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Show house// 450 I poked him again, frowning in mock-seriousness. "Jest not, my dear. These are your in-laws. Your new family." "Yeh." He ruminated for a moment. "Your f a t h e r ' s knife is pretty big - I was surprised to see him carrying something like that. Almost like a Bowie knife.<* Does he hunt?" "Oh, he always has i t to peel and s l i c e fruit or to take out a s l i v e r or to clean fish. But he doesn't hunt anymore. He'd never hurt a l i v i n g t h i n g . . . " I bit my l i p, immediately recognizing the implication. Brian's face had grown long and haunted, his eyes dilated again. Our remorse grew like gravity as we elimbed the long north h i l l in silence. Friday passed with the smooth, rounded architecture of a dream. We lay upon the bed, planning our future as though it was as certain as sunlight. Faith. We chose a name for a child: Eric, if i t was a boy. Rebecca if i t was a g i r l. All day the phone did not ring, but we did not speak of i t, having agreed to ignore the scattered pieces of the l i fe before us. I will say no more of that day, for i t is there to preserve - as i t did preserve - to be opened on darker, lonlier days in the vast, s p i r a l l i n g tunnel of hours before us. Saturday I awakened to the sound of Brian's voice. He was talking low and tense on the telphone. I went into the kitchen in my nightgown, my feet bare on the t i l e d floor. I touched the short hair at the nape of his bent neck, but he didn't raise his head. I kissed his cheek, but he stared straight at the floor. At l a s t he hung up and sank his face into his hands. I waited » inn*- moment. The c h i l l of the floor joined at my feet |