by K. C. Maher
We return to the dining room and eat our pie with scoops of vanilla ice cream.
‘Man, oh man, doesn’t Margo make the best pumpkin pie?’
Fourteen
Before running home to change into jeans for skating, Amanda glances back and winks. She stretches out her arms, and turning, pulls them in close, like a figure skater.
And here she is already, eager to go. Circling the kitchen, she’s wearing a poppy-colored sweater beneath the white ski jacket. I lower my eyes to conceal my pleasure at her every gesture. You would think I had never glimpsed her burnished beauty before.
‘Are you wearing good socks?’ I ask. ‘They need to be very snug.’
She lifts her jeans to show me new socks that match her sweater. ‘Have you heard from Olivia today? Because I just sent you a video she sent me.’ As the words leave her mouth, Amanda realizes that, of course, I haven’t seen the video, and dashes upstairs for my laptop.
But I’m faster and catch her on the landing. Sending her back to the kitchen, I say, ‘New rule, remember?’ And, ‘Give me two minutes.’
In my bedroom, I pull on a thick black cashmere sweater and glance at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I gargle and spit out a bit of mouthwash, grab the laptop and bound back to the kitchen.
Amanda fixes me with her amber-gold eyes at full smolder, a heightened torment aimed at me for imposing rules. If protecting her, nurturing her, weren’t more important than anything else, my willpower would crumple like an empty husk.
I open the laptop and show her the rink at Rockefeller Center. ‘What do you think? It’ll be crowded. If you want, we can find a quieter skating rink.’
‘But I’ve seen this one in movies. Please, Walter? We’ve got to go there.’
All right by me. First, however, she wants to show me the video of Olivia. I open my email. We watch Karl skateboard back and forth as he instructs my daughter to roll down a concrete slope. Olivia’s skateboard drops from an embankment onto the sidewalk and she lands on it nicely.
‘She promised—no stunts.’
‘That’s why she sent it to me and said, make sure he notices the helmet.’
I smile and send Olivia a text: Brava, sweetheart!
Driving south on the Saw Mill Parkway, we listen to Real Miranda songs. The best one features Iris and the sound of chimes.
‘Walter, will you watch the start of the new season with me on Christmas night?’
‘What if Cheryl’s here?’
‘Shit. We’ll have to wait till she leaves.’
I resist asking if she’s dispensed with: ‘Man, oh man.’
‘Olivia calls me almost every week now to make sure you’re not lonely.’
‘Why doesn’t she call me?’
‘She likes being independent.’ Amanda leans over to nudge my shoulder. ‘Not like Cheryl’s kind of independent. More like Karl’s her best friend and they both love Granny, who tells Olivia that it’s your job to worry about her. And that, of course, you’re not worried, because you know O’s happy living in Maine.’
Impulsively, I take Amanda’s hand and tell her that I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.
She says, ‘No shit?’ (Guess ‘shit’ is the new word.) ‘I thought so and hoped so, but, you know—grown-ups.’
‘I want you to promise you’ll be honest with me, Amanda. If you’re ever . . . uncomfortable or just want time away from me, promise you’ll say so.’
‘All right. But that’s not gonna happen.’
‘But if it does?’
‘Yeah, of course. I tell you everything.’
I find a parking garage and we walk a few icy, windy blocks. At Rockefeller Center, the buildings block most of the wind. The tree is up, but not decorated with lights yet. The evening glows cold but soft and clear. I find the door to the seasonal ice-skating shop. Inside, I pay the cashier for the session and rent skates for us. They’re bright blue and stiff, with dull blades.
We find a bench and I say, ‘Let me do the laces.’ Amanda pushes her blue jeans up, pulls on a skate, and lifts her leg, but I shake my head. It’s better if she stands on the floor. Crouching before her, I pull the strings taut and tie them tight at the instep, then double wrap them around her ankle before crisscrossing them through the clasps to the top. I tell her to make sure the skate’s supportive but not so tight it’s uncomfortable. Then, I lace the other one.
My skates feel weird, but I’ve never worn figure skates, only hockey.
