Flesh and Blood

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Authors: Thomas H. Cook
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that the exact identity of the father mattered least of all in her immediate calculations. She wanted the experience of child-bearing, of parenthood. She wanted to be a mother, but he knew that he would never be a father to anyone again, never know that exquisite joy, or expose himself to the dark brutal emptiness that had followed in its wake.
    He folded the menu. “Order for me, Karen,” he said. “I don’t know what these things are.”
    She stared at him resentfully. “Are you proud of that?”
    â€œNo,” Frank said. “It’s just a fact. I don’t have any particular feeling about it. Why? Does it embarrass you?”
    â€œYou know better than that,” Karen snapped. “Don’t try to make me out to be some New York snob, Frank. It won’t work.”
    Frank said nothing.
    â€œIs that what you did with Sheila?” Karen asked accusingly. “Did you try to put her in some little square, nail her down, so you could go your own way?”
    Frank glanced away, and drew in a long, slow breath.
    The waiter stepped up almost immediately, and Karen ordered herself a Black Russian and him a shot of Bushmills.
    â€œSo,” she said crisply, “I ordered for you.”
    Frank nodded slowly.
    For a long time, the two of them sat in silence. Then suddenly, Karen leaned forward and thrust out her arm. “Feel this, Frank,” she said brightly, trying to start the dinner over again. “Feel this material.”
    Frank felt the cuff of her blouse. The material was soft as liquid, and for a moment he half-expected it to dissolve at his touch.
    â€œAnd look at the color,” Karen added enthusiastically. “Doesn’t it look like it has a glow of some kind?”
    â€œIt’s very beautiful,” Frank said.
    â€œYou met the designer,” Karen told him. “She was at the party last night.”
    Frank said nothing.
    â€œImalia Covallo,” Karen added. “Very tall. She sat near you for a while. Do you remember her?”
    â€œYes,” Frank said.
    â€œI bought this in her shop this morning,” Karen said. She sat back and lifted her arms gracefully. “It’s called the ‘Imalia Covallo Look.’”
    â€œShe has a shop?”
    â€œOh yes, very exclusive.”
    â€œWhere is it?”
    â€œWhere else, Fifth Avenue,” Karen said. “You have to have an appointment to get in.” She laughed. “It’s all very haute couture and all that.” She lifted her nose to the air in a broad, mocking gesture. “So precious, dahling.”
    â€œYou made an appointment?” Frank asked, almost unbelievingly.
    â€œYes, at the party,” Karen said. “She’s really very nice.” She ran her fingers up the sleeves of her blouse. “And the clothes, Frank. You should see the clothes.”
    Frank let his eyes move over the shimmering blouse, its intricately woven fabric and radiant sheen. “It’s very nice,” he said again.
    She smiled sweetly. “Think we can begin again, Frank?” she asked.
    For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, as last, he lied.
    â€œMaybe,” he said.
    It was almost ten by the time they got back to the apartment, and for a while, the two of them sat on the terrace and watched the lights of the city. There was a distinct chill in the air, but the view was worth it. It swept in toward them from up and down the long glittering canyon of Park Avenue, and as he sat in the white wicker chair and listened to the distant traffic down below, Frank remembered his tiny porch on Waldo Street in Atlanta, the metal lawn chair he’d kept there, and the wall of city lights which he’d watched night after night. He could feel his old discontent rising again, reaching into his voice, his eyes, making itself visible to those who were around him.
    â€œWhat are you thinking, Frank?” Karen asked suddenly.
    He turned toward her. She

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