The Stolen Child(94)

my compo-sition, but it was as if I had found the key and lost the keyhole. I was as helpless as Edward

in his preverbal life, learning to communicate my desires all over again.

Being around our tiny speechless boy reminded me of that lost life and made me cherish the

memories Edward created every passing day. He crawled, stood, grew teeth, grew hair, fell in love with

us. He walked, he talked, he grew up in a moment behind our backs. We were, for a time, the perfect

happy family.

My sisters marred that ideal picture. Mary, who had a baby girl, and Elizabeth, who was expecting

her first, were the initial ones to point out the curiosity. The extended family had gathered at my mother's

house for dinner. Edward was about eighteen months old, for I remember watching him care-fully as he

waddled up and down the porch steps over and over again. Charlie and the twins' husbands watched the

last few minutes of the game before din-ner, and my mother and Tess guarded the hot skillets, so I was

alone with the girls for the first time in ages, when one or the other led off with her unsolic-ited opinion.

"You know, he looks nothing like you."

"And hardly a thing like her."

I looked at Edward as he pulled up leaves of grass and tossed them into the still air.

"Look at his chin," Liz observed. "Neither one of you has that cleft."

"And his eyes aren't either of your two colors," said Mary. "Green as a cat's. He didn't get those

eyelashes from our side of the family. You have such adorable long eyelashes, yes, you do. Too bad he's

not a girl."

"Well, they're not Wodehouse eyelashes either. Take a good look at Tess."

"All mascara."

"And the nose. No so much now, but later, you'll see. That's a beak on him, poor little man. Hope

my child doesn't get that nose."

"No Day ever had a nose like that."

"What are you two saying?" My voice was so loud, I startled my son.

"Nothing."

"Kinda odd, don't you think, that he doesn't look like his parents?"

At sunset my mother, Charlie, and I sat on the porch watching the moths dance, and the matter of

Edward's appearance arose again.

"Don't listen to those two," my mother said. "He's the spit and image of you, with maybe a little

Tess around the eyes."

Uncle Charlie sucked on a pop bottle, burped softly. "The boy looks exactly like me. All my

grandchildren do." Eddie tottered across the floor-boards and threw himself at Charlie's legs, and finding

his balance, he roared like a tiger.

As he grew older, Edward looked more like an Ungerland than a Day, but I did my best to hide the

truth. Maybe I should have explained all to Tess, and perhaps that would have been the end of my

torment. But she bore the snide remarks about her son with grace. Days after his second birthday, we

had Os-car Love and Jimmy Cummings over for dinner. After the meal, we fooled around with an

arrangement that I had written hoping to interest a chamber-music quartet in the city. Of course, we

were one player short, with George long gone in California. But playing with them again after a few years

was easy and comfortable. Tess excused herself to go to the kitchen to check on a lemon meringue pie.

When Edward noticed she was gone, he wailed from his playpen, banging his fists against the slats.

"Don't you think he's getting a bit too big for that?" Oscar asked.

"He can be a bit of trouble after dinner. Besides, he likes it there. Makes him feel safe."

Oscar shook his head and fished Edward from behind the bars, bounced him on his knees, and let

him finger the keys of the clarinet. Seeing my single friends react to my son, I couldn't help but feel that

they were weighing their freedom against the allure of family. They loved the boy but were slightly

frightened of him and all he represented.

"Drawn to the stick," Oscar said. "That's one cool kid. You'll want to stay away from the piano.

Too heavy to carry around."

"Sure he's yours?" Cummings asked. "He looks nothing like you, or Tess, for that matter."

Oscar joined the fun. "Now that you mention it... look at that split chin and those big eyes."

"C'mon guys, cut it out."

"Chill out," Oscar whispered. "Here comes the old lady."

Tess delivered the dessert, oblivious to the turns of our conversation. I should have brought up my

festering doubt, made a joke of it, said something in front of her, but I didn't.

"So, Tess," Jimmy said, balancing his pie plate on his knee, "who do you think Eddie takes after?"

"You have a speck of meringue at the corner of your mouth." She picked up our son and held him

in her lap, stroked his hair, and pressed his head against her breast. "How's my little man?"