A crowd surrounds the small rink, watching the skaters. Amanda steps onto the ice, falls, and scoots on her butt away from the entrance. I struggle for balance, managing to stay upright. Other skaters, more interested in taking selfies than skating, have moved to the supporting walls. I glide to where Amanda’s hanging onto a railing with both hands.
‘Let me warm up with a few laps. Then I’ll be able to teach you.’
Halfway around the rink, I find my rhythm and speed up. After two fast laps, I come to a surface-scraping stop next to her. She pushes forward, grabs the ledge, pushes ahead, and almost falls. ‘I thought I’d be better at this.’
‘Shift your weight to one foot and push off with the other.’
Hands free, she wobbles a little and stumbles into someone’s photo-in-progress before falling onto her flank.
Helping her up, I offer to skate backward while she holds my hands.
‘You can do that?’
I nod and take her gloved fingers. Her hat bobs forward.
We skate slowly. I turn my head, watching where we’re going before unconsciously moving beside her and wrapping one arm around her waist.
She leans into me as I gently cup her elbow, my fingertips steadying her. Amanda and I skate together by concentrating entirely on the other’s motion. The focus required is intense and, after a while, I suggest a short rest. She declines, saying she loves this.
She presses into me and we glide along without incident. I love holding her close, protecting her from other skaters, lifting her slightly whenever her glide lapses. I swivel in front of her, skating backward again so that I can touch her cheek, which is cold on the surface but hot deeper down with effort and enthusiasm. She stops long enough to say how much fun this is.
For two hours, we skate side by side, my body supporting hers among a whirl of other bodies. No one minds our purposeful contact. No one stares.
*
The morning after Thanksgiving, I phone my dentist at nine. His office manager confirms that he’s working until 3:00, and that several people, who thought they’d have dental work done on their day off, have called to cancel.
I explain that I’ll be paying for Amanda out of pocket, and will settle with the insurance company later. The office manager makes an appointment for 10:30. My dentist is in the city, on Park Avenue. Traffic seems oddly heavy, but I rarely drive into the city, except at night. Nevertheless, we arrive ten minutes early.
On an upholstered couch, Amanda fills out the new-patient form. When she rises and returns it to the manager, she smiles and asks, ‘If you have time, can you look up Walter Mitchell’s record? He hasn’t seen the dentist in years.’
(I must have mentioned this while persuading her to see my dentist, although the logic of doing so escapes me now.)
The office manager checks her files. ‘Walter, your last visit was seven years ago.’ She excuses herself for a moment, and then returns to tell me that I’m in luck. The dentist will treat Amanda and me simultaneously.
She escorts Amanda to one room and me to another, around a corner. After several minutes, the dentist enters and, before examining me, reports that Amanda has two large cavities in her back upper molars. He’s given her a tiny cluster of Novocain injections on one side and wants to allow time for the numbing to reach its peak before drilling. Later, he’ll repeat the process on the other side.
As for me, it’s a different story. My X-rays reveal a deep cavity beneath a heavily patched bottom molar. Extensive drilling but no tiny cluster s
hots for me. Rather, two huge needles. The dentist asks if I want to watch TV during the procedure, but I brought headphones—Chick Corea will do. He leaves to fill Amanda’s cavity and administer the next round of Novocain.
When he begins his work on me, my face is rubber and my tongue is huge. Nevertheless, the drill sears my nerves. I hope Amanda is not enduring similar pain. When he is finally done, the dentist asks me to remove the headphones, and tells me Amanda has saved me from a root canal. ‘Don’t wait so long between visits.’
My permanent crown will be ready next month. And, he tells me, I should set up an appointment for Amanda with his colleague. Minimal orthodontia can correct her bite, reducing future cavities. ‘No longer than six months for braces. Then a retainer at night.’
Returning to the waiting area, I pay for our treatments and arrange for Amanda to see the orthodontist when I return for my crown. Reading Amanda’s new patient form upside down, I see that she turned thirteen on November 3—without saying a word.
Here she comes, looking slightly addled. In the elevator, we’re both hot and uncomfortable.
