It lasted no more than a minute, and I felt proud and decent and holy as I slipped the ring on Hortense’s finger, our child still in her arms. Then I kissed her. Then I kissed Teddy. Then she kissed Hortense, said “Goodbye, good luck, God bless” — and suddenly was gone.
“I want to go home,” Hortense said.
“You mean, to College Park?”
“It’s where my home is usually found.”
“Fine, I love it. But where we put him I don’t know. That is, if we’re taking him. There’s no place out there he can—”
“Of course we’re taking him! And where we put him is in his crib. It comes apart, and the porter will take it down to your car.”
“I’ll take it down to my car.”
“Then, will you hold him while I unhook it?” She held him to me, blowing into his neck and whispering “Little Theodore.” Then I was holding this tiny, this incredibly tiny thing, in my arms. It opened its eyes and smiled. “Oh!” she yelped. “He’s looking at you!”
“Well, why not? Am I repulsive or something?”
“But until now, his eyes haven’t focused!”
“They got something to focus on!”
“You crazy goof!”
I guess that covers it. I’m taped up.