that he would never forget; yet he had always been that way. The only fuss he caused was the irritation his family felt when they watched him hold his fork too cautiously, smooth down too kindly a rug he had just stumbled over, stack each stick of wood so meticulously with his long, bony fingers when he was laying a fire.
“Why don’t you let Elizabeth do that?” Timothy asked.
“I didn’t want her out in the snow.”
“How come? She was just now shoveling the walk.”
Matthew lowered a stick of wood that he had almost set in place. He looked over at Elizabeth.
“It’s nice out there,” she told him.
He set the stick on top of the pile. It fell off again.
“In a few days,” Mrs. Emerson said, “Elizabeth goes off to New York for her vacation. I tell her it’s a mistake, especially if the snow sticks. I want her to spend Christmas with us.”
“Bus or train?” Timothy asked Elizabeth.
“Car,” she said. “Car? You’re driving?”
“A fellow named Miggs is. I got him off a bulletin board.”
“Elizabeth is so devoted to bulletin boards,” Mrs. Emerson said. “I never even knew they existed. She finds them everywhere—laundromats, thrift shops, university buildings. She always knows who is driving where and who has lost what and who is selling their old diamonds off.”
“In this weather a train would be safer,” Matthew said.
“I prefer cars,” said Elizabeth. “They give you the feeling you can get off whenever you like.”
“But why would you want to get off?” Timothy asked.
“Oh, I wouldn’t. I just like to know I can.”
Matthew said, “Did this man Miggs show you any references?”
Timothy stopped lighting his pipe and looked at him.
“He’s only a student,” said Elizabeth. “He goes to Hopkins. On the phone he sounded very nice.”
The fire had caught. It blazed up, spitting as it reached the snowy logs, and Matthew squatted back to watch it with his hands dangling between his knees. “My, isn’t that lovely,” Mrs. Emerson said. “Isn’t this pleasant. Why would anyone want to go out on such a terrible night?”
She was cuddled between the wings of her chair, with the firelight turning her face pink and soft. Timothy imagined that a struggle was going on within her: Should she be rejoicing that he was coming by so much lately, or should she be worrying over his choice of dates? (Such a shambling sort of girl, not at all like the ones he usually went out with.) “Aren’t you going to stay longer?” Mrs. Emerson would ask, and instead of his usual evasive answer Timothy could say, “No, but I’ll be back day after tomorrow. I’m taking your handyman to the movies”—choosing the word “handyman” on purpose, gleefully watching the two different reactions tangling her smooth face. (The
handyman?
But he did have to come home, after all, to get her.) Whenever she saw them off at the door she would fuss over Elizabeth, offering to retie her scarf or lend her a lipstick, “something to brighten your face just a little, a touch of color is always nice although of course you’re looking very pretty as it is.” Then Timothy, in the midst of enjoying himself, would shoot a glance at Elizabeth and suddenly wonder: did she have to wear that wristwatch
everywhere
, with its huge luminous dial and its paint-spattered leather band? Even on a date? Even dressed up? He was split between wanting to defeat his mother’s expectations and wanting to live up to them. He would rockon his heels, blank-faced, hoping for Elizabeth and his mother to settle things without him. “Maybe next time you could borrow my curlers,” Mrs. Emerson would say. “A tidy hairdo is always nice for special occasions.” Elizabeth never seemed bothered by her.
Nothing
bothered Elizabeth; that was part of her charm. It was also very irritating. He sighed and looked over at her, where she sat on the couch peacefully curling the red cellophane strip from a cigarette pack. Matthew had taken
“Why don’t you let Elizabeth do that?” Timothy asked.
“I didn’t want her out in the snow.”
“How come? She was just now shoveling the walk.”
Matthew lowered a stick of wood that he had almost set in place. He looked over at Elizabeth.
“It’s nice out there,” she told him.
He set the stick on top of the pile. It fell off again.
“In a few days,” Mrs. Emerson said, “Elizabeth goes off to New York for her vacation. I tell her it’s a mistake, especially if the snow sticks. I want her to spend Christmas with us.”
“Bus or train?” Timothy asked Elizabeth.
“Car,” she said. “Car? You’re driving?”
“A fellow named Miggs is. I got him off a bulletin board.”
“Elizabeth is so devoted to bulletin boards,” Mrs. Emerson said. “I never even knew they existed. She finds them everywhere—laundromats, thrift shops, university buildings. She always knows who is driving where and who has lost what and who is selling their old diamonds off.”
“In this weather a train would be safer,” Matthew said.
“I prefer cars,” said Elizabeth. “They give you the feeling you can get off whenever you like.”
“But why would you want to get off?” Timothy asked.
“Oh, I wouldn’t. I just like to know I can.”
Matthew said, “Did this man Miggs show you any references?”
Timothy stopped lighting his pipe and looked at him.
“He’s only a student,” said Elizabeth. “He goes to Hopkins. On the phone he sounded very nice.”
The fire had caught. It blazed up, spitting as it reached the snowy logs, and Matthew squatted back to watch it with his hands dangling between his knees. “My, isn’t that lovely,” Mrs. Emerson said. “Isn’t this pleasant. Why would anyone want to go out on such a terrible night?”
She was cuddled between the wings of her chair, with the firelight turning her face pink and soft. Timothy imagined that a struggle was going on within her: Should she be rejoicing that he was coming by so much lately, or should she be worrying over his choice of dates? (Such a shambling sort of girl, not at all like the ones he usually went out with.) “Aren’t you going to stay longer?” Mrs. Emerson would ask, and instead of his usual evasive answer Timothy could say, “No, but I’ll be back day after tomorrow. I’m taking your handyman to the movies”—choosing the word “handyman” on purpose, gleefully watching the two different reactions tangling her smooth face. (The
handyman?
But he did have to come home, after all, to get her.) Whenever she saw them off at the door she would fuss over Elizabeth, offering to retie her scarf or lend her a lipstick, “something to brighten your face just a little, a touch of color is always nice although of course you’re looking very pretty as it is.” Then Timothy, in the midst of enjoying himself, would shoot a glance at Elizabeth and suddenly wonder: did she have to wear that wristwatch
everywhere
, with its huge luminous dial and its paint-spattered leather band? Even on a date? Even dressed up? He was split between wanting to defeat his mother’s expectations and wanting to live up to them. He would rockon his heels, blank-faced, hoping for Elizabeth and his mother to settle things without him. “Maybe next time you could borrow my curlers,” Mrs. Emerson would say. “A tidy hairdo is always nice for special occasions.” Elizabeth never seemed bothered by her.
Nothing
bothered Elizabeth; that was part of her charm. It was also very irritating. He sighed and looked over at her, where she sat on the couch peacefully curling the red cellophane strip from a cigarette pack. Matthew had taken
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