Winona poured herself some orange juice in one of the blue glasses. She put the carton back in the refrigerator and closed the door. She sat down at the table and drank the orange juice. She liked the way the juice looked in the blue glass. The glass was made with little ridges and puckers in it, so it looked the way the waves did at the beach on a windy day. The juice sloshed around in the glass as she drank, making little orange waves.
The dog came into the kitchen. Winona was sitting with her back to the hall door, but she could hear the dog’s tags jingling as it walked. The dog walked around the table and looked at her. It barked twice.
“Hush up,” she told it. She finished her juice and went to the sink. The dog lay down under the table and whined. She hushed it again and rinsed the glass.
Vincent came in while she was putting the glass away. He stretched his arms over his head and squinted at her. “Hey,” he said.
“Morning, Vincent,” she said. The dog got up and ran over to Vincent. It barked at him and wagged its tail. Vincent leaned down and rubbed the dog’s head.
“He’s hungry,” Vincent said. “I gotta feed him.”
“I’ll make breakfast,” Winona said. “Eggs okay?”
“Fine by me,” Vincent said. He got the dog food out from under the sink and poured it into the dog’s bowl. The dog ran to its bowl and began to eat. Food crunched between its teeth as it chewed.
Winona made the eggs. Vincent sat at the table and read the newspaper. He made little noises in his throat or through his nose as he read.
“You’re making noises,” she told him.
“So?”
“You always do that when you read, make noises. Why do you suppose you do that?” She scraped the eggs onto two plates and put one down in front of him, with a fork. She took the other plate and sat down across the table.
“I don’t know. I just do it.” He turned a page and started eating.
“Did you used to do it before? Like when you were little?”
“I guess. I guess so.” The newspaper rustled. “Get me some juice?”
Winona put her fork down and got up. “It’s funny, how people have those little habits. You know?” She poured him a glass of orange juice and sat down again. “Hey, do I have any?”
“Any what?”
“Habits. Do I have them?”
Vincent put the paper down and picked up the glass. “I don’t know.” He drained the glass in two gulps and put it down. He picked up the paper again.
“Well, think about it for a minute. You must have noticed something. There’s gotta be something.”
The dog scratched at the back door. It looked at Vincent and whined. Vincent folded the paper in half and got up. “I have to walk him.”
“It can wait. You’re not done eating yet.”
“I’m done.” He grabbed his denim jacket from where it was hanging on the rack next to the back door. He got the leash and clipped it on to the dog’s collar. He opened the back door and went into the yard with the dog.
Winona kept eating. She watched the window over the sink. She saw Vincent’s head go past as he walked toward the front yard with the dog. She could only see his head, and it bobbed up and down as he walked. It looked so funny that she laughed with her mouth full of egg. Her laughter sounded too loud in the empty kitchen.
She finished her eggs and took her plate and Vincent’s to the sink. She scraped the eggs from Vincent’s plate into the trash. She washed the plates in the sink and put them away.
She went to the bathroom and got her brush and started brushing her hair in front of the mirror. She had gotten it cut two weeks ago, shorter, so that it just fell past her shoulders where before it had hung down to the small of her back. She wasn’t sure if she liked the new haircut, but she was used to it by now. She heard the dog’s tags jingling and went back to the kitchen, still holding the brush. Vincent was taking off his jacket when she came in.
“Did he go?” Winona asked.
“Yeah,” he said. The dog shook itself. Vincent unclipped the leash, and the dog went and lay down under the table.
Vincent got a beer from the refrigerator. They went into the living room and sat down on the couch. Vincent turned on the TV and started watching the game. It was the middle of the second quarter. Winona put her hair up in a ponytail with a brown hair elastic. Her hair made a quiet swishing sound as she wrapped it around her hand and pulled it through the elastic. Vincent glanced at her.
“Oh,” he said, “I forgot. You twirl your hair.”
“What?”
“I remembered while I was out walking,” he said. “You twirl your hair. You wrap some of it around your fingers and twirl it. It’s a habit.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “Do I?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“That’s funny,” she said. “I never noticed that. Why do you suppose I do it?”
Vincent shrugged.
