He pulled up her sweatshirt and tried to bury his face in her front.
“All right. Quickly!” she said and hoisted him over to the sofa, cradled him. He was so heavy! She would hurt her back sometime if she continued to lift him like this.
The knock on the door came only a few minutes later. Julia’s first instinct was to sink down into the sofa, to try to hide. Maybe he’ll go away, she thought. Matthew usually hated being interrupted in his feeding. She thought, I could phone someone else. I’m not ready anyway. I look like shit and haven’t even chosen my colour.
The knock came again. Julia could see him on the porch through the side window. Then he looked and saw her and still something in her mind said, Maybe he’ll just go away.
But he wasn’t going to go away. Julia stood up and swiftly detached Matthew. There was no storm. He was asleep. She held up a single finger for the floor man through the window. “Just a minute!” she mouthed, and carried Matthew upstairs, laid him in his little bed. He was soft oblivion, like Bob after an orgasm, the same mouth-open, happily stupefied slumber.
While she was upstairs she changed into a pair of dark pants that were sharp-looking but comfortable – a combination rare enough to find since her pregnancy – put on a nice blue shirt and sweater, retouched her lips, fixed her hair quickly. Then she hurried down to open the front door. “Donny, is it? I’m
so
sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “Won’t you come in? I’m Julia Sterling. Professor Ruddick highly recommended your work.”
He was not large but he had the strong, blunt hands of a workman. His face had strange marks on it, small welts andpimples, his nose twisted. His hair was wiry and sparse and his eyebrows joined in the middle of his forehead. He looks like a toad, Julia thought. A kindly, gentle sort of toad.
She said, “Don’t bother about your boots,” which were mud-spattered, and he immediately kicked them off. His right big toe was sticking out of his black sock, which was inside out.
“No, really, the house is a mess,” she said.
“It’s a beautiful house,” he replied. “Just needs some attention.”
“Wait till you see the kitchen.”
They walked through to the back. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, whether to clasp them in front or behind or shove them in his pockets. But when they got to the kitchen he squatted expertly and inspected the sorry tiles. He looked like an old-time woodsman reading tracks in the mud or a farmer touching the soil.
She explained what she wanted, as far as she knew, about pulling up the tiles to the pine floor below, about wanting it repaired and sanded and then painted and varnished. She even got as far as the Mediterranean colours, but the way he was looking at her was unsettling and she found her words faltering.
“It’s Carmichael, isn’t it?” he said finally, straightening up, only slightly taller than Julia’s five and a half feet. “Julia Carmichael.”
“Yes. That was my maiden name,” she said.
“From Brookfield.”
“High school. Yes,” she said. “Did you go there?”
He swallowed before answering and his face suddenly went red. “Donald Clatch,” he said, moving his head up and down as if coaxing her. “Donny.”
“I’m sorry. You
did
go there?” she said.
“I sat behind you in homeroom. Every year.”
“Ah,”
she said, her face brightening instinctively, but she couldn’t remember him at all.
“Mr. Wigs. He wore that brown suit every day, the same one, with either the brown tie or the green. Clatch. I was right behind Carmichael. Every day from 9:00 a.m. to 9:10.”
“Oh yes, of course,” she said, nodding now, but still uncertain.
“You don’t remember me,” he said.
“Yes, I do. Of course. Hi!” she said, and thrust out her hand again. “I was just – well, I was never a morning person,” she said. “Homeroom was a blur.
Mr. Wigs
. Yes, of course. I wonder whatever
“All right. Quickly!” she said and hoisted him over to the sofa, cradled him. He was so heavy! She would hurt her back sometime if she continued to lift him like this.
The knock on the door came only a few minutes later. Julia’s first instinct was to sink down into the sofa, to try to hide. Maybe he’ll go away, she thought. Matthew usually hated being interrupted in his feeding. She thought, I could phone someone else. I’m not ready anyway. I look like shit and haven’t even chosen my colour.
The knock came again. Julia could see him on the porch through the side window. Then he looked and saw her and still something in her mind said, Maybe he’ll just go away.
But he wasn’t going to go away. Julia stood up and swiftly detached Matthew. There was no storm. He was asleep. She held up a single finger for the floor man through the window. “Just a minute!” she mouthed, and carried Matthew upstairs, laid him in his little bed. He was soft oblivion, like Bob after an orgasm, the same mouth-open, happily stupefied slumber.
While she was upstairs she changed into a pair of dark pants that were sharp-looking but comfortable – a combination rare enough to find since her pregnancy – put on a nice blue shirt and sweater, retouched her lips, fixed her hair quickly. Then she hurried down to open the front door. “Donny, is it? I’m
so
sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “Won’t you come in? I’m Julia Sterling. Professor Ruddick highly recommended your work.”
He was not large but he had the strong, blunt hands of a workman. His face had strange marks on it, small welts andpimples, his nose twisted. His hair was wiry and sparse and his eyebrows joined in the middle of his forehead. He looks like a toad, Julia thought. A kindly, gentle sort of toad.
She said, “Don’t bother about your boots,” which were mud-spattered, and he immediately kicked them off. His right big toe was sticking out of his black sock, which was inside out.
“No, really, the house is a mess,” she said.
“It’s a beautiful house,” he replied. “Just needs some attention.”
“Wait till you see the kitchen.”
They walked through to the back. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, whether to clasp them in front or behind or shove them in his pockets. But when they got to the kitchen he squatted expertly and inspected the sorry tiles. He looked like an old-time woodsman reading tracks in the mud or a farmer touching the soil.
She explained what she wanted, as far as she knew, about pulling up the tiles to the pine floor below, about wanting it repaired and sanded and then painted and varnished. She even got as far as the Mediterranean colours, but the way he was looking at her was unsettling and she found her words faltering.
“It’s Carmichael, isn’t it?” he said finally, straightening up, only slightly taller than Julia’s five and a half feet. “Julia Carmichael.”
“Yes. That was my maiden name,” she said.
“From Brookfield.”
“High school. Yes,” she said. “Did you go there?”
He swallowed before answering and his face suddenly went red. “Donald Clatch,” he said, moving his head up and down as if coaxing her. “Donny.”
“I’m sorry. You
did
go there?” she said.
“I sat behind you in homeroom. Every year.”
“Ah,”
she said, her face brightening instinctively, but she couldn’t remember him at all.
“Mr. Wigs. He wore that brown suit every day, the same one, with either the brown tie or the green. Clatch. I was right behind Carmichael. Every day from 9:00 a.m. to 9:10.”
“Oh yes, of course,” she said, nodding now, but still uncertain.
“You don’t remember me,” he said.
“Yes, I do. Of course. Hi!” she said, and thrust out her hand again. “I was just – well, I was never a morning person,” she said. “Homeroom was a blur.
Mr. Wigs
. Yes, of course. I wonder whatever
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