she let him walk on his own, but today he held her hand the entire way. He walked slightly behind her, as though afraid she’d fall down.
In the museum, she found him a children’s guide to the exhibition “From Bruegel to Rubens: Netherlandish and Flemish Drawings,” and gave him the first item to find within the intricate drawings, a dog with a curly tail. He stood far back so he could see them. Elm had come to study the exhibit, a sort of continuing education session, which she had left until the last minute, but instead she watched Ronan taking his task so seriously. She could read the triumph on his face when he found the dog, rushing back to tell her, almost running into a middle-aged Italian couple. “I got it!” he screamed, and when Elm put her finger to her lips he whispered it again.
“Now you have to find a horse,” she said, and he resumed his scrutiny. Elm stood in front of Cossiers’s portrait of his son Guiliellemus. The nose was too large for the small head, but Cossiers had exactly captured the child as his attention was drawn to something else, that moment between focus and excitement that she loved to watch in her own child. Moira kicked inside her and Elm rubbed the spot.
“Babies, babies, everywhere,” Ronan said next to her, reciting a children’s book. “There”—he pointed to the drawing—“and there”—pointing to her belly.
“That’s right,” she said.
“Girls,” he observed.
“Actually,” Elm said, “that’s a picture of a boy with long hair.”
One of his pant legs was tucked into his sock, and it was time for a haircut. Knowing it was likely the last time they’d spend real time together before the new baby was born, and knowing that everything would change, she held him to her and clung, perhaps a bit too tightly.
“Ow, Mom, she kicked me,” he said, pulling away.
“You two are fighting already?” She had felt it too, a little foot wedged between them.
“I just hope she likes trains,” he said, sighing.
“Me too,” Elm said.
She was staring at what would have been a window if she’d had a decent office; she answered the phone only half-paying attention. “Young lady,” the voice on the line said, “I am Indira Schmidt.”
The name triggered a memory of her afternoon sobbing in the woman’s living room.
“Young lady,” the woman said. “I would like you to come over.”
“Now?” Elm asked.
“Whenever it is convenient for you. I have something to show you.”
“It’s difficult right now,” Elm said. “Maybe Ian, the young man that was with me before, can come take a look?”
“It is for your eyes only,” Indira said. “Is that dramatic enough? I want your opinion. If I had wanted that young man’s, I would have called him.”
Elm sighed. “How about I come by after work tonight?” She considered. She would have to get across town and then up to Columbia. She was committing herself to at least an hour commute each way, though it wasn’t more than a couple of miles.
“That would be fine,” Indira said. “I’ll expect you then.”
As Elm waited for Indira to answer the door, she noticed a dead cockroach. She wondered why cockroaches always died feet up, and how they managed to do so. The welcome mat was frayed on the edges. She rang the bell again, heard it loudly on the other side. Was it possible that Indira wasn’t home? That she had forgotten? That she couldn’t hear the bell? Dead? Elm considered what to do if Indira didn’t answer the door. Ring the next-door neighbor’s bell, she decided, and ask them to call the super. Elm was imagining the conversation with the super when the door’s chain began to rattle.
Indira seemed more resigned to see her than happy. She drew back the door slowly and grimaced. Elm was immediately infused with anger. She had come all the way across town for this woman. The least Indira could do was acknowledge her effort.
Indira’s apartment looked even darker than it had before, if that were possible. The heavy curtains were still shut tight.
“I’m sorry,” Indira said, as she limped down the hallway. “Some days are not so good, and this is one of those days.” She collapsed into an armchair, out of breath.
Elm’s anger melted into pity and guilt. “Can I get you something?” she asked.
Indira waved her off, her hand crooked like a skeleton in the air. Elm sat down in the armchair opposite her. Between them stood a footed table, a dingy