LITMIR.BIZ

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so tight,” he says. “Relax.”

      “I’ll try.” She inhales and exhales quickly several times and then resumes her grip, this time lighter, on the tiller.

      “Good. Now just keep her level.”

      He lets go of the tiller. “See? You’re flying the plane now.”

      “Oh my god. That’s amazing.” She is giddy. She can’t believe how easy it is.

      “Want to try a turn?”

      She has to strain to hear him. She yells back, “Yes. What do I do?”

      “Turn the tiller slightly to the right and then straighten out.”

      She does, and the plane turns but begins to drop.

      “Pull up a bit—but not too much.”

      She does and the plane levels out again.

      “Very nice. Now just keep heading on this course. See over there? That’s our airfield.” When they get closer, he yells, “You better let me take over now.”

      He contacts the tower, tells them they are approaching, and receives permission to land.

      He reaches out his right hand and points. “We’re going to pass over our house. We’re right on the flight path. Look down.”

      She cranes her neck. Below is the house, like a diorama in a museum, a microcosm. She is a giant. He begins the landing, flaps down, reducing airspeed. The treetops rise up to meet them. Objects become larger again. They touch down with a slight shudder and a bounce as the air pressure resists the wings. He taxis to his parking spot and kills the engine.

      “Not bad,” he says, looking at his watch. “And it’s not even noon yet.”

      “Thank you so much. That was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever done,” she says.

      Her eyes sparkle. Descending from the cockpit, the rest of the world feels flat and ordinary. She wishes she could return to the clouds.

      On the drive back Claire, emboldened, now a risk taker, a conqueror, asks, “What happened to Johnny? I mean, his scar. Walter said he had an operation when he was younger.”

      “That’s right. He was born with a congenital heart defect. A hole in his heart.”

      “Oh my god. What did you do?”

      “There was a series of operations. We took him to the Children’s Hospital in Boston. The first time we were up there for months. He could have died.”

      “How old was he?”

      “The first was right after he was born. The last when he was four.”

      I remember sleepless nights in the hospital, the monotonous beeping of the monitors, concerned surgeons in blue scrubs, the small, deflated, unconscious form beneath a transparent shield. It was hell.

      “Is he all right now?”

      Harry rubs his forehead. “I don’t know. I think so. The doctors are optimistic he’ll be okay. It’s been a long time since we had a scare, thank God.”

      “He doesn’t seem sick. He seems like an ordinary healthy boy.”

      “It’s been hard. He tires easily. And Maddy watches him like a hawk. She’s always on the lookout that something might be wrong. We’ve had some false alarms, but we can’t be too careful. Even if he looks like an ordinary healthy boy, he’s not.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “No reason for you to be sorry. We give him love and confidence and try to make his life as normal as possible. He could live another six years or sixty. It’s impossible to know. It’s hard for him at school, though. He can’t play sports. Children can be cruel.”

      “It must be very hard on you. I mean on you both.”

      “At times it is, but he’s a great kid. He knows what we’re up to, and he tries to make us feel better. He’ll say things to Maddy like, ‘It’s okay, Mommy. I don’t feel sick. Don’t worry about me.’ But you just can’t help feeling so goddamn helpless sometimes, you know?”

      “I’m sorry. He’s a lovely boy. He’s such a wonderful combination of Maddy and you.”

      They pull up to the house. The boy comes running out. “Daddy, Daddy,” he shouts as the tires crunch to a halt on the gravel. I am sitting by the window, reading the newspaper.

      “Hey, sport.”

      “Daddy, there was a telephone call for you. From Rome. Mommy took the message.”

      “Thanks, pal. Tell Mommy I’m back, okay?” The boy trots back inside.

      To Claire, “Got to make a call. Glad you could come along.” He gets out of the car.

      “No. Thank you for taking me. When can we do it again?”

      “Maybe not for a while.”

      “What do you mean?”

      He looks at her, a bit puzzled. “I thought you knew. That’s what that call is about. Maddy, Johnny, and I are leaving for Rome in a week. I have a grant to write there. I’ll be working on my new book.”

      “No. No, I hadn’t heard.” She feels like she is going to be sick. “How long will you be gone?”

      “Almost a year. We’ll be back next June. For the summer.”

      “Oh, I see.” And then, “You must be very excited.”

      “We are. An old friend of mine found us a place to stay near the Pantheon.”

      “What about Johnny? Where will he go to school?”

      “There’s an American school. And we have the names of good doctors there.”

      “Oh good. I’m so happy for you all.” She tries to make it sound like she means it.

      “Thanks. It’ll be a lot of fun. I’ve always wanted to live in Rome. So has Maddy. As you can imagine, she’s very excited about the food. She’s already enrolled in both a cooking and an Italian class.”

      “I’m going to miss you.” She throws her arms around his neck and pulls him to her, his cheek next to hers.

      He pats her on the back and uncoils himself, smiling at her. “Hey, we’re going to miss you too.”

      “Thanks again,” she calls after him as he heads into the house. “I had a wonderful time.”

      “I’m glad you enjoyed it. You were very brave. Not everyone likes to fly in small planes.”

      “I loved it.”

      He smiles and walks inside the house. She does not notice me and I watch her standing there for a long time after he is gone. Finally, she turns and leaves. I am sorry to see how sad she looks.

      I FIND HER SEVERAL HOURS LATER. SHE IS SITTING AT THE end of my dock, staring out over the pond, her feet dangling in the water. A family of swans swims by. A pair of Beetle Cats, the small, gaff-rigged sailboats popular with residents who live on the pond, tacks in the distance. It is very peaceful.

      “Where have you been?” I ask. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you. We’re going to play tennis.”

      Yes, I have a tennis court too. It’s an old-fashioned clay court. I know a lot of people prefer acrylic these days, but I actually still enjoy rolling the court. The preparation as important as the play.

      She looks up. Surprised at first and then disappointed, as though she were hoping for someone else. I am in my ratty old tennis whites.

      “I’m sorry, Walter. I needed to be alone for a while.”

      “Everything all right?”

      “Did

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