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She
had
read
that
day
’
s
paper
and
the
next
day
’
s
with
a
closer
eye
than
usual
,
but
she
saw
nothing
she
could
connect
with
Jack
.
God
help
her
,
she
had
been
looking
for
a
hit
-
and
-
run
accident
or
a
barroom
brawl
that
had
resulted
in
serious
injuries
or
…
who
knew
?
Who
wanted
to
?
But
no
policeman
came
to
call
,
either
to
ask
questions
or
with
a
warrant
empowering
him
to
take
paint
scrapings
from
the
WV
’
s
bumpers
.
Nothing
.
Only
her
husband
’
s
one
hundred
and
eighty
degree
change
and
her
son
’
s
sleepy
question
on
waking
:
Did
Daddy
have
an
accident
?
I
dreamed
…
She
had
stuck
with
Jack
more
for
Danny
’
s
sake
than
she
would
admit
in
her
waking
hours
,
but
now
,
sleeping
lightly
,
she
could
admit
it
:
Danny
had
been
Jack
’
s
for
the
asking
,
almost
from
the
first
.
Just
as
she
had
been
her
father
’
s
,
almost
from
the
first
.
She
couldn
’
t
remember
Danny
ever
spitting
a
bottle
back
on
Jack
’
s
shirt
.
Jack
could
get
him
to
eat
after
she
had
given
up
in
disgust
,
even
when
Danny
was
teething
and
it
gave
him
visible
pain
to
chew
.
When
Danny
had
a
stomachache
,
she
would
rock
him
for
an
hour
before
he
began
to
quiet
;
Jack
had
only
to
pick
him
up
,
walk
twice
around
the
room
with
him
,
and
Danny
would
be
asleep
on
lack
’
s
shoulder
,
his
thumb
securely
corked
in
his
mouth
.
He
hadn
’
t
minded
changing
diapers
,
even
those
he
called
the
special
deliveries
.
He
sat
with
Danny
for
hours
on
end
,
bouncing
him
on
his
lap
,
playing
finger
games
with
him
,
making
faces
at
him
while
Danny
poked
at
his
nose
and
then
collapsed
with
the
giggles
.
He
made
formulas
and
administered
them
faultlessly
,
getting
up
every
last
burp
afterward
.
He
would
take
Danny
with
him
in
the
car
to
get
the
paper
or
a
bottle
of
milk
or
nails
at
the
hardware
store
even
when
their
son
was
still
an
infant
.
He
had
taken
Danny
to
a
StovingtonKeene
soccer
match
when
Danny
was
only
six
months
old
,
and
Danny
had
sat
motionlessly
on
his
father
’
s
lap
through
the
whole
game
,
wrapped
in
a
blanket
,
a
small
Stovington
pennant
clutched
in
one
chubby
fist
.
He
loved
his
mother
but
he
was
his
father
’
s
boy
.
And
hadn
’
t
she
felt
,
time
and
time
again
,
her
son
’
s
wordless
opposition
to
the
whole
idea
of
divorce
?
She
would
be
thinking
about
it
in
the
kitchen
,
turning
it
over
in
her
mind
as
she
turned
the
potatoes
for
supper
over
in
her
hands
for
the
peeler
’
s
blade
.
And
she
would
turn
around
to
see
him
sitting
cross
-
legged
in
a
kitchen
chair
,
looking
at
her
with
eyes
that
seemed
both
frightened
and
accusatory
.
Walking
with
him
in
the
park
,
he
would
suddenly
seize
both
her
hands
and
say
-
almost
demand
:
"
Do
you
love
me
?
Do
you
love
daddy
?
"
And
,
confused
,
she
would
nod
or
say
,
"
Of
course
I
do
,
honey
.
"
Then
he
would
run
to
the
duck
pond
,
sending
them
squawking
and
scared
to
the
other
end
,
flapping
their
wings
in
a
panic
before
the
small
ferocity
of
his
charge
,
leaving
her
to
stare
after
him
and
wonder
.
There
were
even
times
when
it
seemed
that
her
determination
to
at
least
discuss
the
matter
with
Jack
dissolved
,
not
out
of
her
own
weakness
,
but
under
the
determination
of
her
son
’
s
will
I
don
’
t
believe
such
things
.
But
in
sleep
she
did
believe
them
,
and
in
sleep
,
with
her
husband
’
s
seed
still
drying
on
her
thighs
,
she
felt
that
the
three
of
them
had
been
permanently
welded
together
-
that
if
their
three
/
oneness
was
to
be
destroyed
,
it
would
not
be
destroyed
by
any
of
them
but
from
outside
.
