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Authors: Scott O'Connor
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she could gauge the seriousness of the situation.
They reached the door. Roy took off his hat. It looked like he was about to say something, but then he set his hat back on his head and turned and walked to the car.
Henry didn’t lift his head. Ginnie was afraid to touch him. She had never seen him like this, unsteady, uncertain. She asked if he would like to lie down. He nodded and she stepped aside to let him pass. She didn’t lay a hand on him until he was in bed, still fully dressed, the sheets pulled up to his neck. Sent home like a sick child. She tried to undress him, but he wouldn’t let her take his clothes off. He gripped the front of his shirt like he was afraid it would be ripped from his body.
She set her hand on his forehead. His skin was cool. His eyes were squeezed shut as if he was trying to force something away.
Later, he would tell her that he had become ill at work, that something he had eaten at the Christmas party hadn’t agreed with him. This was not the truth. If she couldn’t get the whole story from him, then she could still tell when she wasn’t getting the truth. The man she had opened the front door to was not a man who had simply become sick at the office. Something deeper had happened.
Who he had looked like was Thomas. She tried to banish the thought, but it stayed with her, the rightness of the comparison making it impossible to send away. In that moment on the bed he had looked like Thomas after coming through a tantrum. Thomas reborn, bewildered. A new boy emerging into a frightening world.
18
Oakland, Spring 1956
They stood on the Sullivans’ front step, waiting for the door to open. Ginnie made one last attempt to smooth Hannah’s hair, but Hannah pulled away, took Thomas’s hand. Thomas stared straight ahead at the door, adjusted his earmuffs.
The sound of footsteps from inside. Ginnie leaned into Henry. “Doris and Dick,” she whispered. “He’s a lawyer for a firm downtown. She was a beauty queen years ago. Miss Golden Gate Bridge or something.”
Doris Sullivan welcomed them effusively, the guests of honor, then led them through the house to the back patio doors. She weaved a little as she walked, her hands out to her sides in a half dance step, seemingly more than a little drunk.
It was a larger party than Henry had expected. The yard was full of neighborhood families. There was a line at the barbecue, another at a bar in a corner by the fence. The noise was considerable, but Thomas seemed all right as long as his earmuffs were on and Hannah was by his side. She was happier than Henry had seen her since the move, the protective big sister, guiding Thomas along the hors d’oeuvre table, over to the sidelines to watch a badminton match between some of the other children.
Ginnie was at ease here. She had a poise and confidence in social situations that had always seemed effortless to Henry. She moved across thelawn, touching elbows, throwing her head back to laugh at one of Dick Sullivan’s jokes. Henry followed a step behind, smiling mildly, concentrating on his drink.
“And what do you do, Mr. March?”
Doris Sullivan had cornered him by the edge of the patio. He’d become separated from Ginnie, somehow. It shouldn’t have been so hard to give his standard answer, that he was an accountant, but he found himself tripped up here, still off balance from the unexpected crowd, stuck in Doris’s close, unblinking gaze. He forced a smile, cleared his throat.
“Henry is a photographer.”
Ginnie was there, suddenly, sweeping in beside him, a hand on his arm.
“How fascinating,” Doris said. “Portraits or landscapes?”
“Portraits, mostly,” Henry said.
“You’ll have to show us your work,” Doris said. “Dick is a shutterbug himself. Nothing at your level, I’m sure, but he loves talking about cameras. Would you do that sometime? Show us your work?”
“Of course,” Ginnie said. “That sounds wonderful. Doesn’t it,
They reached the door. Roy took off his hat. It looked like he was about to say something, but then he set his hat back on his head and turned and walked to the car.
Henry didn’t lift his head. Ginnie was afraid to touch him. She had never seen him like this, unsteady, uncertain. She asked if he would like to lie down. He nodded and she stepped aside to let him pass. She didn’t lay a hand on him until he was in bed, still fully dressed, the sheets pulled up to his neck. Sent home like a sick child. She tried to undress him, but he wouldn’t let her take his clothes off. He gripped the front of his shirt like he was afraid it would be ripped from his body.
She set her hand on his forehead. His skin was cool. His eyes were squeezed shut as if he was trying to force something away.
Later, he would tell her that he had become ill at work, that something he had eaten at the Christmas party hadn’t agreed with him. This was not the truth. If she couldn’t get the whole story from him, then she could still tell when she wasn’t getting the truth. The man she had opened the front door to was not a man who had simply become sick at the office. Something deeper had happened.
Who he had looked like was Thomas. She tried to banish the thought, but it stayed with her, the rightness of the comparison making it impossible to send away. In that moment on the bed he had looked like Thomas after coming through a tantrum. Thomas reborn, bewildered. A new boy emerging into a frightening world.
18
Oakland, Spring 1956
They stood on the Sullivans’ front step, waiting for the door to open. Ginnie made one last attempt to smooth Hannah’s hair, but Hannah pulled away, took Thomas’s hand. Thomas stared straight ahead at the door, adjusted his earmuffs.
The sound of footsteps from inside. Ginnie leaned into Henry. “Doris and Dick,” she whispered. “He’s a lawyer for a firm downtown. She was a beauty queen years ago. Miss Golden Gate Bridge or something.”
Doris Sullivan welcomed them effusively, the guests of honor, then led them through the house to the back patio doors. She weaved a little as she walked, her hands out to her sides in a half dance step, seemingly more than a little drunk.
It was a larger party than Henry had expected. The yard was full of neighborhood families. There was a line at the barbecue, another at a bar in a corner by the fence. The noise was considerable, but Thomas seemed all right as long as his earmuffs were on and Hannah was by his side. She was happier than Henry had seen her since the move, the protective big sister, guiding Thomas along the hors d’oeuvre table, over to the sidelines to watch a badminton match between some of the other children.
Ginnie was at ease here. She had a poise and confidence in social situations that had always seemed effortless to Henry. She moved across thelawn, touching elbows, throwing her head back to laugh at one of Dick Sullivan’s jokes. Henry followed a step behind, smiling mildly, concentrating on his drink.
“And what do you do, Mr. March?”
Doris Sullivan had cornered him by the edge of the patio. He’d become separated from Ginnie, somehow. It shouldn’t have been so hard to give his standard answer, that he was an accountant, but he found himself tripped up here, still off balance from the unexpected crowd, stuck in Doris’s close, unblinking gaze. He forced a smile, cleared his throat.
“Henry is a photographer.”
Ginnie was there, suddenly, sweeping in beside him, a hand on his arm.
“How fascinating,” Doris said. “Portraits or landscapes?”
“Portraits, mostly,” Henry said.
“You’ll have to show us your work,” Doris said. “Dick is a shutterbug himself. Nothing at your level, I’m sure, but he loves talking about cameras. Would you do that sometime? Show us your work?”
“Of course,” Ginnie said. “That sounds wonderful. Doesn’t it,
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