A few weeks later, Sam and Richard’s mother died. Alice wrote to Sam, saying that she was sorry. Alice had never liked their mother, but she was fascinated by the woman. She never got over her spending a hundred and twenty-five dollars on paper lanterns for the engagement party. After all these years, she was still thinking about it. “What do you think became of the lanterns after the party?” she wrote in her letter of condolence. It was an odd letter, and it didn’t seem that Alice was very happy. Sam even forgave her for the rabbit. He wrote her a long letter, saying that they should all get together. He knew a motel out in the country where they could stay, perhaps for a whole weekend. She wrote back, saying that it sounded like a good idea. The only thing that upset her about it was that his secretary had typed his letter. In her letter to Sam, she pointed out several times that he could have written in longhand. Sam noticed that both Alice and Richard seemed to be raving. Maybe they would get back together.
Now they were all staying at the same motel, in different rooms. Alice and her daughter and the baby were in one room, and Richard and Sam had rooms down the hall. The little girl spent the nights with different people. When Sam bought two pounds of fudge, she said she was going to spend the night with him. The next night, Alice’s son had colic, and when Sam looked out his window he saw Richard holding the baby, walking around and around the swimming pool. Alice was asleep. Sam knew this because the little girl left her mother’s room when she fell asleep and came looking for him.
“Do you want to take me to the carnival?” she asked.
She was wearing a nightgown with blue bears upside down on it, headed for a crash at the hem.
“The carnival’s closed,” Sam said. “It’s late, you know.”
“Isn’t anything open?”
“Maybe the doughnut shop. That’s open all night. I suppose you want to go there?”
“I love doughnuts,” she said.
She rode to the doughnut shop on Sam’s shoulders, wrapped in his raincoat. He kept thinking, Ten years ago I would never have believed this. But he believed it now; there was a definite weight on his shoulders, and there were two legs hanging down his chest.
The next afternoon, they sat on the rock again, wrapped in towels after a swim. In the distance, two hippies and an Irish setter, all in bandannas, rowed toward shore from an island.
“I wish I had a dog,” the little girl said.
“It just makes you sad when you have to go away from them,” her father said.
“I wouldn’t leave it.”
“You’re just a kid. You get dragged all over,” her father said. “Did you ever think you’d be here today?”
“It’s strange,” Alice said.
“It was a good idea,” Sam said. “I’m always right.”
“You’re not always right,” the little girl said.
“When have I ever been wrong?”
“You tell stories,” she said.
“Your uncle is
“Tell me another one,” she said to him.
“I can’t think of one right now.”
“Tell the one about the snakes’ shoes.”
“Your uncle was kidding about the snakes, you know,” Alice said.
“I know,” she said. Then she said to Sam, “Are you going to tell another one?”
“I’m not telling stories to people who don’t believe them,” Sam said.
“Come on,” she said.
Sam looked at her. She had bony knees, and her hair was brownish-blond. It didn’t lighten in the sunshine like her mother’s. She was not going to be as pretty as her mother. He rested his hand on the top of her head.
The clouds were rolling quickly across the sky, and when they moved a certain way it was possible for them to see the moon, full and faint in the sky. The crows were still in the treetops. A fish jumped near the rock, and someone said, “Look,” and everyone did—late, but in time to see the circles widening where it had landed.
“What did you marry Hans for?” Richard asked.
“I don’t know why I married either of you,” Alice said.
“Where did you tell him you were going while he was away?” Richard asked.
“To see my sister.”
“How is your sister?” he asked.
She laughed. “Fine, I guess.”
“What’s funny?” Richard asked.
“Our conversation,” she said.
Sam was helping his niece off the rock. “We’ll take a walk,” he said to her. “I have a long story for you, but it will bore the rest of them.”
The little girl’s knees stuck out. Sam felt sorry for her. He lifted her on his shoulders and cupped his hands over her knees so he wouldn’t have to look at them.
“What’s the story?” she said.
“One time,” Sam said, “I wrote a book about your mother.”
“What was it about?” the little girl asked.
“It was about a little girl who met all sorts of interesting animals—a rabbit who kept showing her his pocket watch, who was very upset because he was late—”
“I know that book,” she said. “You didn’t write that.”
“I did write it. But at the time I was very shy, and I didn’t want to admit that I’d written it, so I signed another name to it.”
“You’re not shy,” the little girl said.
Sam continued walking, ducking whenever a branch hung low.
“Do you think there are more snakes?” she asked.