‘You know what?’ My swollen tongue makes me sound cartoonish. ‘Let’s go ice skating in Central Park till we’re back to normal.’
The day is bright and chilly, and the sidewalks full of shoppers. I had forgotten about the pre-Christmas hysteria of ‘Black Friday’ sales, but Central Park is peaceful. We skate at Wollman Rink with four others, two of whom leave early. Amanda’s balance is better than before, yet she clings to me tighter. Afterward, no longer numb or in pain, just exhilarated, we eat lunch at Dean & DeLuca. I ask why she didn’t tell me about her birthday.
She shrugs. ‘I thought you knew.’
‘Amanda.’
‘You’d just given me the bicycle. If you knew how many birthdays I’ve asked Cheryl for a new blue bicycle with a white basket, you’d understand—you already gave me the birthday present I never thought I’d get.’
‘No white basket, though.’
‘Three speeds and a helmet. And, I stopped wanting a basket when I turned ten.’
‘If I had known, we would have celebrated.’
She leans over and kisses my cheek. ‘It was the best birthday I ever had.’
*
Saturday, she wants to go ice skating again. I tell her yes, but we must go to different rinks. I have a list.
Sitting on a stool, swinging her legs, she asks why.
‘If anyone really looks at you, Amanda, he or she will never forget you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Partly, I mean people who see us together, if they’re paying attention, will see I care for you in more than a fatherly way.’
‘You mean that?’ A rush of energy shoots her into my arms. Her legs wrap around my waist, her hands grip my shoulders, and her breath moves through my ear canal, stirring debilitating lust. Caught off-guard, I press my lips against her head. I circle around, out of my mind, one hand in her bright, tawny hair, the other beneath her butt. We spin into the TV room and we fall back onto the couch. I slowly lift her off my lap and fall forward. Faint with sensation, I press my face into my knees.
She strokes my head. ‘Am I too heavy for you?’
I laugh and sit up. ‘No, honey. But my feelings are more intense than yours.’
‘No, they’re not!’
‘The way men feel, Amanda, isn’t always nice.’
She scoffs. ‘You’re not like that. You’re always nice.’
I shake my head. ‘Don’t jump on me like that again. I mean it.’ An odd delay to my panic—it’s still breaking from the thrill of the moment—heightens everything. I’m trembling and don’t dare to look at her. ‘Excuse me.’ I hurry from the room.
She calls after me. ‘I’m sorry. Walter? Sorry.’
*
Although it’s been gradually happening every evening since the autumnal equinox, darkness falls noticeably earlier each December evening. It’s dark by five o’clock. Concerned about Amanda riding the dimly lit mile from Madison’s house (where she’s making me a Christmas present), I offer to meet her with the car, one block away.
‘Why? We’ll seem so guilty.’
Home safe every evening at seven, she parks her bicycle in the garage and lets herself in through the kitchen door. She does her homework for an hour while I finish making dinner. Usually, she’s happy to let me see her work. Once or twice, she wants to revise something after dinner. Either way, we are soon nestled together on the couch, watching TV. More and more, I’m afraid, I’m the one hoping (not aloud, though) that we’ll watch just one more show. Aware of this, I pay strict attention to the time. To get enough sleep, Amanda must leave here at ten.
One evening, before turning on the TV, I mention that she has a first-rate mind. She reaches for my face while crossing and uncrossing her eyes. ‘You will continue to believe that until I snap my fingers three times.’
‘Is that so?’
‘You’re actually easy to hypnotize. Like people who claim they’re not ticklish.’
‘It’s true. I’m compelled to do whatever you want.’
‘Then why do you push me away?’
‘Because we can’t change age. Or time.’
*
On weekends, we ice-skate. I have found every ice rink within reasonable driving distance: Elmsford, Yonkers, North White Plains, Rye. In mid-December, Amanda convinces me to return to the Rockefeller Center rink, and afterwards, we visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I show her my favorite Renaissance paintings, and the collections inspire her. She says, ‘Everything connects to everything,’ which I tell her is a line from Leonardo’s Notebooks.