“Well, there’s got to be a reason. Just like you make those noises when you read. I mean, you only do it when you read.” Winona pulled her legs up onto the couch and sat on them. “When did you last see me twirl my hair?”
“I don’t know.” He took a sip of his beer. “You were doing it when we went out with Jack and Luci. When we went to dinner at that Mexican place.”
“Yeah, I remember. That was last Friday. I wonder why I was doing it then.” Winona thought back. “Maybe it was because I was bored.”
“You had a good time, you said.”
“I guess, but not really. I didn’t like Luci very much. I thought she was fake.”
“She was nice. What do you mean, fake?”
“You know. Insincere. She smiled too much. And she was a little stupid, too, I think. Remember she told us how she’d changed her name when she was fifteen because she thought it looked better spelled with an ‘i’? What a dumb thing to do.” Winona giggled.
“She was nice. She’s a nice person, Luci.” Vincent took another sip of beer.
Winona made a face. “I suppose so.” She took the beer can from Vincent and drank. She handed it back. “Anyway. So I was bored. Is that why I twirl my hair, because I’m bored?”
“Must be,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said.
The dog came into the living room. Winona heard it jingle as it walked around the couch and lay down on Vincent’s feet. He kicked at it a little bit, and it got up and moved over and put its head down on its front feet. The score was 21 to 13.
The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Winona said. She swung her legs off the couch and got up and went into the kitchen and picked up the phone. “Hello?” she asked.
It was Vincent’s friend Jim. She told him to wait and put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Vincent!” she yelled. Vincent came into the kitchen and she handed him the phone.
“Yeah?” he said into the phone.
Winona went back into the living room. It was halftime. She walked past the couch and the television and into the hall. She opened the front door and stood on the step. The sun was bright, but there was a chill in the air. In the front yard of the house across the street, two small blond-headed figures chased each other in a circle. She could hear them shrieking with laughter or fury.
A gust of wind swept around and through her, and Winona hugged herself, rubbing her arms. Across the street, the front door opened and a woman stepped out. In each hand she held a brightly colored coat, a splash of neon against the white-painted backdrop of the house. The children chased each other back across the yard to the woman, screeching wordlessly like tiny blond harpies. Winona turned and went back inside and closed the door. Vincent was sitting on the couch again, watching the third quarter. The score was 24 to 20.
“What did Jim want?” she asked him.
“Wanted to know if we’d watch his kid tonight. It’s his and Ellen’s anniversary, and he’s taking her to a fancy restaurant and then dancing, but they can’t get a sitter.”
“Well, what did you tell him?”
“I said I’d ask you.”
“I think we should. I like Ellen, and I’ve never met her kid before. A boy, isn’t it? How old is he?”
“Seven.”
“Well, he shouldn’t be too much trouble, at seven!” Winona sat down and put her hand on his arm. “Let’s do it, Vincent. I like Ellen; she’s a friend. Besides, we didn’t have plans for tonight, did we?”
“No, I guess not.” Vincent tilted his head back and drained his beer can. “I’d better call Jim back, then.” He started to get up.
“I’ll do it. I want to talk to Ellen, anyway. I haven’t seen her in ages.” Winona jumped up and went into the kitchen to call.
“Hello?” Jim picked up.
“Hi, Jim, it’s Winona. I was just calling to say not to worry, we’ll take your kid for tonight.”
“Hey, great. Thanks. Here, Ellen wants to talk to you.” Winona heard mumbles in the background on the other line.
“Winona!” Ellen shouted. Ellen was always shouting. “Thank you, darling! I didn’t know what I was going to do if I couldn’t find someone to take him tonight. You’re a lifesaver, a real godsend!”
“It’s no problem, Ellen. Vincent and I weren’t doing anything tonight anyway,” Winona said. “So, what time will you bring him over?”
“Oh, seven, I think. No, seven-thirty. The reservation is for eight, so we’ll drop him off at seven-thirty. I’ve got to go now, darling, but thanks again!” Ellen hung up.
As Winona hung up the phone, she noticed that her free hand was entwined in her ponytail, twisting the long hair around and around her index and middle fingers. She pulled her fingers free and went into the living room.
Vincent was leaning back against the couch, watching a commercial for detergent. The dog was lying curled on the couch where she had been sitting. They both looked up as she came in. “What’d they say?” Vincent asked.
