Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,88

a nice face. He wore tan corduroys & a blue oxford & a strange jacket the likes of which I had never seen—sort of a suit jacket in the shape of a denim one. & shoes that looked elfin and worn. His wife was blond & pretty & very thin & dressed in an outfit that reminded me of the gym.

“I work for a firm called Crandall and Stone,” said Henry Dale. “Have you heard of them?”

“Architecture,” I said. It was the first time I’d said the word aloud in years & years. I thought of Dad in a blue flannel suit he had. I thought of Mother.

Yolanda looked at me expectantly.

“When we bought the house from Marie Spencer,” said Henry Dale, “she mentioned you and your family to us.”

I said nothing. Henry Dale waited.

“Your father is one of my heroes,” he said. “Architecturally.”

I said nothing.

“You know there was a show—”

“I heard that,” I said.

“At the public library,” he said. “I went.”

“It was great,” he said.

I think Yolanda could no longer bear my silence so she chose this moment to speak. “You guys should come over sometime!” she said. It burst out of her.

We both looked at her.

“Well—” said Henry Dale. “I’d hate to impose.”

“No, you should,” said Yolanda. “I could cook.”

Then, upon seeing his gaze drop to her belly, she said, “I work for him.” As if to clarify that I was not, in fact, the father.

At that moment one of his young sons ran up to him and tugged at his hand, & his wife came over too, pushing the stroller, holding their third boy by his hand, and introduced herself as Suzanne.

“Hello, Suzanne,” I said. She had very nice eyes & a good firm handshake. I decided I liked her, & therefore I had to like Henry Dale, as well.

The best part of the day was the evening. I felt a sense of euphoria almost—perhaps it was endorphins from the exercise I had taken—& I was tired and calm for the first time in years.

Yolanda came downstairs wearing the outfit she almost always wears at night: sweatpants and a too-large hooded sweatshirt. I wonder if it is Junior Baby Love’s sweatshirt & I hope that it is not.

I had a glass of wine & Yolanda asked if she might have one too.

“Not good for the baby,” I said.

“But the doctor said,” she replied. “She said I could have a little glass if I wanted.”

“She just said that out of the blue?” I asked. “Or you asked her?”

“No,” said Yolanda. “She just said it.”

“You’re too young, anyway,” I said, tho it felt absurd to say this to someone who would soon be a parent.

“Nineteen,” she said. “Almost twenty.”

So out in the kitchen I poured her a little bit of Chardonnay in a juice glass, & then I splashed it with water.

When I brought it out again we sat there without the TV on. & even though we were quiet it felt fine, it did not feel uncomfortable, the silence.

“You ever put a fire in that fireplace back there?” Yolanda asked. She got up to peek behind the television.

“Not for many years,” I said. Not since Marty, I thought. Marty was someone who liked a good fire.

“Can we put one in there?” Yolanda asked.

“I’d have to get a chimney sweep to come first,” I said. “Who knows what’s up there now.”

“But why not?”

“Because it’s dirty,” I said. “Because it could smoke us out.”

We sat there quietly for a while more. Until Yolanda asked, “What should we make them for dinner?”

“Who dinner?” I asked.

“Your neighbors,” said Yolanda. “What do you think they like?”

“They’re not really going to come for dinner,” I told her.

“Yes they are,” she said. “They are.”

I thought perhaps I hadn’t been as happy since Marty died, & I thought Perhaps this will be my life now: full of Yolanda & her child, & walks, & watered-down wine by an imaginary fire. I could be happy like this.

• • •

The other Kel walks around the corner into view. I have spent years and years forcefully bringing him to mind, recalling whatever memories I have of him, turning them over in my head. His father face. He does not know me. He is smaller than I had remembered. When I was four he seemed huge to me. My father. My daddy. He doesn’t smile and doesn’t know me. His eyes are blank. He is no cowboy. He’s wiping his hands on something when he walks around the corner of