Man With a Squirrel by Nicholas Kilmer

him.
    â€œThe saturated air led me along Charles Street. I spoke to the woman but said nothing to betray my interest. She struck me, Fred, as one whose family has, for generations, handily withstood what I have heard you refer to as augmented interrogation.”
    â€œYou understood Oona well,” Fred said. “For God’s sake, Clay, don’t go back. She’s no dope, and if she smells she sold us a Copley she will become an enemy immediately. Our adversary. Competition.”
    â€œSuppose she were informed I might budget a substantial figure for the rest of it?” Clay suggested.
    â€œShe’d know whatever you have in mind is a fraction of the real worth of the thing. And she would mention she has been in this business since you peed your first long pants.”
    It was not often Fred was able to engineer a look of astonished guilt on Clay’s face, and he exulted in this one, which betrayed little Clayton Reed, buttoned into a sailor suit, with an increasingly navy stain spreading down its legs.
    â€œLet me work this out,” Fred suggested.

8
    Molly had not yet arrived when Fred brought Sam back from the open house, relieving Cindy Baker, who had been roped into sitting for a furious Terry.
    â€œIt isn’t fair,” Terry said.
    â€œWhat isn’t?”
    â€œEverything,” Terry shouted, and stamped upstairs to slam her door dramatically, twice.
    â€œTerry’s jealous,” Sam said, smiling. He had wet and combed his hair for the evening, put on clean jeans and a sweatshirt, and led Fred affably from one teacher to another, not opening his mouth once. The occasion had left Fred feeling like a parole officer.
    â€œAs long as we have a minute,” Fred suggested, sitting at the kitchen table and gesturing toward a chair, “why don’t we review what we learned this evening—some of the recurring themes?”
    â€œIt’s OK, Fred, I get the message.”
    Sam was looking more like Molly this year, as if the hormones kicking him mercilessly into adulthood were molding his features toward the nearest available example of his own genes’ maturing. Sam was going to be a handsome man. Fred heard Sam yelling through Terry’s door, “You didn’t miss anything, jerk.”
    Every one of the teachers had suggested attention to homework would be an appropriate alternative to Sam’s present course. At least he’s not playing hooky, Fred thought. He’s going to school, anyway.
    When Molly came in, Fred was sitting on the couch in her living room reading Rothenstein’s memoirs. The room was frilly, mostly blue and white, with posters of paintings Molly liked: Watteau, Sheeler, Alma-Tadema, and Kline. Her taste was random.
    â€œTerry said you were out and she didn’t know where,” Fred told her. Molly shook off the damp chill of the evening and hung up Sam’s red down jacket—too large for Sam and about right for her—next to the kitchen door. Fred had gotten up to meet her as she came in. She was wearing a blue corduroy jumper over a white knit something with long sleeves, and looked like a fourth-grader.
    â€œHow’d it go at Sam’s school?”
    Fred told her, “Friendly but inconclusive. There’s a general sense that homework would make a difference. Terry, saying everything is not fair, is closeted in her room. I do not feel crowned with success.” Fred took the book back to the couch while Molly went upstairs. She was gone for five pages, during which Rothenstein and Wilde exchanged pleasantries. When Molly came in again she observed, “Terry says you and Sam had pizza and didn’t bring her any. She smelled it on you.”
    â€œGuilty,” Fred said. “We got anchovy and olive, which Terry hates, and we ate the whole thing, bonding.”
    â€œYou got something she hates on purpose and then didn’t give her any,” Molly said. “That makes you doubly