“They’re going to drop the kid off at seven-thirty.” Winona perched on the arm of the couch. “Hey, Vincent, guess what? I really do twirl my hair, like you said. I was doing it when I was talking to Ellen.” She paused. “But that means that it’s not because I’m bored. I wasn’t bored with talking to Ellen; there’s got to be a different reason.”
Vincent shrugged.
“Oh, come on, Vincent. Help me figure this out. I might learn something about myself that I didn’t know before.”
He laughed. “You sound like a shrink.” He checked his watch. “It’s almost twelve. What’s for lunch?”
“We’ve got soup,” she said.
“What kind?”
“Cream of tomato. Or we could walk over to the diner if you want. It’s not that cold out.”
“Soup’s fine,” he said, and she got up and went into the kitchen.
· · ·
When the boy arrived, Vincent was sprawled on the couch, watching a cop show, and the house resonated with the sounds of gunshots and sirens. The dog lay at his feet. The doorbell rang, and Winona motioned to Vincent to lower the volume as she ran to answer it.
Ellen burst through the door like a tornado, declaring, “We really can’t come inside, Winona, we’ll be late.” Jim entered in her wake, the boy behind him, eclipsed by his father’s legs. Winona closed the door and smiled at the boy. He was carrying a thick, heavy-looking book, which he clutched to his skinny chest with both arms.
“His name is Benjamin, but we call him Benji,” Ellen said, indicating her son. The boy looked up at Winona blankly as his mother continued. “He’s had dinner at home, so you don’t need to worry about that, but he might want a snack.”
“We’ve got cookies,” Winona said, speaking directly to Benji.
Ellen handed her a backpack. “His pajamas and toothbrush are in here. He needs to be in bed by nine. Jim, we really have to go. Thanks again, Winona, you’re a dear!” Ellen grabbed Jim’s arm. Jim patted his son’s head, nodded at Winona, and allowed his wife to lead him back outside to their car.
As the door closed, Winona turned to the boy. “Hi, there, Benji. I’m Winona. I’m a real good friend of your mom’s.”
“I know.” He spoke so softly that she barely caught his words. She smiled encouragingly.
“And that’s my husband Vincent.” She pointed. Vincent turned his head and lifted a hand to wave before turning the volume of the television back up.
“So, would you like to see the rest of the house?” The boy nodded. Winona reached down to take his hand, and he let her lead him through the house.
In the hallway, when she pointed out the bathroom, he stopped and looked up at her. “I have to go,” he announced. “Will you wait out here?”
“Sure,” she said. He went in and closed the door. Then he opened the door again.
“Will you hold my book, please?” he asked. “I tried to put it on the sink, but there’s not enough room.”
Winona accepted the book he held out to her; he closed the door again. She heard him lift the toilet’s lid. She glanced at the book’s cover. The Golden Book Encyclopedia for Children, it read. There was a blue bookmark with a black string tassel sticking out of the encyclopedia.
When he came out, she handed him the book, and asked, “Does your mom read that to you?”
“No. I read it. I’m up to the L’s. Want to see?” She nodded, and he opened the book at the marked place, cradling it in both arms. She leaned over him and saw a photograph of a lion standing on a plain of yellow grass.
“Will you read me what it says?” Winona asked him.
The boy looked up at her, puzzled. “Why? Don’t you know how to read?”
Winona laughed. “Sure, I know how to read! I just wanted to hear you read it, I guess. Don’t you ever read out loud for your mom and dad?”
He shook his head. “I don’t like to read aloud. I just like reading by myself.” He closed the book gently, tucked it tightly under one armpit, then reached up and took her hand and said, “You can finish showing me around now.”
Winona finished showing him the house; she showed him her and Vincent’s bedroom, and the little bedroom where he would be sleeping, across the hall from theirs. She put the backpack that Ellen had given her on the bed. Then she brought him to the kitchen, and he sat at the table and watched her move around while she fixed him a plate of three store-bought sugar cookies with sprinkles on top and milk in one of the blue glasses.
The boy drank deeply, holding the heavy glass with both hands. She sat with him at the table, and now it was she who watched him, watched him nibble delicately around the edges of each cookie before taking a bite big enough to chew.
