says Nancy. She stops him, holding his arm. Jack is squinting, looking at something in the distance. She goes on, “You said we didn’t do anything silly anymore. What should we do, Jack? Should we make angels in the snow?”
Jack touches his rough glove to her face. “We shouldn’t unless we really feel like it.”
It was the same as Jack chiding her to be honest, to be expressive. The same old Jack, she thought, relieved.
“Come and look,” Robert cries, bursting in the back door. He and Jack have been outside making a snowman. Nancy is rolling dough for a quiche. Jack will eat a quiche but not a custard pie, although they are virtually the same. She wipes her hands and goes to the door of the porch. She sees Grover swinging from the lower branch of the maple tree. Jack has rigged up a sling, so that the dog is supported in a harness, with the canvas from the back of a deck chair holding his stomach. His legs dangle free.
“Oh, Jack,” Nancy calls. “The poor thing.”
“I thought this might work,” Jack explains. “A support for his hind legs.” His arms cradle the dog’s head. “I did it for you,” he adds, looking at Nancy. “Don’t push him, Robert. I don’t think he wants to swing.”
Grover looks amazingly patient, like a cat in a doll bonnet.
“He hates it,” says Jack, unbuckling the harness.
“He can learn to like it,” Robert says, his voice rising shrilly.
On the day that Jack has planned to take Grover to the veterinarian, Nancy runs into a crisis at work. One of the children has been exposed to hepatitis, and it is necessary to vaccinate all of them. Nancy has to arrange the details, which means staying late. She telephones Jack to ask him to pick up Robert after school.
“I don’t know when I’ll be home,” she says. “This is an administrative nightmare. I have to call all the parents, get permissions, make arrangements with family doctors.”
“What will we do about Grover?”
“Please postpone it. I want to be with you then.”
“I want to get it over with,” says Jack impatiently. “I hate to put Robert through another day of this.”
“Robert will be glad of the extra time,” Nancy insists. “So will I.”
“I just want to face things,” Jack says. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want to cling to the past like you’re doing.”
“Please wait for us,” Nancy says, her voice calm and controlled.
On the telephone, Nancy is authoritative, a quick decision-maker. The problem at work is a reprieve. She feels free, on her own. During the afternoon, she works rapidly and efficiently, filing reports, consulting health authorities, notifying parents. She talks with the disease-control center in Atlanta, inquiring about guidelines. She checks on supplies of gamma globulin. She is so preoccupied that in the middle of the afternoon, when Robert suddenly appears in her office, she is startled, for a fleeting instant not recognizing him.
He says, “Kevin has a sore throat. Is that hepatitis?”
“It’s probably just a cold. I’ll talk to his mother.” Nancy is holding Robert’s arm, partly to keep him still, partly to steady herself.
“When do I have to get a shot?” Robert asks.
“Tomorrow.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. It won’t hurt, though.”
“I guess it’s a good thing this happened,” Robert says bravely.
“Now we get to have Grover another day.” Robert spills his books on the floor and bends to pick them up. When he looks up, he says, “Daddy doesn’t care about him. He just wants to get rid of him. He wants to kill him.”
“Oh, Robert, that’s not true,” says Nancy. “He just doesn’t want Grover to suffer.”
“But Grover still has half a bottle of Pet-Tabs,” Robert says. “What will we do with them?”
“I don’t know,” Nancy says. She hands Robert his numbers work-book. Like a tape loop, the face of her child as a stranger replays in her mind. Robert has her plain brown hair, her coloring, but his eyes
Jack touches his rough glove to her face. “We shouldn’t unless we really feel like it.”
It was the same as Jack chiding her to be honest, to be expressive. The same old Jack, she thought, relieved.
“Come and look,” Robert cries, bursting in the back door. He and Jack have been outside making a snowman. Nancy is rolling dough for a quiche. Jack will eat a quiche but not a custard pie, although they are virtually the same. She wipes her hands and goes to the door of the porch. She sees Grover swinging from the lower branch of the maple tree. Jack has rigged up a sling, so that the dog is supported in a harness, with the canvas from the back of a deck chair holding his stomach. His legs dangle free.
“Oh, Jack,” Nancy calls. “The poor thing.”
“I thought this might work,” Jack explains. “A support for his hind legs.” His arms cradle the dog’s head. “I did it for you,” he adds, looking at Nancy. “Don’t push him, Robert. I don’t think he wants to swing.”
Grover looks amazingly patient, like a cat in a doll bonnet.
“He hates it,” says Jack, unbuckling the harness.
“He can learn to like it,” Robert says, his voice rising shrilly.
On the day that Jack has planned to take Grover to the veterinarian, Nancy runs into a crisis at work. One of the children has been exposed to hepatitis, and it is necessary to vaccinate all of them. Nancy has to arrange the details, which means staying late. She telephones Jack to ask him to pick up Robert after school.
“I don’t know when I’ll be home,” she says. “This is an administrative nightmare. I have to call all the parents, get permissions, make arrangements with family doctors.”
“What will we do about Grover?”
“Please postpone it. I want to be with you then.”
“I want to get it over with,” says Jack impatiently. “I hate to put Robert through another day of this.”
“Robert will be glad of the extra time,” Nancy insists. “So will I.”
“I just want to face things,” Jack says. “Don’t you understand? I don’t want to cling to the past like you’re doing.”
“Please wait for us,” Nancy says, her voice calm and controlled.
On the telephone, Nancy is authoritative, a quick decision-maker. The problem at work is a reprieve. She feels free, on her own. During the afternoon, she works rapidly and efficiently, filing reports, consulting health authorities, notifying parents. She talks with the disease-control center in Atlanta, inquiring about guidelines. She checks on supplies of gamma globulin. She is so preoccupied that in the middle of the afternoon, when Robert suddenly appears in her office, she is startled, for a fleeting instant not recognizing him.
He says, “Kevin has a sore throat. Is that hepatitis?”
“It’s probably just a cold. I’ll talk to his mother.” Nancy is holding Robert’s arm, partly to keep him still, partly to steady herself.
“When do I have to get a shot?” Robert asks.
“Tomorrow.”
“Do I have to?”
“Yes. It won’t hurt, though.”
“I guess it’s a good thing this happened,” Robert says bravely.
“Now we get to have Grover another day.” Robert spills his books on the floor and bends to pick them up. When he looks up, he says, “Daddy doesn’t care about him. He just wants to get rid of him. He wants to kill him.”
“Oh, Robert, that’s not true,” says Nancy. “He just doesn’t want Grover to suffer.”
“But Grover still has half a bottle of Pet-Tabs,” Robert says. “What will we do with them?”
“I don’t know,” Nancy says. She hands Robert his numbers work-book. Like a tape loop, the face of her child as a stranger replays in her mind. Robert has her plain brown hair, her coloring, but his eyes
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