapped me into the child seat behind her. It offered a terrible view, and that made me fussy. After all these years, I must admit that I was acutely curious as to where precisely McGill bedded down at night. In all of our transactions, the McGill family only ever came to me. Never had I had occasion or opportunity to play the visitor.
We sped along blacktop. She braked three times—the last time hard enough to leave skid-marks—before the surface under the wheels grew rougher, and gravel popped up against the underside. The brilliant blue sky above me disappeared behind a canopy of leaves, and soon after that, the car slowed and lurched to one side as she negotiated a narrow turn, onto an even rougher surface. And then we came to a stop and she climbed out.
“Wish me luck,” she said, and kissed my forehead before unbuckling me and lifting me out of the seat, and the car.
We were in a small clearing in the middle of the woods. In the middle of that, was a house that I could only guess belonged to McGill.
It was made of wood, its walls shingled in rough, dark cedar, and happily, it had but a single storey to it. The shadow of the trees all around kept grass from growing, but there had been some attempt at a little garden underneath the living room window. The nose of an old Lincoln poked out from underneath a carport. There was a metal shed behind that.
Although it was the middle of summer, the space here had a chill to it. I fussed, and she held me close, and she fussed too, in her way. She took a step toward the house, and another one—then stepped back. She looked back at the car, and shook her head, and said, “damn” in almost a sob. She might have gotten into it, too, if she’d been left to her devices.
But—lucky her—she was rescued.
“Mrs. Reesor?”
McGill stood at the door. He was wearing an old bathrobe. A cigarette dangled between thumb and forefinger, and he flicked ash away onto the steps. His hair stood up on one side—no doubt where he’d slept.
She turned to him, holding me close. “Hey, you,” she said.
“How—” he frowned. “How did you find me here?”
“Online,” she said. “I looked up your address online.”
“It’s not under my name.”
“It’s not. But it is under your mother’s.”
He didn’t say anything to that.
“Look,” she said finally. “I’m sorry for coming here like this. I . . . I hoped it would be okay, but maybe it’s not.”
“It’s okay.” He dropped the cigarette to the steps, and put it out with the heel of one bare foot. “Is Simon all right?”
She nodded. “He’s fine.” And she held me up, jiggling me like a carnival prize. I giggled appropriately. “See?”
“He looks good.” McGill set his head forward and squinted at her. “Really good. So you’re here . . . why?”
She giggled, inappropriately. She let her bangs fall over her eyes. She smiled at him through them. “I remember now,” she said softly.
McGill’s mouth hung open stupidly for a second. “Mrs.
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