OCR Text |
Show 184 "Well," Oscar said, looking down on Marty, "You did the right thing to tell." He looked back up at David-who was a statue: frozen his hand gripping the banister rail. Sharon suddenly realized that David could not, literally, move. His face was terrible; as if he had suddnely lost a limb-a hand or a foot-and although he knew it, he could not believe it. She turned her face away, she could not look at him. But she could not leave, she could not move either-she was held to this scene, rivetted to this spot, as he was. "Well," Oscar said, his voice trembling, he was trying to keep it under control so Marty would not cry, "I'm sure this kind of thing won't happen again." He took a deep breath. "So you just don't worry about it." "But it hurts, Daddy." And then Sharon heard the sound of David's feet on the stairs behind her-thank god he did not stumble. "Well," Oscar said, "let's put some medicine on it." He stood, taking Marty by the hand. "Let's go get some vaseline." He was such a large man, such a tall man, he looked even bigger holding Marty's hand. He was suddenly, as large as this house, Yes, to her, he was suddenly this house, as he had never been before. As they left, Marty solemnly clinging to his hand, Sharon fled to the kitchen. Back to her pots and pans. As she cleaned the carrots from Marty's plate, she realized that she was weeping. Nervously weeping. Vaguely, she supposed it was as much for David as for Marty. She would not think about it. There. That was all there was to it. She could hear the girls out back with half an ear, playing |