in a grocery cart, the first black faces she had seen since she’d left Manhattan. Would she be insulted if Simone waved or said hello? She remembered Emile’s warnings against being friendly to strangers who might be INS informants.
In the center of the city was the restored business section, old façades of newly sandblasted brick and repainted plaster and siding, like the pristine, just-unwrapped town in George’s unused train set.
“There it is!” George and Maisie sang out when they spotted their father’s office. Simone pulled into a parking space—well, two parking spaces. George and Maisie ran down the street and vanished into a doorway.
Simone dawdled at a window in which fancy soaps luxuriated in nestlike satiny cushions. Then she followed the children inside. They’d stopped on the landing halfway up the stairs. Their father had met them halfway down and was hugging George and Maisie with a great deal of fuss and commotion. Simone stood at the base of the steps, feeling shy and excluded and stupidly possessive about the children’s affection. It was wrong and selfish of her to want them to love her more than their father. Maisie plastered herself against her father’s side. George tenderly thumped his back.
Even from below, Geoffrey looked slighter and more boyish than the lumbering monster Simone had been led to expect. He smiled down over the children’s heads. “You must be Simone.”
When Simone reached the landing he rather formally put out his hand. As they shook hands, he blushed deeply, and despite herself, Simone was flattered. He had shiny brown hair and blue surprised eyes that lit and dimmed like headlights. He seemed drawn to Simone by some interest or force he was actively trying to stifle. She thought of a dieting fat man passing a bakery, so near to what he had loved and renounced and now pretended to ignore. You could step back and watch it in Geoffrey, attraction warring with will, a state of affairs any sentient pastry might take as a personal challenge. All this so appealed to Simone that she slowly backed up until what she read in Geoffrey’s eyes was that she was in danger of falling down the stairs.
Geoffrey said, “I got you guys some presents. They’re in the office. Go look.” Maisie jumped up and kissed his cheek. George consented to pass close enough so his father could ruffle his hair.
Watching the children run past him, Geoffrey seemed at once tense and ardent. Simone saw in him the uneasy boy that Shelly had described, waiting for his friends to discover the lukewarm tea his mum had set out with soggy, crustless sandwiches.
“And I must be Geoffrey,” he said. “But I guess you know that. I guess you know my life story and all my personality disorders. You probably know every detail of my classically repressed Anglo-WASP childhood: how my poor homesick mother made icky British snacks and invited my pals for tea.”
“Excuse me?” said Simone.
Geoffrey raised his hands, palms outward. “Ah, I can see you do. Rosemary makes quite a thing of it, quite the amateur Freudian. To her, my finding Mum with the marmite jar was the primal scene. But please, come in! Unlike my wife, I know that family therapy is not in your job description.”
“Mr. Porter—” said Simone.
“Please. Geoffrey.” Geoffrey smiled and Simone forgot whatever she’d planned to say as she tried to reconcile this appealing, slightly gawky person with the devil she’d heard described.
The office consisted of two large white rooms with gray industrial carpet, both smelling strongly of flower perfumes wafting up from the soap store downstairs. One room contained several computers and imposing copy machines. “Star Ship Enterprise,” Geoffrey said.
“Fire this up,” he told George, handing his son a small metal square that—amazingly—George knew how to slip into the right computer slot. The screen lit up and a slew of belching frogs swarmed over the monitor.
“Swamp
In the center of the city was the restored business section, old façades of newly sandblasted brick and repainted plaster and siding, like the pristine, just-unwrapped town in George’s unused train set.
“There it is!” George and Maisie sang out when they spotted their father’s office. Simone pulled into a parking space—well, two parking spaces. George and Maisie ran down the street and vanished into a doorway.
Simone dawdled at a window in which fancy soaps luxuriated in nestlike satiny cushions. Then she followed the children inside. They’d stopped on the landing halfway up the stairs. Their father had met them halfway down and was hugging George and Maisie with a great deal of fuss and commotion. Simone stood at the base of the steps, feeling shy and excluded and stupidly possessive about the children’s affection. It was wrong and selfish of her to want them to love her more than their father. Maisie plastered herself against her father’s side. George tenderly thumped his back.
Even from below, Geoffrey looked slighter and more boyish than the lumbering monster Simone had been led to expect. He smiled down over the children’s heads. “You must be Simone.”
When Simone reached the landing he rather formally put out his hand. As they shook hands, he blushed deeply, and despite herself, Simone was flattered. He had shiny brown hair and blue surprised eyes that lit and dimmed like headlights. He seemed drawn to Simone by some interest or force he was actively trying to stifle. She thought of a dieting fat man passing a bakery, so near to what he had loved and renounced and now pretended to ignore. You could step back and watch it in Geoffrey, attraction warring with will, a state of affairs any sentient pastry might take as a personal challenge. All this so appealed to Simone that she slowly backed up until what she read in Geoffrey’s eyes was that she was in danger of falling down the stairs.
Geoffrey said, “I got you guys some presents. They’re in the office. Go look.” Maisie jumped up and kissed his cheek. George consented to pass close enough so his father could ruffle his hair.
Watching the children run past him, Geoffrey seemed at once tense and ardent. Simone saw in him the uneasy boy that Shelly had described, waiting for his friends to discover the lukewarm tea his mum had set out with soggy, crustless sandwiches.
“And I must be Geoffrey,” he said. “But I guess you know that. I guess you know my life story and all my personality disorders. You probably know every detail of my classically repressed Anglo-WASP childhood: how my poor homesick mother made icky British snacks and invited my pals for tea.”
“Excuse me?” said Simone.
Geoffrey raised his hands, palms outward. “Ah, I can see you do. Rosemary makes quite a thing of it, quite the amateur Freudian. To her, my finding Mum with the marmite jar was the primal scene. But please, come in! Unlike my wife, I know that family therapy is not in your job description.”
“Mr. Porter—” said Simone.
“Please. Geoffrey.” Geoffrey smiled and Simone forgot whatever she’d planned to say as she tried to reconcile this appealing, slightly gawky person with the devil she’d heard described.
The office consisted of two large white rooms with gray industrial carpet, both smelling strongly of flower perfumes wafting up from the soap store downstairs. One room contained several computers and imposing copy machines. “Star Ship Enterprise,” Geoffrey said.
“Fire this up,” he told George, handing his son a small metal square that—amazingly—George knew how to slip into the right computer slot. The screen lit up and a slew of belching frogs swarmed over the monitor.
“Swamp
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