off the hot water and unclipped the faucet attachment, sliding the double hose into place. Unplugging the wire, she rolled the dishwasher against the wall. Chris watched her for a moment, then turned and walked out of the kitchen.
In the hall, he began dialing the store before he realized it wasn’t open yet. He dumped the receiver onto its cradle and walked into the bedroom. It would be all right, he told himself. It was just a matter of time.
When he’d finished dressing, he went into the bathroom to shave.
“Daddy, can I get up?” Connie asked.
“Of course,” he answered.
He heard her scramble out of bed. In a moment, she came padding into the bathroom in her striped pajamas, blond hair hanging tousled across her cheeks.
“I slept good, Daddy,” she told him.
“Good.” He leaned over to kiss her.
“Did you sleep good?”
“Yes, little troll. Very good.”
Connie smiled at the name he gave her. “I slept good and you slept good,” she said.
She watched intently as he finished shaving. “Will I shave some day?” she asked.
“I hope not,” he asked.
“When I’m six and a half?” she asked.
“Girls don’t shave their faces. You’d better get dressed now.”
“I have to eat my breakfast first,” she said.
“Oh. All right, Mommy will give it to you.”
“Is she in the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you then,” said Connie, leaving.
“All right.”
As he combed his hair, he heard Helen telling Connie that they were going to Grandma’s house for a while.
“How long while?” Connie asked.
“I don’t know, honey,” Helen told her. Chris felt a tremor in his stomach muscles. Just a little while, he thought.
“You and me and Daddy?”
“Daddy has to stay and watch the store,” said Helen.
“Oh,
foo
,” said Connie.
“One or two eggs?” Helen asked him as he sat down at the kitchen table.
“Just coffee, please.”
“You’ll get—” she began, then broke off.
He glanced at her as she turned back to the stove.
You’ll get sick
. That was what she’d almost said. She always said it when he wouldn’t eat breakfast. Except for today. Chris reached out and picked up his glass of orange juice.
“We’re going to Grandma’s house,” said Connie.
“I know, baby,” he answered.
“Will you visit us when we’re at Grandma’s house?”
He hid the convulsive movement of his throat by drinking. “I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said.
“Why, Daddy?”
“Eat your cereal,” Helen told her. “I told you Daddy has to watch the store.”
“Can’t Jimmy?”
Chris got up, mumbling his excuse. As he walked across the living room he heard Connie persisting. “Can’t somebody else, Mommy?”
“Connie, please eat your cereal.”
In the hall, he dialed with quick, jerking movements.
“Martin Music,” he heard Jimmy’s amiable voice through the earpiece.
“Chris Martin, Jimmy. I won’t be in till later today.”
“Oh. Okay, Mr. Martin.”
“Leave that case from Schirmer unpacked till tomorrow,” Chris told him. “You can go on re-sorting the LP albums today.”
“Yes, sir. Will do.”
“And if Mrs. Anthony calls about Sunday’s concert, tell her I’ll phone her first thing this afternoon, will you?”
“I will, Mr. Martin.”
“Fine. I’ll see you later then.”
“Okay. Oh, say—”
Chris had hung up before Jimmy could finish. Well, it didn’t matter. If it was anything important, Jimmy could phone back. Chris stood beside the telephone table looking into the living room. He saw the pad and pencil lying on the sofa where he’d left it the night before, thinking that after he’d helped Helen load the dishwasher, he’d return to his planning for a children’s creative workshop.
Creative workshop. He closed his eyes. It seemed a million years ago.
He started as the telephone rang. Picking it up, he murmured, “Yes?” thinking it was Jimmy.
“Hello, Chris.”
His fingers clamped on the receiver.
“How are you,
In the hall, he began dialing the store before he realized it wasn’t open yet. He dumped the receiver onto its cradle and walked into the bedroom. It would be all right, he told himself. It was just a matter of time.
When he’d finished dressing, he went into the bathroom to shave.
“Daddy, can I get up?” Connie asked.
“Of course,” he answered.
He heard her scramble out of bed. In a moment, she came padding into the bathroom in her striped pajamas, blond hair hanging tousled across her cheeks.
“I slept good, Daddy,” she told him.
“Good.” He leaned over to kiss her.
“Did you sleep good?”
“Yes, little troll. Very good.”
Connie smiled at the name he gave her. “I slept good and you slept good,” she said.
She watched intently as he finished shaving. “Will I shave some day?” she asked.
“I hope not,” he asked.
“When I’m six and a half?” she asked.
“Girls don’t shave their faces. You’d better get dressed now.”
“I have to eat my breakfast first,” she said.
“Oh. All right, Mommy will give it to you.”
“Is she in the kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll see you then,” said Connie, leaving.
“All right.”
As he combed his hair, he heard Helen telling Connie that they were going to Grandma’s house for a while.
“How long while?” Connie asked.
“I don’t know, honey,” Helen told her. Chris felt a tremor in his stomach muscles. Just a little while, he thought.
“You and me and Daddy?”
“Daddy has to stay and watch the store,” said Helen.
“Oh,
foo
,” said Connie.
“One or two eggs?” Helen asked him as he sat down at the kitchen table.
“Just coffee, please.”
“You’ll get—” she began, then broke off.
He glanced at her as she turned back to the stove.
You’ll get sick
. That was what she’d almost said. She always said it when he wouldn’t eat breakfast. Except for today. Chris reached out and picked up his glass of orange juice.
“We’re going to Grandma’s house,” said Connie.
“I know, baby,” he answered.
“Will you visit us when we’re at Grandma’s house?”
He hid the convulsive movement of his throat by drinking. “I don’t know, sweetheart,” he said.
“Why, Daddy?”
“Eat your cereal,” Helen told her. “I told you Daddy has to watch the store.”
“Can’t Jimmy?”
Chris got up, mumbling his excuse. As he walked across the living room he heard Connie persisting. “Can’t somebody else, Mommy?”
“Connie, please eat your cereal.”
In the hall, he dialed with quick, jerking movements.
“Martin Music,” he heard Jimmy’s amiable voice through the earpiece.
“Chris Martin, Jimmy. I won’t be in till later today.”
“Oh. Okay, Mr. Martin.”
“Leave that case from Schirmer unpacked till tomorrow,” Chris told him. “You can go on re-sorting the LP albums today.”
“Yes, sir. Will do.”
“And if Mrs. Anthony calls about Sunday’s concert, tell her I’ll phone her first thing this afternoon, will you?”
“I will, Mr. Martin.”
“Fine. I’ll see you later then.”
“Okay. Oh, say—”
Chris had hung up before Jimmy could finish. Well, it didn’t matter. If it was anything important, Jimmy could phone back. Chris stood beside the telephone table looking into the living room. He saw the pad and pencil lying on the sofa where he’d left it the night before, thinking that after he’d helped Helen load the dishwasher, he’d return to his planning for a children’s creative workshop.
Creative workshop. He closed his eyes. It seemed a million years ago.
He started as the telephone rang. Picking it up, he murmured, “Yes?” thinking it was Jimmy.
“Hello, Chris.”
His fingers clamped on the receiver.
“How are you,
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