Page 26 - WTP XII #3

The Last Child (continued from page 12)
thought, she’d go for the jugular. In his mind, he could already hear Catherine’s scorn, her disdain as she called him a hypocritical prig.
“Stop jiggling your leg, honey,” Catherine said, her hand on his thigh.
“Sorry.” He hadn’t noticed.
Penny, or Gretel, had had a mean streak, he remem- bered now, a nastiness that had erupted when he’d walked naked to the john in his hotel room. “You’re pigeon-toed,” she’d cried. “You’re as bow-legged as Jesus.” And she’d laughed as he flushed with the old childhood shame he’d felt when kids called him Duck Feet.
Almost every night for the next three months, his dreams of her had been as wild and sexual as a French film. Anxiety-ridden during the day, he wor- ried she would track him down or that he would
call out her name in his sleep. Then, for no apparent reason, the dreams stopped. By the time Luca was born, he’d forgotten all about her and the strawberry birthmark he’d almost so carelessly touched.
“Can I join you?” Katie asked, popping up out of no- where. “Other than my parents, you’re the only people I know.”
“Of course,” Catherine said, moving over and patting the floor beside her.
Katie sat and stuck out her hand to Hank. “We haven’t really met,” she said. Hank noticed how relaxed she’d become. “Luca and I are both applying to Columbia,” she said. “Maybe we’ll both get in. I’d like that.”
Nervous, Luca rolled his eyes, afraid, Hank knew, that he wouldn’t get in anywhere he wanted to go.
“You look like your mother,” Luca said, changing the subject. “You’ve got the same green eyes and curly hair.”
Katie shrugged. “I’m just me, whoever that is.” She smiled at Luca. “Really, I’m more like my father.”
“How so?” Catherine asked.
Katie blushed and looked down. “I don’t know,” she said, twirling her silver heart around her index finger. “We’re quieter. Less social. My mom says Dad and
I are deep sea divers while she’s a downhill skier.” Katie glanced at Luca. “She definitely prefers skiers.”
By now, the rain was pouring down, slamming the sliding glass doors and battering the trees. Thunder boomed in the distance. In that instant, Hank remem- bered the small, run-down hotel he and Catherine had stayed at in Kerry before they had kids, where
it had rained so much that after the first two days they’d said screw it and holed up in their room. They couldn’t get enough of each other, stopping only to race to the nearest pub for shepherd’s pie and a pint before they were back in bed.
Caterers collected plates and brought out the cake, and Beth toasted Gene who, in turn, toasted everyone else, raising his glass, “May we all live another forty years.”
“Please no,” someone shouted, and Gene amended it to thirty. Katie and Luca exchanged phone numbers and excused themselves, she to find her father and Luca to leave.
“He’s growing up,” Hank said. “And I’m not sure how I feel about it.”
“It’s the way she walks,” Catherine said. “It reminds me of Izzy.”
“Pigeon-toed,” Hank said without thinking, and froze. It ran in his family: his grandfather and father, him- self and, now, Izzy, their youngest daughter. Hank didn’t dare look at Catherine. “It’s as common as ...”
“I know,” Catherine interrupted. “You’ve told me.” “Especially in kids,” he finished to himself.
Across the room, behind a tall wingback chair, Gretel stood alone like a cornered animal, her lips pressed together as if she were biting back words, her face ashen. Oblivious, Catherine fiddled on her iPhone. A shadow passed across Gretel’s’s face and, briefly, she shut her eyes.
Over by the fireplace, Katie was talking to her father. Catherine was wrong to compare her to Izzy, Hank thought. The two girls were nothing alike. Izzy was
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