Page 18 - WTP XII #3

The Last Child (continued from preceding page) “Charlie,” Gretel said in a warning tone.
“We worked at it,” Charlie went on, ignoring his wife and looking at his daughter with such obvious love that Hank wondered if he’d ever looked at his own kids that way. He hoped so. “Katie was our blessing.”
“Enough,” Gretel said.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, honey. After five years of trying, we got what we wanted.”
Katie rolled her eyes. “I’m going down to the beach,” she said.
“If you don’t mind company,” Catherine said, “I’ll join you.”
“She’ll be glad for the company,” Gretel said. “She’s been cooped up with her parents for a week. She misses her friends.”
“Don’t worry,” Hank told Katie. “Kids like her. We’ve got three.”
“Hank!” Catherine said, squeezing his arm. She smiled at Katie and said, “Let’s go.”
“Gretel’s an unusual name,” Beth said. “Used to be Penny,” Charlie told her.
“I didn’t like my name as a kid. Penny was easier. After we had Katie, I switched back to Gretel.”
Something about Gretel seemed familiar to Hank— her voice or, possibly, her accent which he couldn’t place. Still, since he’d never known anyone named Gretel, he was probably wrong. “What do you do?” he asked.
“I’m a social worker. Or was. Before we moved.”
“In California?”
“Sacramento.”
“Maybe you’ve run into each other somewhere,” Gene said. “Hank’s a psychologist.”
“Couples, mainly,” Hank said.
“Well, couples therapy sure helped us when we were trying to get pregnant,” Charlie said.
“Yeah,” Gene said. “It ought to be mandatory.”
Hank could almost see Gretel’s ears perk up. “What
about you?” she asked. “A couples therapist? Has it helped your own marriage?”
Resentful of her assumption that he and Catherine had ever had marital problems, Hank took an in- stant dislike to her, but for Gene’s sake, forced a smile. Hank had no intention of getting personal with strangers. “Sure,” he said. “It helps people be truth- ful.”
Gretel stiffened and looked down at the lawn. By now, Hank saw, Luca had arrived and somehow found Catherine and Katie. The three of them were wander- ing around the yard and laughing.
“Who’s the boy?” Gretel asked. “My son,” Hank said.
As he studied Gretel, who looked tired and uncom- fortable, and tried to place her, he ran through his usual list of possibilities: One of the kids’ old teach- ers? No. She was from Chicago and, besides, Cath- erine would have recognized her. Someone he knew from college? Or was Gene right, they’d crossed paths at a conference? Or, God forbid, not an old client. That had happened to him twice and his embarrassment at not recognizing them had been excruciating.
Dull grey clouds were moving in, and the sky had darkened. The air smelled of rain.
“Inside, everyone,” Gene called. “It’s going to pour.”
“I’ll be in in a minute,” Gretel said. “I’ll wait for Katie.”
Hank didn’t move. Once they were alone on the deck, he said, “I know you from somewhere. I’m certain of it. I have trouble with faces so I don’t know where.”
Gretel shook her head. “Impossible. I never forget a face, and yours is not familiar.”
“It’s your voice.”
Gretel paled. “People think they know me. It happens all the time. I must have an ordinary face.”
Suddenly, Hank’s memory snapped into focus. The air seemed to vibrate, and he felt as if he were floating
a foot above the wooden planks. “You know me,” he said. “I know it.”
“No.” Her face flushed. “I told you. I’ve never seen you before. Please leave me alone.”
Without thinking, he raised his hand to touch the
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