twirl.
She looks very nice, really. She has a ribbon in her hair. It is cold, and she should have worn a hat, but she wanted to wear the ribbon. Milo has good taste: the dress she is wearing, which he bought for her, is a hazy purple plaid, and it sets off her hair.
“Come with me. Don’t be sad,” Milo suddenly says to Louise, pulling her by the hand. “Come with me for a minute. Come across the street to the park for just a second, and we’ll have some space to dance, and your mother and Bradley can have a nice quiet drink.”
She gets up from the table and, looking long-suffering, backs into her coat, which he is holding for her, and the two of them go out. The waitress comes to the table, and Bradley orders three Bloody Marys and a Coke, and eggs Benedict for everyone. He asks the waitress to wait awhile before she brings the food. I have hardly slept at all, and having a drink is not going to clear my head. I have to think of things to say to Louise later, on the ride home.
“He takes so many
chances,
” I say. “He pushes things so far with people. I don’t want her to turn against him.”
“No,” he says.
“Why are you going, Bradley? You’ve seen the way he acts. You know that when you get out there he’ll pull something on you. Take the job and stay here.”
Bradley is fiddling with the edge of his napkin. I study him. I don’t know who his friends are, how old he is, where he grew up, whether he believes in God, or what he usually drinks. I’m shocked that I know so little, and I reach out and touch him. He looks up.
“Don’t go,” I say quietly.
The waitress puts the glasses down quickly and leaves, embarrassed because she thinks she’s interrupted a tender moment. Bradley pats my hand on his arm. Then he says the thing that has always been between us, the thing too painful for me to envision or think about.
“I love him,” Bradley whispers.
We sit quietly until Milo and Louise come into the restaurant, swinging hands. She is pretending to be a young child, almost a baby, and I wonder for an instant if Milo and Bradley and I haven’t been playing house, too—pretending to be adults.
“Daddy’s going to give me a first-class ticket,” Louise says. “When I go to California we’re going to ride in a glass elevator to the top of the Fairman Hotel.”
“The Fairmont,” Milo says, smiling at her.
Before Louise was born, Milo used to put his ear to my stomach and say that if the baby turned out to be a girl he would put her into glass slippers instead of bootees. Now he is the prince once again. I see them in a glass elevator, not long from now, going up and up, with the people below getting smaller and smaller, until they disappear.
PLAYBACK
One of the most romantic evenings I ever spent was last week, with Holly curled in my lap, her knees to the side, resting against the sloping arm of the wicker rocking chair. It would have cut into her skin if I hadn’t tucked my hand under her bony knees. Her satin nightgown came to mid-calf when she stood, but didn’t cover her knees when she curled into my lap. In the breeze, tiny curls blew against my cheek, where it rested on top of her head. Ash used to say that her fine, long hair reminded him of the way ribbon curled when you held it stretched lightly across your thumb and ran a pair of scissors along the top. The nightgown had been a present from Ash: tiny pink flowers scattered here and there among the narrow pleats, a nightgown from the 1930s. He had bought it at her favorite store, Red Dog, where he had bought her the mysterious homemade rug with a chorus line of squirrels, eating what looked like shrimp. He had also gotten her a satin jacket with “Angelo” written across the back. He cut off the “o” and had a friend add embroideredwings. On cool nights, she’d wear it over the old-fashioned nightgown.
The night I held her on my lap, Ash had called from a pay phone in a bar in Tennessee, to say that the
She looks very nice, really. She has a ribbon in her hair. It is cold, and she should have worn a hat, but she wanted to wear the ribbon. Milo has good taste: the dress she is wearing, which he bought for her, is a hazy purple plaid, and it sets off her hair.
“Come with me. Don’t be sad,” Milo suddenly says to Louise, pulling her by the hand. “Come with me for a minute. Come across the street to the park for just a second, and we’ll have some space to dance, and your mother and Bradley can have a nice quiet drink.”
She gets up from the table and, looking long-suffering, backs into her coat, which he is holding for her, and the two of them go out. The waitress comes to the table, and Bradley orders three Bloody Marys and a Coke, and eggs Benedict for everyone. He asks the waitress to wait awhile before she brings the food. I have hardly slept at all, and having a drink is not going to clear my head. I have to think of things to say to Louise later, on the ride home.
“He takes so many
chances,
” I say. “He pushes things so far with people. I don’t want her to turn against him.”
“No,” he says.
“Why are you going, Bradley? You’ve seen the way he acts. You know that when you get out there he’ll pull something on you. Take the job and stay here.”
Bradley is fiddling with the edge of his napkin. I study him. I don’t know who his friends are, how old he is, where he grew up, whether he believes in God, or what he usually drinks. I’m shocked that I know so little, and I reach out and touch him. He looks up.
“Don’t go,” I say quietly.
The waitress puts the glasses down quickly and leaves, embarrassed because she thinks she’s interrupted a tender moment. Bradley pats my hand on his arm. Then he says the thing that has always been between us, the thing too painful for me to envision or think about.
“I love him,” Bradley whispers.
We sit quietly until Milo and Louise come into the restaurant, swinging hands. She is pretending to be a young child, almost a baby, and I wonder for an instant if Milo and Bradley and I haven’t been playing house, too—pretending to be adults.
“Daddy’s going to give me a first-class ticket,” Louise says. “When I go to California we’re going to ride in a glass elevator to the top of the Fairman Hotel.”
“The Fairmont,” Milo says, smiling at her.
Before Louise was born, Milo used to put his ear to my stomach and say that if the baby turned out to be a girl he would put her into glass slippers instead of bootees. Now he is the prince once again. I see them in a glass elevator, not long from now, going up and up, with the people below getting smaller and smaller, until they disappear.
PLAYBACK
One of the most romantic evenings I ever spent was last week, with Holly curled in my lap, her knees to the side, resting against the sloping arm of the wicker rocking chair. It would have cut into her skin if I hadn’t tucked my hand under her bony knees. Her satin nightgown came to mid-calf when she stood, but didn’t cover her knees when she curled into my lap. In the breeze, tiny curls blew against my cheek, where it rested on top of her head. Ash used to say that her fine, long hair reminded him of the way ribbon curled when you held it stretched lightly across your thumb and ran a pair of scissors along the top. The nightgown had been a present from Ash: tiny pink flowers scattered here and there among the narrow pleats, a nightgown from the 1930s. He had bought it at her favorite store, Red Dog, where he had bought her the mysterious homemade rug with a chorus line of squirrels, eating what looked like shrimp. He had also gotten her a satin jacket with “Angelo” written across the back. He cut off the “o” and had a friend add embroideredwings. On cool nights, she’d wear it over the old-fashioned nightgown.
The night I held her on my lap, Ash had called from a pay phone in a bar in Tennessee, to say that the
Similar Books
