eight.”
“She’s fine.” Griffin looked up at the clear sky. It was cold, but pleasantly so. “Nice night,” he said.
Ellen sighed. “Look. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this conference. I really did forget.”
“Yeah, all right.”
They walked on, their strides matching. Behind one of the windows they passed, an old lady stood in her housecoat, looking out at the street. She would see them and think they were fine, Griffin thought, a nice young couple out for a walk.
“Zoe likes her teacher this year,” Ellen said. “I’m surprised, because she’s really strict. She took away Zoe’s baseball cards the first day, for trading in class. But then she gave them back.”
“Yeah, well, Zoe gets along with everyone.”
Ellen smiled. “I know she does.”
Griffin stopped walking. “Ellen…”
She kept on. “We don’t have time, Griffin.”
He caught up with her, and they walked the rest of the short distance to the school in silence. In the space of two blocks, Griffin thought of several things he wanted to tell Ellen. About how much colder it was going to get over the next few days, and didn’t Zoe need a new coat? That this morning he thought he’d seen signs of his hairline receding—was it? He wanted to tell her what Evelyn had said about reading the Bible when she couldn’t sleep, and he wanted Ellen to wonder aloud about that. He was sure she would. Ellen could take a piece of information like that and use it to create a whole scene. She might say about Evelyn that she saw her in a blue flannel nightgown, propped up on one pillow, her bedside lamplight falling onto delicate, see-through pages. Yes, she would say something just like that, talk about Evelyn’s thin lips moving as she comforted herself with those ancient stories. The place would be marked by a ribbon, perhaps. Evelyn’s knees would be raised. Or would they? Without knowing, Ellen would know.
He wanted to ask Ellen if she could think of a verse that actually might provide comfort to a sore soul. The weighty announcement from the angel to the virgin? The more poetic version of the world’s beginning? He wanted Ellen to tell him what she imagined the rest of Evelyn’s bedroom to look like, the rest of her house, with its kitchen cupboards and its linen closets, its arrangements of furniture and figurines. Were there plants in ceramic pots? Handwritten letters on a hall table? Was there a cat? A newspaper delivery every morning? The old Ellen would have told him, and he, assuming that kind of verbal fantasy would always be available to him, would have mostly ignored it. He saw that, now. He saw, too, how much he had actually enjoyed those rich musings, and he saw how Ellen’s imagination had inspired him. Without her stories, he would lose his own.
Mrs. Pierce was the kind of teacher Griffin liked best: middle-aged, bespectacled, dignified; clad in a brown tweed skirt, a cream- colored, bow-tie blouse, and a brown cardigan sweater. Griffin couldn’t see her shoes, but surely they were brown pumps, well broken in, with creases on the outside and something from Dr. Scholl’s on the inside.
She was seated at her desk in a corner of the classroom, two chairs facing her. As Ellen and Griffin came in, she stood up and smiled.
It always seemed so strange to Griffin to be in a classroom at night. The room was too quiet; the lights seemed more yellow than usual. The children’s desks were lined up neatly, expectant looking, all but inhabited by the spirits of those who claimed them during the day. Colorful workbooks were stacked in one corner. A tan-and-white guinea pig stared blandly through the walls of her glass cage. Zoe said she bit everyone. Her name, according to a sign taped onto the cage, was Queenie, but Griffin happened to know that the kids called her Meanie.
Mrs. Pierce extended her hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Griffin? I’m Zoe’s teacher, Mrs. Pierce. Won’t you please sit down?” Her voice was clear,
“She’s fine.” Griffin looked up at the clear sky. It was cold, but pleasantly so. “Nice night,” he said.
Ellen sighed. “Look. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about this conference. I really did forget.”
“Yeah, all right.”
They walked on, their strides matching. Behind one of the windows they passed, an old lady stood in her housecoat, looking out at the street. She would see them and think they were fine, Griffin thought, a nice young couple out for a walk.
“Zoe likes her teacher this year,” Ellen said. “I’m surprised, because she’s really strict. She took away Zoe’s baseball cards the first day, for trading in class. But then she gave them back.”
“Yeah, well, Zoe gets along with everyone.”
Ellen smiled. “I know she does.”
Griffin stopped walking. “Ellen…”
She kept on. “We don’t have time, Griffin.”
He caught up with her, and they walked the rest of the short distance to the school in silence. In the space of two blocks, Griffin thought of several things he wanted to tell Ellen. About how much colder it was going to get over the next few days, and didn’t Zoe need a new coat? That this morning he thought he’d seen signs of his hairline receding—was it? He wanted to tell her what Evelyn had said about reading the Bible when she couldn’t sleep, and he wanted Ellen to wonder aloud about that. He was sure she would. Ellen could take a piece of information like that and use it to create a whole scene. She might say about Evelyn that she saw her in a blue flannel nightgown, propped up on one pillow, her bedside lamplight falling onto delicate, see-through pages. Yes, she would say something just like that, talk about Evelyn’s thin lips moving as she comforted herself with those ancient stories. The place would be marked by a ribbon, perhaps. Evelyn’s knees would be raised. Or would they? Without knowing, Ellen would know.
He wanted to ask Ellen if she could think of a verse that actually might provide comfort to a sore soul. The weighty announcement from the angel to the virgin? The more poetic version of the world’s beginning? He wanted Ellen to tell him what she imagined the rest of Evelyn’s bedroom to look like, the rest of her house, with its kitchen cupboards and its linen closets, its arrangements of furniture and figurines. Were there plants in ceramic pots? Handwritten letters on a hall table? Was there a cat? A newspaper delivery every morning? The old Ellen would have told him, and he, assuming that kind of verbal fantasy would always be available to him, would have mostly ignored it. He saw that, now. He saw, too, how much he had actually enjoyed those rich musings, and he saw how Ellen’s imagination had inspired him. Without her stories, he would lose his own.
Mrs. Pierce was the kind of teacher Griffin liked best: middle-aged, bespectacled, dignified; clad in a brown tweed skirt, a cream- colored, bow-tie blouse, and a brown cardigan sweater. Griffin couldn’t see her shoes, but surely they were brown pumps, well broken in, with creases on the outside and something from Dr. Scholl’s on the inside.
She was seated at her desk in a corner of the classroom, two chairs facing her. As Ellen and Griffin came in, she stood up and smiled.
It always seemed so strange to Griffin to be in a classroom at night. The room was too quiet; the lights seemed more yellow than usual. The children’s desks were lined up neatly, expectant looking, all but inhabited by the spirits of those who claimed them during the day. Colorful workbooks were stacked in one corner. A tan-and-white guinea pig stared blandly through the walls of her glass cage. Zoe said she bit everyone. Her name, according to a sign taped onto the cage, was Queenie, but Griffin happened to know that the kids called her Meanie.
Mrs. Pierce extended her hand. “Mr. and Mrs. Griffin? I’m Zoe’s teacher, Mrs. Pierce. Won’t you please sit down?” Her voice was clear,
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