Mim felt breathless. For a moment, she stood still in her spot by the door. Howie and Sherry walked away from her, hand in hand behind the host; Marv followed. Mim asked herself some questions: the first was this man’s age — to her he looked fifty, maybe older; the second was what he wanted with Sherry; the third was of Sherry herself, and how she could misjudge a situation so badly. There were times, when Sherry was growing up, that Mim had suddenly asked herself: Who is this child?
Those things she had hidden things from them when she was small — physical things, little stones and shells she had saved over the years, and candy she took home from parties — had she thought they would be taken from her? Mim had snooped; it was terrible, but she had. She found Sherry’s treasures amidst her socks in the dresser, or in boxes under her bed. Once, when Sherry was twelve or thirteen, Mim had found a journal between her mattress and box spring. Sherry was at school, and Mim had opened it and read the first line — I am alone a lot — before slamming it shut, her pulse thumping in her neck. She had put it neatly back in its place, and the next time she checked, it wasn’t there.
What did he want with her? What had she told him about them? They were sitting now, and she still hadn’t moved. Marv looked back over his shoulder at her questioningly. She fumbled in her purse to look busy, and told herself to be kind and decent, to rekindle a certain generosity in herself. She thought, Mim, give this man a chance. Howie Plank. There were worse things in the world than being middle-aged. There were worse things in the world than being middle-aged and underdressed.
* * *
Howie ordered a roast beef sandwich, though it was almost midnight. Mim and Marv decided to split a piece of cheesecake and each ordered a glass of milk. The waiter said, Milk with cheesecake? Sherry asked for a half-sour pickle and a glass of ice water. Sweetheart, are you sure? asked Mim. I already had dinner, said Sherry. Well, so did we! said Marv, and patted his belly. But that sure won’t stop us! He wasn’t looking at Howie. Make it two pieces of cheesecake, said Mim to the waiter, and if you could please bring three forks.
My little bird, said Howie Plank, affectionately, and placed his heavy arm across Sherry’s shoulders. Mim could think of nothing to say to him. He was gazing at Sherry as if he had won her at a fair.
So, said Howie, finally. How was the show? Long? Boring? He laughed.
I think they liked it, said Sherry. Right, Dad?
Your mother did, said Marv. And I did too, I guess, he admitted.
Maybe I’ve just seen it one too many times, said Howie.
Howie’s lived here all his life, said Sherry. Her short haircut made her look boyish and even younger than twenty-seven. She’s really just a girl, thought Mim, and had a sudden memory of Sherry at twelve years old, getting her braces on, crying and crying for days because she didn’t want them. They hurt, she had said. They hurt so bad.
Now Howie was holding her hand, and Mim felt her tongue becoming immobile and mute as a sponge. This was unusual for her; she prided herself on her conversational skills. She thought of herself as a person who loved making new friends. She could talk to anyone. Marv teased her about it: strangers on the bus, seatmates on airplanes. She kept in regular contact with a nice woman she had met at an RV park in Arizona. She was a people person; it was what others always said about her, anyway, and what she liked about herself. If she admitted it, this aspect of her reputation was a particular vanity of hers. But Howie Plank was a different sort of person.
Tell us about your work, she said at last, and Howie smiled knowingly. Oh, boring, he said, and laughed. I guess Sherry’s probably told you all about it.
You’re a psychiatrist? she asked.
Psychologist, Mom, said Sherry quickly. She knew that. She knew that. But Howie was nodding already. Common mistake, he said. At least you didn’t call me an astrologer!
Sherry laughed. She looked as if she wanted more from them, so Mim tried to think of a question.
What’s it like listening to people’s problems all day long? Doesn’t it make you sad?
No, said Howie, thoughtfully. It makes me — grateful. It sure keeps things in perspective, anyway.
How nice, said Mim. She was trying so hard to be herself that a small film of sweat had broken out on her upper lip. Howie, that’s a really nice way to look at it. Isn’t it, Marv?
Marv was contemplating the paper placemat. He nodded, not looking at anyone.
