Man, woman, and child(3)

Forget it?

An impulse he could not control made him pick up the phone. Even as he dialed he wasn't sure what he would say.



"Hello~if s me, Bob."

"Ah, good. I knew that you would reconsider."

"Listen, Louis, I need time to think. Fll call you back tomorrow."

"Good, good. He is a lovely boy. But do ring a bit earlier, eh?"

"Good night, Louis/'

They hung up. Now Bob was terrified. He had placed his whole existence in jeopardy. What made him call again?

Affection for Nicole? No. All he felt for her now was enormous rage.

A little boy he'd never met?

He walked like a zombie to the parking lot. He was panicked and confused. He had to talk to someone. But in the entire world he had only one close friend, one person who really understood him.

His wife, Sheila.



Jjy now Route 2 was fairly empty and he reached Lexington too quickly. He had really needed more time. To gain control of himself. Organize his thoughts. What am I going to say? How the hell am I even going to face her?

"How come you're home so late, Bob?''

Paula, his nine-year-old, was in constant training to take over as his wife.

''Departmental meeting," Bob replied, deliberately ignoring her unlicensed use of his first name.

In the kitchen Jessica Beckwith, twelve and a half going on twenty-five, was discoursing with her mother. Subject: fruits, creeps, wonks and nerds.

"Really, Mom, there's not one decent male in the whole upper school."

"What's all this?" asked Bob as he entered and kissed the two older women in his family. He was determined to act naturally.

"Jessie's lamenting the quality of the opposite sex at school—or actually the lack of it."

"Then maybe you should transfer, Jess," he said, teasing her.

"Oh, Father, you are hopelessly obtuse. All of



Massachusetts is the boonies. It's a province in search of a city."

Sheila cast an indulgent smile at Bob. "Well, Ms. Beckwith, what is your solution?" asked Bob.

Jessie blushed. Bob had interrupted her very subtle sales pitch.

''Mom knows/' said Jessica. ^'Europe, Bob," said Sheila. "Your daughter wants to take a Garber teen-age tour this summer." "But she's not actually a teen-ager yet," retorted Bob.

"Oh, Daddy, how punctilious you are," sighed Jessica. "Fm old enough to go."

"But you're also young enough to wait a year." "Daddy, I refuse to spend another summer with my bourgeois family on tedious Cape Cod." "Then get a job."

"I would, but I'm not old enough." "Q.E.D., Ms. Beckwith," Bob replied with satisfaction.

"Kindly spare me all your academic double-talk, will you? Wliat if there's a nuclear war? I could die without seeing the Louvre."

"Jessica," said Bob, enjoying this interlude from his anxieties, "I have it on good authority that there won't be a nuclear war for at least three years. Ergo, you have plenty of time to see the Louvre before we get zapped."

"Daddy, don't be ghoulish." "Jessie, it was you who brought the subject up," said Sheila, a seasoned referee for father-daughter sparring matches.

"Oh, you people are hopeless," sighed Jessica Beckwith once again, and slouched disdainfully from the kitchen.



They were alone. Why does she have to look so beautiful tonight? thought Bob.

"I wish they'd outlaw puberty," said Sheila, going to her husband for the daily evening hug she had looked forward to since breakfast. She put her arms around him. *'How come you're late? More memorable orations from the Colleague?"

*Teah. He was in rare stupefying form."

After so many years of talking to each other, they'd evolved a kind of code. For example, Bob's department had three men, two women and a ''colleague"—P. Herbert Harrison, a pompous ass with lengthy and dissenting views on everything. The Beckwiths' friends had also been given nicknames.

''The Owl and the Pussycat invited us for dinner Saturday with Carole Kupersmith."

''Alone? What happened to the Ape of Chestnut Hilir

"He went back to his wife.**

They had a marriage very much in sync. And she had flawless antennae when it came to sensing his emotions.

"Are you okay?"

"Uh—sure," said Bob. "What makes you ask?"

"You look a little pale."

"Just academic pallor. Two days on the Cape and I'll be absolutely golden."

"Still, promise me you won't do any work tonight."

"Okay," said Bob. (As if he would be able to concentrate on anything.) "Have you got any pages from the Press?"

"Nothing urgent. I'm still wading through that Russo-Chinese diplomatic thing. I tell you, for a university professor, Reinhardt's prose has more starch than a laundry."