for you,” and the little boy put part of it
into his mouth. “Silly thing,” Christo-
pher said to him, and pulled it gently.
“You wear it to keep warm.” And the
child clapped his hands. Olive thought
he was really a fairly amazing child.
Ann appeared in the doorway, flanked
by the older kids, who were now in their
pajamas. She said, “Um, Olive?” She
pursed her lips a moment and then said,
“Do you have anything for the other
children?”
Olive felt a darkness rising swiftly
through her. It took her a moment to
trust herself, then she said, “I don’t know
what you mean, Ann. Are you talking
about Christmas presents? I sent the
children Christmas presents.”
“Yeah?” Ann said slowly. “But that
was, you know, Christmas?”
Olive said, “Well, I never heard a
word from you, so perhaps they didn’t
get them.”
“No, we got them,” Ann said. Then
she said to Theodore, “Remember that
truck?”
The child shrugged one shoulder and
turned away. And yet they stood there,
that beastly mother and her two chil-
dren from two different men, stood right
there in the doorway, as though Olive
were supposed to produce—what was
she supposed to produce? She really had
to bite her tongue not to say, “I guess
you didn’t like that truck.” Or not to say
to the little girl, “And what about that
doll? I suppose you didn’t like that, ei-
ther?” Olive had to force herself not to
say, “In my day, we thanked people who
sent us gifts.” Olive really had to work
not to say this, but she did not say this,
and after a few minutes Ann said to the
kids, “Come on, let’s get you to bed. Give
Daddy a kiss.” And they walked to Chris-
topher and kissed him, then walked right
by Olive, and that was that. Horrible,
horrible children, and a horrible mother.
But Little Henry suddenly wiggled out
of his father’s lap and dragged his new
scarf across the floor to Olive. “Hi,” he
said. He smiled at her! “Hello,” she said.
“Hello, Little Henry.” “Hi, hi,” he said.
He held the scarf toward Olive. “Gank
you,” he said. Well, he was a Kitteridge.
He was surely a Kitteridge, all right. “Oh,
your grandfather would have been so
proud,” she said to him, and he smiled
and smiled, his teeth wet with saliva.
Christopher was looking around the
room. “Mom, this place looks awfully
different,” he said.
“You haven’t been here in a while,”
Olive said. “Things change, and your
memory is different, too.”O
live was happy.
Her son was talking to her alone.
Little Henry had been put to bed up-
stairs, and his mother and his baby sis-
ter were up there as well. The light from
the lamp in the corner spilled over her
son. This was all she wanted: just this.
Chris’s eyes seemed clear; his face seemed
clear. The gray in his hair still surprised
her, but she thought he looked good. He
spoke a great deal about his podiatry
practice, the young woman who worked
for him, the insurance he had to pay, the
insurance that his patients had. Olive
didn’t care what he talked about. He
talked about their tenant, no longer the
guy with the parrot that would screech
“Praise God” anytime someone swore
but a young man with a girlfriend now;
they were probably going to get married
soon. On and on he talked, her son. Olive
was tired, but she stifled a yawn. She
would stay here forever to hear this. Hecould recite the alphabet to her and she
would sit here and listen to it.
When he finally went to bed—“O.K.,
night, Mom,” raising a hand—she sat
for a while in the living room, with just
the one lamp on, the water seen through
the window all black, just the tiny speck
of the red light out at Halfway Rock;
the front deck with its wooden chairs
that she had brought out only recently
seemed also to sit quietly and patiently
in the dark. It was the first night in
months that she had not spoken to Jack
and she missed that, but he seemed far
away to her right now. And then there
was a sudden shriek—“Mama!”—from
the study. Olive’s heart started to beat
fast, and she got up as quickly as she
could and went to the door of the study,
where Annabelle stood. Annabelle
looked at her, then stepped back and
again screamed “Mama!”
“Now stop that,” Olive said. “Your
mother is exhausted. Let her sleep.”
And the little girl pushed the door
shut. Olive waited for a moment, then
she went upstairs to bed. But she heard
the child on the stairs later, and heard her
go into her parents’ room, and Ann’s tired“We don’t mean to ignore you, but, on the other hand,
there’s no joy in an ice-cold enchilada.”