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By Root 315 0

almost touching his shoulder, as though she had sought it, her feet in the far corner of the bed. Cautiously, he touched her hair and played with its tangles. Affection, and desire for her proximity—he was astonished by how happy he was to have her less than an arm’s length away and to find her so fantastically available. Here was an aspect of unemployment and nearly total loneliness he had not previously examined, let alone apprehended: they set one free! He need not worry about how long this girl would sleep, or what she might want to do after she awakened. There was Charlotte’s wedding reception to be held in June and the need, which was turning into a wish, to move to another house. Other than that, he had no engagements or appointments. His quotidian future—whatever its term—stretched before him uncharted.

During their last embrace, she had moaned, Do you like it, darling, it’s only for you. He was buried under the black avalanche of her hair, to detach his mouth from the nape of her neck was inconceivable, so he kept thrusting into her, only harder. She moaned again: Yeah, now I really belong to you.

When it was over, she had asked: Did you like it? Schmidtie, talk to me, you know it’s just you, say you liked it. Tell me why you liked it.

He thought he was returning from a distance that could not be measured. Perhaps he had dozed off. The question would be repeated until he had answered. Therefore, he replied: It’s what you said, you said you belong to me.

My darling.

Nobody had ever called him that. Certainly not his father. Not his mother—until she died he had been Schmidtie or sometimes Bebop, the nickname of his Baltimore godfather, the man to be counted on at Christmas for a postcard of an Eastern Shore oysterman and a check for ten dollars; not Mary, whose terms of endearment, used distractedly on Charlotte, every other child she addressed, her editorial assistant, and himself, had been sweetie and its variants sweetness, sweetie pie, and sweets; not Corinne or any of the women of his one-night stands. But this girl, with her hoarse voice and rough diction, had; she had called him darling three times, and it didn’t seem an automatic pattern of her speech—such as her relentless, Do you like me? It was enough to make one believe in the remission of sin and life eternal.

The telephone rang. He looked at Carrie: no reaction. That was another miracle: the sleep of a young girl. He took the receiver off the hook, and, not allowing himself to listen to his daughter, said, Just a moment, please, I’d like to talk to you from the kitchen.

Lights on in the kitchen and a glass of cold tap water. He brought the telephone to the table and sat down. Must remember to hang up the bedroom telephone when I finish.

Dad, where have you been? I have tried you twice, and you haven’t answered.

In Brazil until yesterday, and today at home in the morning and, in the early afternoon, at the beach. If you want to know, just now I was taking one of my senior citizen naps!

I’m sorry. You got back yesterday, but you didn’t call?

It’s a long overnight trip, baby; I was tired. At first, while I was puttering around, I thought I might hear from you, then I went out to get a bite to eat, and then it was late.

I lost your postcard with all the dates, so I wasn’t sure when you were coming home. Did you have a good time?

Perfect. I think I wrote to you about it.

You did. I got that postcard too. Dad, we were out at the house with people from the firm a couple of times while you were away—associates working with Jon—so I don’t think we’ll see you this weekend or, probably, the next.

Right.

By the way, Renata thinks we should start planning for the wedding. She was asking whether you have done anything, whether you feel up to it, you know, or want her to help, or just have her do it for us.

Which way to the air-raid shelter? Schmidt asked himself. The next thing I know, the grandparents will also want to get into the act.

He answered by a question of his own: Do you still want to be married in June, at the house, and have the reception