The telephone rang.
‘Sara, I’m not going to be able to make it today. Something’s come up.’
‘What do you mean you’re not going to be able to make it? Sunday’s your day – you know that. We agreed.’
‘Well, I can’t make it today.’ Already, annoyance had sharpened his tone.
Sara clenched one hand into a fist, wishing she had him in front of her. ‘And why not? One day a week isn’t so much. The kids have been counting on seeing you.’
‘I haven’t missed a week yet and you know it. Be reasonable, Sara. I just can’t make it.’
‘Why? Why can’t you make it? What’s so important on a Sunday? You’ve got a date? Fine, bring her along. I don’t care. Just come and take the kids like you’re supposed to.’
‘Look, put the kids on and I’ll explain it to them.’
‘Explain it to me, damn it!’
A silence. Then he said, ‘I’m in Dallas.’
Sara was too angry to speak.
‘Tell the kids I’m sorry and I’ll try to make it up to them next week.’
‘Sorry! You knew – why’d you wait until now to call?’
‘I don’t have to explain myself to you. I’ll be by to pick up the kids next Sunday, nine a.m.’ He hung up.
Sara held on to the phone, still facing the wall. There were tears of frustration in her eyes, and her back and shoulders ached as if she’d been beaten. When she had regained some control she went to look for her children.
They were outside on the driveway, eager to catch the first glimpse of their father’s car.
‘Sweethearts,’ Sara said. Her throat hurt. ‘Your father just called. He’s . . . he’s not going to be able to come today after all.’
They stared at her. Melanie began to whine.
‘Why?’ Michael asked. ‘Why?’
‘He’s in Dallas. He couldn’t get back in time. He said you’d all do something extra-special next weekend to make up for missing this one.’
‘Oh,’ said Michael. He was silent for a moment, and Sara wondered if he would cry. But then the moment passed and he said, ‘Can we go sailing, then?’
Sara sighed. ‘Not today. But why don’t you two put on your bathing suits and we’ll go for a swim?’
To Sara’s relief they accepted the change of plans without fuss. For the next hour Michael showed off his skills in the water while Sara gave Melanie another swimming lesson. Afterward, she got them started playing a board game and went off to her room to be by herself.
She felt exhausted, the euphoria of the early morning faded into the distant past. She sat on the bed and paged through her sketchbook, wondering why she had been so excited and just what she had intended to make of these rather mediocre sketches of a woman’s face and details of tree branches. With a part of her mind she was still arguing with her ex-husband, this time scoring points with withering remarks which left him speechless.
Finally she stood up and took out her paints and the fresh canvas. As she set up the work in the bedroom, she could hear the children running in and out of the house, laughing, talking, and occasionally slamming the screen door. They seemed occupied and might not bother her until they grew hungry for lunch. After that, with luck, she might still have the afternoon to paint while Melanie napped and Michael played quietly by himself. She’d had such days before.
But it didn’t matter: Sara didn’t know what to paint. She was afraid to make a start, so sure was she that she would ruin another canvas. Her earlier certainty was gone. She stared at the blank white surface and tried without success to visualize something there.
Then, from the other room, Melanie screamed.
It wasn’t a play scream, and it didn’t end. Melanie was screaming in terror.
Sara went cold with dread and ran into the family room. She saw Melanie cowering against a wall while Michael shouted and leaped around. At first Sara could not make out what was happening. Then she heard the mad fluttering of wings and saw a pale blur in the air: a bird had somehow blundered inside and was now flying madly around the room.
Poor thing, thought Sara. It can’t find the way out again.
Her relief that the crisis was nothing more dangerous than a confused bird turned her fear into irritation with the children. Why were they being so stupid, carrying on so and making matters worse?
‘Calm down,’ she shouted. ‘Just shut up and keep out of the way. You’re scaring it.’
She gave Michael a firm push and then opened the door, keeping it open by lodging the iron, dachshund-shaped foot-scraper against it.
‘Melanie, be quiet! You’re making things worse,’ Sara said in a loud whisper.
Melanie’s screams trailed away into noisy sobs. She was still cowering in a corner, head down and hands protecting it.
The bird flew three more times around the room, finally breaking out of that maddened, fluttering pattern to soar smoothly and surely out of the open door. Sara gazed after it, smiling. Then she turned to her children.
‘Oh, Melanie, what is the matter? It was only a bird and it’s gone now.’ Annoyed but obligated, Sara crossed the room to crouch beside her younger child. ‘Now, what’s all this about?’
Gently she raised Melanie’s face away from her hands and the tangle of her hair, and saw that she was covered with blood.
‘My God! Oh, sweetheart.’ Sara hurried the little girl down the passage to the bathroom. So much blood . . . was her eye hurt? She’d never forgive herself if . . .
A wet flannel, carefully used, revealed no great damage. There were two small cuts, one just above Melanie’s left eye and the other on her left cheek. Melanie snuffled and breathed jerkily. She was obviously content to have her mother fuss over her.
Michael peeked around the doorframe as Sara was applying Band-Aids to Melanie’s face. ‘That bird tried to kill Melanie,’ he said in a tone of gleeful horror. ‘He tried to peck her eyes out!’
‘Michael, really.’ Sara sighed in exasperation. Melanie would be nervous enough about birds without his stories. ‘It was an accident,’ she said firmly. ‘Birds aren’t mean or dangerous – they don’t try to hurt people. But that bird was frightened – it was in a strange place. Unfortunately, Melanie got in the way while it was trying to get out. If you’d both been more sensible, instead of jumping around like that – ’
‘It flew right at her,’ Michael said. ‘I saw it. It tried to get me next, but I wouldn’t let it – I kept waving my hands around over my head so it couldn’t get at my face like it wanted.’ He sounded very self-important and pleased with himself, which annoyed Sara still more.
‘It was an accident. The bird felt trapped and didn’t know how to respond. It’s not something you have to worry about because it’s not likely ever to happen again. Now I don’t want to hear any more about it.’ She hugged Melanie and lifted her down from the sink ledge. ‘Feel better?’
‘Hungry,’ said Melanie.
‘Glad you mentioned it. Let’s go and eat lunch.’
On Monday morning Sara took her children to play with Mary Alice’s children. It was a beautiful day but already stiflingly hot. Sara felt lethargic and faintly sad. After Michael and Melanie had joined the other children in the safely fenced-in yard, she lingered to drink iced tea and talk with Mary Alice.
‘I hope you got a lot of work done yesterday,’ Mary Alice said, settling onto a brightly cushioned wicker couch.
Sara shook her head. ‘Bruce copped out. He called at the last minute and said he couldn’t come – he was in Dallas.’
Mary Alice’s eyes went wide. ‘That . . . creep,’ she said at last.
Sara gave a short laugh. ‘I’ve called him worse than that. But I should know by now that he’s not to be counted on. The kids are starting to learn that about him, too. The worst thing about it is what I lost – or what I felt I lost. I woke up feeling great – I was ready to conquer the world, at least to paint it. I felt so alive. I felt – I don’t know if I can explain how I felt. I think of it as my “creative” feeling, and I haven’t had such a strong one since Michael was born – or maybe even since I married Bruce. It’s a mood in which everything has meaning, everything is alive, everything is possible.’