scale, and then I saw that the wind in the pinewoods around the hut was restless and quick; branches jerked and trembled with none of the dreamy enchantment of swaying trees seen from a distance. And I thought, if someone were to appear from the door and walk down the jetty to the boat, I would be close enough to call out, and she might look up and see me standing and waving, offering as clear and perfect a picture to her as she did to me. I looked downriver to the bridge, maybe a mile away, arching over from the city to the forest side. I walked a few yards down the shore. Now, closer, I could hear above the shirring of the water a stately, faint thrum from the traffic crossing over it, and carried by the breeze that blew across, there came an eerie, soft booming that I supposed had to do with the disturbance of air through the steel spans stretching up into the windy sky.
Suddenly there was a rattle of stones and a shout behind me. I turned in time to see the man struggling to keep his balance, sliding sideways on the slope of loose rocks and puddles. Falling, he let go of the child, pushing her away from him so as not to squash her under his weight as he toppled. I ran toward them. The child was a rolling bundle of unraveling clothes and wrappings, and I reached her just as she began to scream. The man tumbled several feet and landed heavily, letting out a long cry just as the child screamed again. She wasn’t hurt, but she was frightened and indignant, and when I picked her up, she was so puzzled she stopped crying abruptly to stare at my face. I saw her eyes register that she didn’t know me, and then she writhed in my arms and took a deep breath, ready to roar her head off. I jounced her up and down and smiled and chuckled, and turned her around so she could see her father getting to his feet.
“There, there, little one, there’s Papa, ooh, look, oops-a-daisy! Silly Papa! Look!” I crooned, and the child gave me another assessing look before she burst out wailing, stretching her arms out to her father. He came toward us breathless, unsmiling. I handed the child over, but he had hurt his arm or shoulder and winced under the weight of her.
“Oh, here, I’ll hold her for you,” I offered, and tried to draw her to me again, but she curled up crying into his chest and he took two long steps back. He spoke a few words to her in a foreign language I couldn’t identify, then cast me a pained look and nodded toward the trailer. “I can manage that far,” he said.
At the trailer door, the child scrambled down without a word, plonked herself on the bottom step, and lifted up first one foot and then the other to her father, holding on to her socks while he pulled off her boots. Inside, he unwrapped her from her layers while she craned round, staring at me. She clambered up onto the window seat and settled herself into a nest of soft toys, pulling a rubbery-looking giraffe onto her lap, and the end of its tail into her mouth. The wall above her head was covered with pictures in crayon, some wild, colored scribbles that had torn the paper, and some done by an adult for a child, of cats and houses, flowers and boats and birds. She kept watching me, no less suspiciously. She was beautifully and magically the image of her father: the same curly, slaty, blue-black hair, the intense gaze from strikingly clear blue eyes, long, fragile hands. The man, nursing his wrist, nodded to me to sit down, and as I took the place beside her, she raised her eyesand smiled at me. I looked away. She made me nervous, more nervous than he did. Her beauty was close to overwhelming, but it wasn’t so much her beauty as her physical, breathing existence that moved me. I was sitting close enough to reach and touch her hair, and a few hours ago I had been almost ready to rob myself of even that small gesture toward my own child.
“Hello,” I said, turning to her. “And what’s your name?”
“No names,” the man said. We both looked at
Suddenly there was a rattle of stones and a shout behind me. I turned in time to see the man struggling to keep his balance, sliding sideways on the slope of loose rocks and puddles. Falling, he let go of the child, pushing her away from him so as not to squash her under his weight as he toppled. I ran toward them. The child was a rolling bundle of unraveling clothes and wrappings, and I reached her just as she began to scream. The man tumbled several feet and landed heavily, letting out a long cry just as the child screamed again. She wasn’t hurt, but she was frightened and indignant, and when I picked her up, she was so puzzled she stopped crying abruptly to stare at my face. I saw her eyes register that she didn’t know me, and then she writhed in my arms and took a deep breath, ready to roar her head off. I jounced her up and down and smiled and chuckled, and turned her around so she could see her father getting to his feet.
“There, there, little one, there’s Papa, ooh, look, oops-a-daisy! Silly Papa! Look!” I crooned, and the child gave me another assessing look before she burst out wailing, stretching her arms out to her father. He came toward us breathless, unsmiling. I handed the child over, but he had hurt his arm or shoulder and winced under the weight of her.
“Oh, here, I’ll hold her for you,” I offered, and tried to draw her to me again, but she curled up crying into his chest and he took two long steps back. He spoke a few words to her in a foreign language I couldn’t identify, then cast me a pained look and nodded toward the trailer. “I can manage that far,” he said.
At the trailer door, the child scrambled down without a word, plonked herself on the bottom step, and lifted up first one foot and then the other to her father, holding on to her socks while he pulled off her boots. Inside, he unwrapped her from her layers while she craned round, staring at me. She clambered up onto the window seat and settled herself into a nest of soft toys, pulling a rubbery-looking giraffe onto her lap, and the end of its tail into her mouth. The wall above her head was covered with pictures in crayon, some wild, colored scribbles that had torn the paper, and some done by an adult for a child, of cats and houses, flowers and boats and birds. She kept watching me, no less suspiciously. She was beautifully and magically the image of her father: the same curly, slaty, blue-black hair, the intense gaze from strikingly clear blue eyes, long, fragile hands. The man, nursing his wrist, nodded to me to sit down, and as I took the place beside her, she raised her eyesand smiled at me. I looked away. She made me nervous, more nervous than he did. Her beauty was close to overwhelming, but it wasn’t so much her beauty as her physical, breathing existence that moved me. I was sitting close enough to reach and touch her hair, and a few hours ago I had been almost ready to rob myself of even that small gesture toward my own child.
“Hello,” I said, turning to her. “And what’s your name?”
“No names,” the man said. We both looked at
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