Davy climbs on Connie’s lap and she holds him tight.
“See that boy on TV?” she whispers to Davy. “You can do that. You can be that boy.”
Davy has his thumb in his mouth, sucking quietly.
“Watch the boy,” she says.
Vincent sits on the arm of the easy chair, holding a grease-stained bag.
“For you,” he says, offering it to Connie.
“What is it?”
He smiles crookedly and takes a white Chinese-food container from the bag.
“Pork fried rice,” he says. “From Ming Garden.”
“But when—”
“I went and got it before dinner. I figured all that fish might upset your stomach.”
He is holding the container out to her, but Connie doesn’t take it. On the television, Amahl’s mother is agreeing to let him go with the three kings.
Mama G puts on the too-bright overhead light.
“Come on in, Cammie,” she calls into the kitchen.
Cammie bursts in, dressed in a sea of sparkles. Her cheeks are rouged, her lashes thick with mascara, her lips reddened and shiny with lipstick. Even her tights sparkle as she tap dances to the center of the room. In her hands she holds a shiny red baton with white rubber tips. She holds it as if it weighs nothing at all, throwing it in the air easily and catching it without even looking.
“On the good ship Lollipop,” Cammie sings in a squeaky loud voice, “it’s a sweet trip to the candy shop . . .”
Her feet tap across the floor, the baton flies into the air, and is caught again and again.
Cammie points the baton right at Davy: “. . . and there you are, happy landings on a chocolate bar.”
Chet Allen is singing. He is with the kings. He is following that star.
“Look,” Connie whispers to her son. “Watch that boy.”
Around her, her family is applauding. They are on their feet, surrounding Cammie, clapping and clapping until Connie thinks she cannot take it, not one more minute of it.
“Watch him, Davy,” she says, her voice cracking as she presses her beautiful son close to her, holding on to him as tightly as she can. “Watch him.”
Husbands
SHE SAW THEM EVERYWHERE. ON OVERHILL DRIVE, Maplewood Street, Linden Way. Mowing lawns, walking dogs, pulling cars in and out of garages. She saw them in backyards and driveways, on sidewalks and cul-de-sacs. Early in the morning they tucked newspapers under their arms; placed cigarettes between their lips; adjusted hats, ties, glasses, watches, wedding rings. Jangled car keys, whistled, waved good-bye. In the morning, they drove away. The ones who worked in factories, hospitals, fire stations, police stations came back by four. But most returned at five o’clock, six o’clock, sometimes even seven. Car doors slammed, children ran outside to get swooped into arms. Martinis were stirred and tables set. The blue glow of television news filled the neighborhood. The husbands were home. Husbands were everywhere. But none of them belonged to Francie Partridge.
She’d had one once, long enough ago now to make him seem like a dream. He had been tall and broad-shouldered, with a cowlick, and a scar under his chin from getting hit with a hockey stick. When she got the news that he’d been killed in France, in a place called Normandy, she’d thought about him all the time. She could feel the pressure of his lips on hers, remember his minty scent. All she could do at first, really, was think of him, as if she might be able to memorize every detail. But she hadn’t been able to. He faded, grew small and faraway like a picture in a library book. Now, ten years later, weeks passed without her thinking of him at all.
Francie was meandering dreamily through the A&P produce section and a man strode past her. He walked purposefully, like he had somewhere to go. Francie saw him, saw his wide back and the sandy hair in need of a trim, his long legs and a certain way he held his head and she remembered her dead husband. The memory made her woozy, made her grip the edge of the display of Golden Delicious apples. She thought she might faint, right there in the A&P. Francie closed her eyes, ready for anything except the pair of strong arms that caught her. Yellow apples tumbled to the floor.
A man said, “Whoa there,” and Francie looked into the bright blue eyes of the person who had caused all this in the first place. Up close, he looked nothing like her husband. Her heart slowed. Her stomach settled. She took a few deep breaths. The man smelled like just baked pie. His name tag said: ART CUMMINGS, BAKERY MANAGER.
Francie smiled up at him.
“You okay?” he asked, not letting her go.
She was aware of a crowd around them. She saw the frowning face of Margaret Lefleur. Margaret lived on Maplewood, right where it intersected Francie’s own street, Mayflower Lane.
“A dizzy spell,” Francie said lightly. “It’s passed now.”