The Age of Grief - Jane Smiley [28]
At breakfast, Leanne sets a bowl of raisin bran before him, and he is struck by the elasticity of her motion. She smiles, so cool and kind that Kirby is suddenly daunted. Ten minutes later, when Anna enters the kitchen in her bathrobe, yawning, he recalls, suddenly, her appearance in the doorway to his room. Fifth grade. Only fifth grade. He can see that now, but the night before, and in the predawn darkness, she had seemed older, more threatening, the way girls get at fourteen and fifteen. “Cereal, sweetie?” Leanne says, and Anna nods, scratching. She sits down without a word and focuses on the back of the Cheerios box. Kirby decides that he was dreaming and puts the incident out of his mind; but, “sweetie”—he would like for Leanne to call him that.
Harold, of course, is at his store, managing the Christmas rush, and the house is less festive in his absence. Eric has sequestered himself in Leanne’s sewing room, with his computer, and as soon as Anna stands up from breakfast, Mary Beth begins to arrange the day’s kitchen schedule. Kirby rinses his cup and goes into the living room. It is nine in the morning, and the day stretches before him, empty. He walks through the plaid living room to the window, where he regards the outdoor thermometer. It reads four degrees below zero. Moments later it is five degrees below zero. Moments after that he is standing beside Harold’s bar, pouring himself a glass of bourbon. He has already drunk it when Anna appears in the doorway, dressed now, and staring at him again. She makes him think of Mieko again—though the child is blond and self-contained, she is Mieko’s size. Last evening, when he was thinking of Mieko, he was looking at Anna. He says, attempting jovial warmth, “Good morning, Anna. Why do you keep staring at me?”
She is startled. “I don’t. I was looking at the bookshelves.”
“But you stared at me last night, at dinner. And you came to the door of my room early this morning. I know because I was awake.”
“No, I didn’t.” But then she softens, and says with eager curiosity, “Are you a socialist?”
While Kirby is trying not to laugh, he hears Mary Beth sing from the kitchen. “Anna? Your brother is going sledding. You want to go?”
Anna turns away before Kirby can answer and mounts the stairs. A “No!” floats, glassy and definite, from the second floor.
Kirby sits down in one of the plaid armchairs and gazes at an arrangement of greenery and shiny red balls and candles that sits on a table behind the couch. He gazes and gazes, contemplating the notion of Eric and Mary Beth discussing his politics and his life. He is offended. He knows that if he were to get up and do something he would stop being offended, but he gets up only to pour himself another drink. It is nearly ten. Books are around everywhere, and Kirby picks one up.
People keep opening doors and coming in, having been elsewhere. Harold comes home for lunch, Leanne and Isaac return from the grocery store and the hardware store, Harold the younger stomps in, covered with snow from sledding, eats a sandwich, and stomps out again. Eric opens the study door, takes a turn through the house, goes back into the study again. He does this three times, each time failing to speak to Kirby, who is sitting quietly. Perhaps he does not see him. He is an old man, Kirby thinks,