conscience—and his forebodings of social censure and eternal doom—and run away with the mistress whose brilliance seemed to reside largely in her sexual allure.
Zuckerman waited for Carol to look up at him and say, “ This woman, this touching, harmless woman who saved this picture in this box, who wrote ‘ N. ON HIS WAY TO COLLEGE , ’ that was her reward. ” But Carol, who after all these years had still not spoken with Nathan, in English or French, about her brother ’ s tragic death, or the waning of the Middle Ages, or stocks, or bonds, or landscape gardening, was not about to open her heart about his shortcomings as a son. not to a trigger-happy novelist like him. But then Carol, as everyone knew, wouldn ’ t fight with anyone, which was why Henry had left her behind to settle the touchy business of who should take home what from their mother ’ s dresser. Perhaps Henry had also left her behind because of the touchier business of the mistress—either another mistress, or maybe stilt the same one—whom he could more readily arrange to see with a wife away in Florida a few more days. It had been an exemplary eulogy, deserving all of the praise it received—nor did Zuckerman mean to cast doubt upon the sincerity of his brother ’ s grief; still, Henry was only human, however heroically he tried not to show it. Indeed, a son of Henry ’ s filial devotion might even find in the hollow aftermath of such a sudden loss the need for dizzying, obliterating raptures categorically beyond the means of any wife, with or without a Ph.D.
Two hours later Zuckerman was out the door with his overnight bag and his knitting instructions. In his free hand he carried a cardboard-covered book about the size of the school composition books he used for taking notes. Carol had found it at the bottom of the lingerie drawer under some boxes of winter gloves still in their original store wrappings. Reproduced on the cover was a pinkish pastel drawing of a sleeping infant, angelically blond and endowed with regulation ringlets, lashes, and globular cheeks; an empty bottle lay to the side of the billowing coverlet, and one of the infant ’ s little fi sts rested half open beside its cherry-red tiny bow lips. The book was called Your Baby ’ s Care. Printed near the bottom of the cover was the name of the hospital where he ’ d been born . Your Baby ’ s Care must have been presented to her in her room shortly after his delivery. Use had weakened the binding and she had fastened the covers back together with transparent tape—two old strips of tape that had gone brownish-yellow over the decades and that cracked at the spine when Zuckerman opened the book and saw on the reverse of the cover the footprint he ’ d left there in the first week of life. On the first page, in her symmetrical handwriting, his mother had recorded the details of his birth—day, hour, name of parents and attending physician; on the next page, beneath the title “ Notes on Development of the Baby, ” was recorded his weekly weight throughout his first year, then the day he held up his head, the day he sat up, crept, stood alone, spoke his first word, walked, and cut his first and second teeth. Then the contents—a hundred pages of “ rules ” for raising and training a newborn child. “ Baby care is a great art, ” the new mother was told; “ … these rules have resulted from the experience of physicians over many years … ” Zuckerman put his suitcase on the floor of the elevator and began to turn the pages. “ Let the baby sleep in the sun all morning … To weigh the baby, undress him completely … After the bath, dry him gently with soft, warm towels, patting the skin gently… The best stockings for a baby are cotton … There are two kinds of croup… The morning is the best time for play … ”
The elevator stopped, the door opened, but Zuckerman ’ s attention was fixed on a small colorless blot halfway down the page headed “
Zuckerman waited for Carol to look up at him and say, “ This woman, this touching, harmless woman who saved this picture in this box, who wrote ‘ N. ON HIS WAY TO COLLEGE , ’ that was her reward. ” But Carol, who after all these years had still not spoken with Nathan, in English or French, about her brother ’ s tragic death, or the waning of the Middle Ages, or stocks, or bonds, or landscape gardening, was not about to open her heart about his shortcomings as a son. not to a trigger-happy novelist like him. But then Carol, as everyone knew, wouldn ’ t fight with anyone, which was why Henry had left her behind to settle the touchy business of who should take home what from their mother ’ s dresser. Perhaps Henry had also left her behind because of the touchier business of the mistress—either another mistress, or maybe stilt the same one—whom he could more readily arrange to see with a wife away in Florida a few more days. It had been an exemplary eulogy, deserving all of the praise it received—nor did Zuckerman mean to cast doubt upon the sincerity of his brother ’ s grief; still, Henry was only human, however heroically he tried not to show it. Indeed, a son of Henry ’ s filial devotion might even find in the hollow aftermath of such a sudden loss the need for dizzying, obliterating raptures categorically beyond the means of any wife, with or without a Ph.D.
Two hours later Zuckerman was out the door with his overnight bag and his knitting instructions. In his free hand he carried a cardboard-covered book about the size of the school composition books he used for taking notes. Carol had found it at the bottom of the lingerie drawer under some boxes of winter gloves still in their original store wrappings. Reproduced on the cover was a pinkish pastel drawing of a sleeping infant, angelically blond and endowed with regulation ringlets, lashes, and globular cheeks; an empty bottle lay to the side of the billowing coverlet, and one of the infant ’ s little fi sts rested half open beside its cherry-red tiny bow lips. The book was called Your Baby ’ s Care. Printed near the bottom of the cover was the name of the hospital where he ’ d been born . Your Baby ’ s Care must have been presented to her in her room shortly after his delivery. Use had weakened the binding and she had fastened the covers back together with transparent tape—two old strips of tape that had gone brownish-yellow over the decades and that cracked at the spine when Zuckerman opened the book and saw on the reverse of the cover the footprint he ’ d left there in the first week of life. On the first page, in her symmetrical handwriting, his mother had recorded the details of his birth—day, hour, name of parents and attending physician; on the next page, beneath the title “ Notes on Development of the Baby, ” was recorded his weekly weight throughout his first year, then the day he held up his head, the day he sat up, crept, stood alone, spoke his first word, walked, and cut his first and second teeth. Then the contents—a hundred pages of “ rules ” for raising and training a newborn child. “ Baby care is a great art, ” the new mother was told; “ … these rules have resulted from the experience of physicians over many years … ” Zuckerman put his suitcase on the floor of the elevator and began to turn the pages. “ Let the baby sleep in the sun all morning … To weigh the baby, undress him completely … After the bath, dry him gently with soft, warm towels, patting the skin gently… The best stockings for a baby are cotton … There are two kinds of croup… The morning is the best time for play … ”
The elevator stopped, the door opened, but Zuckerman ’ s attention was fixed on a small colorless blot halfway down the page headed “
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