The Stolen Child(69)

two little boys, alike as two pins."

I tried to change the subject. "My sisters are twins."

"How do you explain it?"

"It's been a long time since high school biology, but when an egg di-vides—"

She licked her fingers. "Not twins. The drowned boy and the lost boy."

"I had nothing to do with either one."

Tess swallowed a sip of wine and wiped her hands with a napkin. "You are an odd one, but that's

what I liked about you, even when we were chil-dren. Since the first day I saw you in kindergarten."

I sincerely wished I had been there that day.

"And when I was a girl, I wanted to hear your song, the one that's play-ing in your head right now."

She leaned across the blanket and kissed me.

I took her home at sunset, kissed her once at the door, and drove home in a mild euphoria. The

house echoed like the inside of an empty shell. The twins were not home and my mother sat alone in the

living room, watching the movie of the week on the television. Slippers crossed on the ottoman, her

housecoat buttoned to the collar, she saluted me with a drink in her right hand. I sat down on the couch

next to the easy chair and looked at her closely for the first time in years. We were getting older, no

doubt, but she had aged well. She was much stouter than when we first met, but lovely still.

"How was your date, Henry?" She kept her eyes on the tube.

"Great, Mom, fine."

"See her again?"

"Tess? I hope so."

A commercial broke the story, and she turned to smile at me between sips.

"Mom, do you ever ..."

"What's that, Henry?"

"I don't know. Do you ever get lonely? Like you might go out on a date yourself?"

She laughed and seemed years younger. "What man would want to go out with an old thing like

me?"

"You're not so old. And you look ten years younger than you are."

"Save your compliments for your nurse."

The program returned. "I thought—"

"Henry, I've given this thing an hour already. Let me see it to the end."

Tess changed my life, changed everything. After our impromptu picnic, we saw each other every

day of that wonderful summer. I remember sitting side by side on a park bench, lunches on our laps,

talking in the brilliant sunshine. She would turn to me, her face bathed in brightness, so that I would have

to shade my eyes to look at her, and she told me stories that fed my desire for more stories, so that I

might know her and not forget a single line. I loved each accidental touch, the heat of her, the way she

made me feel alive and fully human.

On the Fourth of July, Oscar closed the bar and invited nearly half the town to a picnic along the

riverbank. He had arranged the celebration in gratitude to all of the people who had helped in the search

and rescue of his nephew, for the policemen and firemen, doctors and nurses, all of Little Os-car's

schoolmates and teachers, the volunteers—such as myself, Jimmy, and George—the Loves and all their

assorted relatives, a priest or two in mufti, and the inevitable hangers-on. A great feast was ordered. Pig

in a pit. Chicken, hamburgers, hot dogs. Corn and watermelon trucked in from down south. Kegs of

beer, bottles of the hard stuff, tubs of ice and sodas for the youngsters, a cake specially made in the city

for the occasion—as big as a picnic table, iced in red, white, and blue with a gold thank you in glittering

script. The party began at four in the afternoon and lasted all night. When it became dark enough, a crew

of firemen shot off a fireworks display, fading sparklers and candles popping and fizzing when they hit

the river. Our town, like many places in America at the time, was divided by the war, but we put

Vietnam and the marches behind us in deference to the celebration.

In the languorous heat. Tess looked delicious that evening, a cool smile, and bright lights in her

eyes. I met all of her coworkers, the well-heeled doc-tors, a bevy of nurses, and far too many firemen

and policemen, baked tan and swaggering. After the fireworks, she noticed her old sweetheart in the

com-pany of a new girl and insisted that we say hello. I could not shake the sensation that I had known

him from my former life.

"Henry, you remember Brian Ungerland." We shook hands, and he in-troduced his new girlfriend

to us both. The women slipped away to compare notes.

"So, Ungerland, that's an unusual name."

"German." He sipped his beer, stared at the women, who were laughing in an overly personal way.

"Your family from Germany?"

"Off the boat long time ago. My family's been in town for a hundred years."

A stray string of firecrackers went off in a rat-a-tat of pops.