Saint Maybe by Anne Tyler

babies anymore,” Ian said. “You can take care of yourselves.”
    “
Mama
never lets us. She worries we’d get into the matches.”
    “Well, would you?” Ian asked him.
    Thomas considered awhile. Finally he said, “We might.”
    Ian sighed and went back to walking Daphne.
    For the next half hour or so, they played I Spy. That was the most Ian could manage with Daphne fretting in his arms. Agatha said, “I spy, with my little eye …” and her gaze roamed the room. Ian was conscious all at once of the mess that had grown up around them—the playing cards, the twisted afghan, the strewn Parcheesi pieces.
    “… with my little eye, as clear as the sky …” Agatha said, drawing it out.
    “Will you just for God’s sake get on with it?” Ian snapped.
    “Well, I’m trying, Ian, if you wouldn’t keep interrupting.”
    Then she had to start over again. “I spy, with my little eye …”
    Ian thought of Lucy’s gray eyes and her perfect, lipsticked mouth. The red of her lipstick was a
bitter
red, with something burnt in it. She had had things her own way every minute of her life, he suspected. Women who looked like that never needed to consider other people.
    Daphne finally unknotted and fell asleep, and Ian carried her to the children’s room. He lowered her into the crib by inches and then waited, holding his breath. At that moment he heard the front door open.
    His first concern was that the noise would disturb Daphne. That was how thoroughly he’d been sidetracked. Then he realized he was free to go, and he headed out to tell Lucy what he thought of her.
    But it wasn’t Lucy; it was Danny, standing just inside the living room door and screwing up his face against the light. Ian could tell he’d had a couple of beers. He wore a loose, goofy smile that was familiar from past occasions. “Ian, fellow!” he said. “What’re
you
doing here?”
    “I’m going out of my mind,” Ian told him.
    “Ah.”
    “Your wife was due back ages ago, and anyhow I didn’t want to come in the first place.”
    “Thomas!” Danny said fervently, peering toward the couch. “And Agatha!” He seemed surprised to see them, too. He told Ian, “You sure did miss a great party. Good old Bucky Hargrove!”
    “Look,” Ian said. “I am running late as hell and I need you to give me a lift to Cicely’s house.”
    “Huh? Oh. Why, sure,” Danny said. “Sure, Ian. Except—” He pondered. “Except how about the kids?” he asked finally.
    “How about them?”
    “We can’t just leave them.”
    “Take them along, then,” Ian said, exasperated. “Let’s just
go
.”
    “Take Daphne, too? Where’s Daphne?”
    Ian gritted his teeth. The Kent cigarette song sailed out from the TV, mindless and jaunty. He turned to Agatha and said, “Agatha, you and Thomas will have to stay here and baby-sit.”
    She stared at him.
    “Seven minutes, tops,” Ian said. “Don’t open the front door no matter who knocks, and don’t answer the phone. Understand?”
    She nodded. Thomas’s eyes were ringed like a raccoon’s.
    “Let’s go,” Ian told Danny.
    Danny was swaying slightly on his feet and watching Ian with mild, detached interest. “Well …” he said.
    “Come
on
, Danny!”
    Ian snatched up his jacket and gave Danny a push in the right direction. As they walked out he felt a weight slipping blessedly from his shoulders. He wondered how people endured children on a long-term basis—the monotony and irritation and confinement of them.
    Outside it was much colder than before, and wonderfully quiet.
    Danny bumped his head getting into the car, and he had some trouble determining which key to use. After that, though, he started the engine easily, checked sensibly for traffic, and pulled into the street. “So!” he said. “Cicely lives on Lang Avenue, right?”
    “Right,” Ian said. “Stop by home first, though.”
    “Stop by home first,” Danny repeated meekly.
    Ian tapped a foot against the floorboards. He felt