“Why do you do that?” he asked her.
“Do what?”
“That.” He pointed.
At first she twisted in her chair, thinking he was pointing at something behind her, but as she turned her head she felt a pain in her scalp. Her hand was all tangled in her ponytail, fingers twisted round and round one strand after another. She pulled it out and shrugged. “It’s a habit, I guess.”
“But why?” he insisted.
“I don’t know,” she told him. “It’s just something I do.”
“Oh.” He chewed a mouthful of cookie.
“I don’t even know I’m doing it, when I do it. I don’t think about it. It just sort of happens. I can’t figure out why,” she explained.
“I bite my nails,” he said.
“What?”
“My fingernails. See?” He held out his right hand. She looked at it and saw that the nails had been chewed way down to the fingers. “My mom tried putting tape on them to make me stop, but I bit the tape off.”
“And you don’t know why?” she asked.
“No. I can’t stop, either. I keep doing it. I made my fingers bleed once, because I had bitten the nails all the way down and so I kept chewing on my fingers instead.” He smiled proudly.
Winona laughed and looked at her own nails, inexpertly painted a deep red.
Vincent came into the kitchen, the dog at his heels. Without looking at Winona or the boy, he went to the fridge and got himself another beer.
The boy saw the dog. He slipped down from his chair and knelt on the floor. “Come here,” he said, “here, boy.” The dog looked at the boy, and followed Vincent out.
“That’s my husband’s dog,” Winona said. “Follows him everywhere.”
The boy slid down from his seat and went out of the kitchen. Winona put his plate and glass in the sink and rinsed them. She wiped her wet hands off on her jeans and went into the living room.
The boy was squatting on the floor behind the couch, stroking the dog’s back. Vincent was watching a game show with brightly flashing lights and lots of numbers.
“What’s his name?” the boy asked Vincent.
“He doesn’t have one,” Vincent said.
The boy looked up. “He has to have a name.”
“Well, he hasn’t got one.”
Winona knew the dog had no name, but she had never minded it. It was Vincent’s dog, anyway, and it followed him around without needing to be called, so she supposed a name wasn’t necessary.
“If I had a dog, I’d name it,” the boy said.
“What would you name it?” Winona asked.
The boy patted the dog’s head. “I don’t know. Scout, maybe.”
Vincent grunted and snapped his fingers. The dog got up, shook off the boy’s petting hand, then trotted around the couch and sat down. It sat there looking up at Vincent, who took a sip of beer.
Winona checked the clock on the wall. “Look at that, it’s ten to nine. Bedtime.”
She took the boy by the hand again and led him to the room where he would sleep. She helped him into his pajamas and waited outside the bathroom while he brushed his teeth. Back in the room, he put the backpack with his clothes in it on the ground and laid the book gently on top of it.
“Do you want me to leave the light on?” she asked him. “Or I could leave the door open and the hall light on.”
“No, thank you.” He climbed into the bed. He looked even smaller lying there, with his body a thin column under the covers and just his head sticking out.
“Do you want me to sit with you until you fall asleep? Or sing to you? Does your mom do any of that stuff?”
He shook his head, making the pillowcase rustle. “No.”
“Well, you just call out if you need something. Good night, then.”
“Good night.”
Winona closed the door and started back toward the living room, but she stopped and went into the bathroom instead. She looked at herself in the mirror over the sink. She pulled her hair out of its ponytail and shook her head so that the hair fell down past her neck and brushed her shoulder blades. She smiled at her reflection, but frowned when she saw the way her eyes squinted as she smiled and made little lines at their corners. She wasn’t old, she told herself; she just smiled a lot. She would have to remember not to smile as much, or perhaps as widely.
In the mirror, she saw her reflection’s hand creep up and twist a lock of hair around its index finger. Her hair was straight and dry. She could feel the separate hairs against her skin as if each one were as large as her finger itself. She pulled her finger free of the coil. With her other hand, she reached up and lifted a single hair from the side of her face. With a flick of her wrist, she plucked the hair from her head and felt a tiny pinch as it came free. She held it up before her eyes and peered at it. It glistened in the bathroom light, like a thread made of glass. She wrapped one end of the hair tightly around each index finger and pulled.