freed it with a swipe of her hand.
— Hungry?
Thomas asked.
The choices were a table with a cloth inside the shop or a bare picnic table outside. They took the latter, anchoring napkins with glasses and a ketchup bottle. They sat side by side, looking out at the water, which was brilliant apart from shadows cast by a few scattered benign-looking clouds. Thomas sat close to her, either deliberately or having no awareness of private space. Their arms touched here and there from elbow to shoulder, a proximity that distracted her. She saw the interior of a car, a Buick Skylark convertible, white with red leather interior. She would not have known the year. The top up, the windows steamed, a policeman shining a flashlight through the wet and opaque glass. Did every teenager of that era have such a memory?
— I’m supposed to be on a panel,
Thomas said.
I’m playing hooky from an interview right now.
She did not have interviews, apart from a phoner in the morning.
— When is your panel?
Thomas looked at his watch.
At four o’clock.
— There’s a ferry at two-thirty,
she said.
What’s it on, the panel?
— “The Phenomenal Ego of the Contemporary Poet.”
She looked at him and laughed.
He turned slightly and raised a foot to the picnic bench, leaning an arm on his knee. Thomas had always had trouble with leverage, had developed back problems, even as a boy. Something to do with the ratio of his height to the width of his bones. His slouch had always given him an appealing lankiness.
A teenage girl came shyly to the table to take their orders. The menu was limited: cheeseburgers, fish burgers, and hot dogs. Linda didn’t trust the fish. She ordered a cheeseburger.
I haven’t had one of those in years,
she said.
— Really?
Thomas asked, genuinely surprised.
Did you ever have a lobster again?
— Oh sure. You more or less have to in Maine.
She wanted to move apart from him, simply to dispel the tension. She was aware of physical flaws: her own, which didn’t bear thinking about; nicks in the table; a support that was slightly loose; a crust of dried ketchup below the white plastic cap. Boats that had come around the lee side of the island were hitting boisterous waves, the spray explosive, jarring. She noticed that some sort of predatory birds seemed to be reproducing themselves even as she watched, creating a phalanx at a discreet distance, waiting for scraps. Canny birds with long memories.
— If you want to talk about your daughter,
Linda said, understanding the risk of her invitation,
I’d love to hear about her.
He sighed.
Actually, it would be a relief. That’s one of the problems with not being with the mother of the child. There’s no one to bring her alive. There was Rich, but we’ve exhausted his memories.
Linda moved away, on the pretense of crossing her legs.
— But what’s to tell?
Thomas seemed defeated before he’d even begun.
She looked at his long back, the shirt disappearing into the crescent of his belt. For a moment, she longed to run her nails along the cloth, up and down his spine. She knew for a certainty that he would groan with pleasure, unable to help himself. Possibly he would bend his head forward, an invitation to scratch the top of his backbone. Knowledge of another’s physical pleasure never went away.
Thomas put his leg down and reached into a back pocket. He pulled out a leather wallet, worn pale at the seams.
— This is Billie.
Linda took the picture from him and studied it. Dark curls spilled across a face. Navy irises, as large as marbles, lay cosseted between extravagant and glossy lashes. A pink mouth, neither smiling nor frowning (though the head was tilted warily or fetchingly — it was hard to tell), had perfect shape. The skin was luminous, a pink blush in the plump cheeks. Not credible if seen in a painting, but in this photograph one had to believe in it. How had the picture not burned a hole through the worn leather of its case?
She glanced at
— Hungry?
Thomas asked.
The choices were a table with a cloth inside the shop or a bare picnic table outside. They took the latter, anchoring napkins with glasses and a ketchup bottle. They sat side by side, looking out at the water, which was brilliant apart from shadows cast by a few scattered benign-looking clouds. Thomas sat close to her, either deliberately or having no awareness of private space. Their arms touched here and there from elbow to shoulder, a proximity that distracted her. She saw the interior of a car, a Buick Skylark convertible, white with red leather interior. She would not have known the year. The top up, the windows steamed, a policeman shining a flashlight through the wet and opaque glass. Did every teenager of that era have such a memory?
— I’m supposed to be on a panel,
Thomas said.
I’m playing hooky from an interview right now.
She did not have interviews, apart from a phoner in the morning.
— When is your panel?
Thomas looked at his watch.
At four o’clock.
— There’s a ferry at two-thirty,
she said.
What’s it on, the panel?
— “The Phenomenal Ego of the Contemporary Poet.”
She looked at him and laughed.
He turned slightly and raised a foot to the picnic bench, leaning an arm on his knee. Thomas had always had trouble with leverage, had developed back problems, even as a boy. Something to do with the ratio of his height to the width of his bones. His slouch had always given him an appealing lankiness.
A teenage girl came shyly to the table to take their orders. The menu was limited: cheeseburgers, fish burgers, and hot dogs. Linda didn’t trust the fish. She ordered a cheeseburger.
I haven’t had one of those in years,
she said.
— Really?
Thomas asked, genuinely surprised.
Did you ever have a lobster again?
— Oh sure. You more or less have to in Maine.
She wanted to move apart from him, simply to dispel the tension. She was aware of physical flaws: her own, which didn’t bear thinking about; nicks in the table; a support that was slightly loose; a crust of dried ketchup below the white plastic cap. Boats that had come around the lee side of the island were hitting boisterous waves, the spray explosive, jarring. She noticed that some sort of predatory birds seemed to be reproducing themselves even as she watched, creating a phalanx at a discreet distance, waiting for scraps. Canny birds with long memories.
— If you want to talk about your daughter,
Linda said, understanding the risk of her invitation,
I’d love to hear about her.
He sighed.
Actually, it would be a relief. That’s one of the problems with not being with the mother of the child. There’s no one to bring her alive. There was Rich, but we’ve exhausted his memories.
Linda moved away, on the pretense of crossing her legs.
— But what’s to tell?
Thomas seemed defeated before he’d even begun.
She looked at his long back, the shirt disappearing into the crescent of his belt. For a moment, she longed to run her nails along the cloth, up and down his spine. She knew for a certainty that he would groan with pleasure, unable to help himself. Possibly he would bend his head forward, an invitation to scratch the top of his backbone. Knowledge of another’s physical pleasure never went away.
Thomas put his leg down and reached into a back pocket. He pulled out a leather wallet, worn pale at the seams.
— This is Billie.
Linda took the picture from him and studied it. Dark curls spilled across a face. Navy irises, as large as marbles, lay cosseted between extravagant and glossy lashes. A pink mouth, neither smiling nor frowning (though the head was tilted warily or fetchingly — it was hard to tell), had perfect shape. The skin was luminous, a pink blush in the plump cheeks. Not credible if seen in a painting, but in this photograph one had to believe in it. How had the picture not burned a hole through the worn leather of its case?
She glanced at
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