For hours, Will will not put it down. He always knew the care Mel took raising him, but now he will also sense a sort of narcissism difficult to separate, at times, from true involvement: an almost militant desire that things go well, or at least have a rationale, after the fact.
All those years Jody was photographing, Mel was writing.
But what does Mel want? To explain that everything was more difficult than it seemed? To impress with his sensitivity? To have his writing published? Because Jody’s notoriety would certainly mean that such a manuscript would be of great interest.
No. Mel never misled him. If Mel wanted the manuscript published, he would either have said so or have done it himself.
The next day, should he say that he read Mel’s writing? Should he awaken Amanda? Or crawl into bed and nestle against her? Or just sit there with his eyes closed, listening to the breeze blowing through the trees?
With his eyes closed, he remembers a moment earlier in the evening — sees it as if he could at once be part of the scene and also absent himself from it to take a photograph. He smiles at this strange desire. Is the desire to photograph genetically encoded — or at least entirely predictable when parents have young children? Will has his imaginary photograph but knows that others would see him differently.
They would see a young man standing on a wide green lawn. His eyes are quite brilliant when he first looks up. Only when he fixes a more even gaze on you do they gradually become less intense: what most people call kind eyes.
Mel has given the baby a bright red ball. The child holds it, unsure. He looks at his father.
Across the distance, Will smiles and speaks. He nods, holding out his hand.
The child’s knees bend as he does a skittish little dance. Then, holding his arms stiffly, fists behind his hips, he jumps high and lands slightly crouched, looking something the way penguins did before they became extinct.
“Throw the ball,” Will says, smiling in an attempt to persuade the child. “Come on. You have to let go of it sometime. Come on, baby, throw me the ball.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ANN BEATTIE lives in Charlottesville,
Virginia, with her husband, the painter
Lincoln Perry.