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CHAPTER TEN

“It was a splendid morning. At least, that’s what I thought at
the time. The birds were singing, I was taking some muffins
out of the oven, and my family was waking to the smell of
my masterful breakfast. My little ones were the last to drag
themselves down to eat. I honestly don’t even remember
what their names might have been. I think the tall one with
the blue eyes wore glasses that didn’t fit quite right—her
vision must’ve been poor. She would have been easy to
sneak up on, I imagine. My husband was a nice man, thin
with rangy arms, but wide muscular calves. I believe he
might have been named after someone famous, someone
tall. After the table had been decorated with baked goods and
fried delights, my family and I began our meal. I can only
remember where everyone’s eyes were looking, and how
far their hands were from the butter knives and expensive
forks, and I could easily imagine how the little girl might
have tasted. I should probably feel awful for thinking that,
but it’s true.
“The little boy—I think it was a little boy—said something
about having a nightmare. It’s always the children who know
first. His hand was adorably tiny as he wrapped it around
his fork and clumsily delivered food into his messy little
mouth. I think I might have loved him, then. I might still,
but I’m not sure. I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore, does
it? My husband was talking to the little girl with the crooked
glasses. His hands seemed so weak-looking as they gestured

132 | Mark Anzalone