After our trip to the Met, however, I decide against returning. Because I observed that there are two types of men, my age or older, who take girls in early adolescence to museums. The first are divorced fathers, and their sorry attempts to connect with their daughters remind me that Olivia now relates to me, for the most part, through Amanda.
The second are slick, artistic types who think they’re still young. The men are generally close to my age and sport tousled hair or watch caps with skimpy dark sports jackets. Also, bright, new basketball shoes—all the better to hop about their Alice in Wonderland girls grown large—girls who could be nineteen or just as likely twelve. Either way, these girls are innocence exaggerated: hair-bows and matching satin sashes tied around flowery, smocked dresses. Some walk as if in line for Communion: hands folded, faces lowered as they stare at their feet in white anklets and black patent leather shoes.
Not surprisingly, I’ve never noticed these couples before. Perhaps they’re a figment of my guilty conscience. Except I see others stare at them, too. The men speak in low, unintelligible rasps. The girls blush, suppressing giggles. So, even though I’ve never seen them before, I’m certain that they (or variations of them) have traipsed through museums for centuries, parading a pretend interest in art.
*
Amanda’s winter vacation starts on Friday. Her mother is expected Saturday morning, Christmas Eve. I am determined to speak with Cheryl immediately. I remind Amanda of this, and tell her that even if her mother listens to me, which is unlikely, our routine won’t change. We’ll continue eating together every night at my house. I’ll check her homework and we’ll watch TV until bedtime.
What I don’t tell her is my secret hope that Cheryl visits Amanda for an occasional Saturday and part of Sunday, so that I can restore my resolve. All my life, I’ve been practical, hard-working, and proper—it’s who I am. Or, rather, was. Now, I just want to be with Amanda. I want the impossible.
Fifteen
I don’t know how much Amanda knows—or what she thinks she knows or what she pretends to know. Add to this my intimations, fears, and brave assumptions.
We agree that when we’re together we share the same feelings. We think the same thoughts. Amanda knows that I adore her but regards my need to reproach her mother as a threat or possibly a betrayal. ‘Please,’ she
begs, ‘just forget about her.’
But she knows I’m not forgetting anything.
She doesn’t seem seriously worried yet, but I suspect she’s hoping to persuade me not to confront her mother. Staring into my eyes, she crosses and uncrosses hers. ‘You’re getting sleepy, Walter. So sleepy. Now close your eyes.’
She presses her forehead against mine, which always gets to me. Her hands grasp my knees, and with my eyes closed, I’m acutely aware of how close her face is to mine. I feel her breath and the warmth of her skin. Even my mildest longings disgust and thrill me.
She makes her voice a croak. ‘Keep your eyes closed until I say you can open them. Do not—you must not!—run outside when my mother drives up on Christmas Eve morning. Do not get in her car. Do not open your mouth.’
One Saturday afternoon, she stands on the step stool as if addressing a crowd. ‘Hear ye! Hear ye! Pro talking to Cheryl? Anyone?’ She jumps down to participate in the imaginary audience. ‘Boo!’ Stomps her feet. ‘No way!’ and hisses. Back on the stool, she says, ‘Thumbs down all around, Walter.’
She appears to grow taller and more commanding. ‘Now then! All those against talking to Cheryl!’ She falls from the stool as if blown down by the crowd’s violent, unanimous agreement. ‘Hear that, Walter? They’re going wild!’
I smile, and by the end, we’re both laughing.
*
School ended at noon today, and the two-week winter vacation began. It’s Friday. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. We skated at Van Buren Park until dark. Now we’re tired and content. For dinner, red lentil soup and endive salad, which Amanda eats with her fingers, having read that it’s like asparagus. For dessert, hot cider mixed with tea and gingerbread cookies from Madison’s kitchen.
I build a fire in the living room. Amanda’s looking at Leonardo’s sketches for pumping water. Firelight glows behind her. Her high cheekbones are a wonder. She stands and, backlit by the flickering light, tips into a ‘roundhouse’ cartwheel, meaning she lands on both feet. This makes the wheel so narrow she can do it indoors. No one else makes me feel so free.
