"No. I got a job yesterday."

"A job?"

"Yes. A good job." She told him all about it then: a travel agency, mornings. She'd be home in time to pick Paul up from school. As she spoke, David felt as if she were flying away from him. "I've been going crazy," Norah added with a fierceness that surprised him. "Totally crazy with so much time on my hands. This will be a good thing."

"Okay," he said. "That's fine. If you want a job so much, take it." He tickled Paul and reached for his otoscope. "Here," he said. "Look in my ears. See if I left any birds in there."

Paul laughed, and the cool metal slid against David's lobe.

"I knew you wouldn't like this," Norah said.

"What do you mean? I'm telling you to take it."

"I mean your tone. You should hear yourself."

"Well, what do you expect?" he said, trying to keep his voice even, for Paul's sake. "It's hard not to see this as criticism."

"It would only be criticism if it were about you," she said. "That's what you don't understand. But it's not about you. It's about freedom. It's about me having a life of my own. I wish you could understand that."

"Freedom?" he said. She'd been talking to her sister again, he'd bet his life on it. "You think anyone is free, Norah? You think I am?"

There was a long silence, and he was grateful when Paul broke it.

"No birds, Dad. Just giraffes."

"Really? How many?"

"Six."

"Six! Good grief! Better check the other ear."

"Maybe I'll hate the job," Norah said. "But at least I'll know."

"No birds," Paul said. "No giraffes. Just elephants."

"Elephants in the ear ca.n.a.l," David said, taking the otoscope. "We'd better get home right away." He forced himself to smile, squatting down to pick Paul up, new cast and all. As he felt his son's weight, the warmth of his good bare arm around his neck, David let himself wonder what their lives would have been like if he'd made a different decision six years ago. The snow had fallen and he'd stood in that silence, all alone, and in one crucial moment he'd altered everything. David, David, Caroline Gill had written in her most recent letter, Caroline Gill had written in her most recent letter, I've got a boyfriend now. He's very nice, and Phoebe is fine; she loves to catch b.u.t.terflies and sing. I've got a boyfriend now. He's very nice, and Phoebe is fine; she loves to catch b.u.t.terflies and sing.

"I'm happy about the job," he told Norah as they waited in the hall for the elevator. "I don't mean to be difficult. But I don't believe this doesn't have to do with me."

She sighed. "No," she said. "You wouldn't believe it, would you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You see yourself as the center of the universe," Norah said. "The still point around which everything else revolves."

They gathered up their things and walked to the elevator. Outside it was still a beautiful day, late afternoon, clear and sunny. By the time they got home, the guests had dispersed. Only Bree and Mark were left, carrying plates of food into the house. The ribbons of the maypole fluttered in the breeze. David's camera was on the table, and Paul's fossils were piled neatly beside it. David paused, surveying the lawn, scattered with chairs. Once, this whole world had been hidden beneath a shallow sea. He carried Paul inside and up the stairs. He gave him a drink of water and the orange chewable aspirin he liked and sat with him on the bed, holding his hand. So small, this hand, so warm and alive. Remembering the light-filled images of Paul's bones, David was filled with a sense of wonder. This was what he yearned to capture on film: these rare moments where the world seemed unified, coherent, everything contained in a single fleeting image. A spareness that held beauty and hope and motion-a kind of silvery poetry, just as the body was poetry in blood and flesh and bone.

"Read me a story, Dad," Paul said, so David settled himself on the bed, holding Paul in his arms, turning the pages of Curious George Curious George, who was in the hospital with a broken leg. Downstairs, Norah moved through the rooms, cleaning up. The screen door swung open and shut, open and shut again. He imagined her walking through it, dressed in a suit, heading for her new job and a life that excluded him. It was late afternoon, and a golden light filled the room. He turned the page and held Paul, feeling his warmth, his measured breathing. A breeze lifted the curtains. Outside, the dogwood was a bright cloud against the dark planks of the fence. David paused in his reading, watching the white petals fall and drift. He felt both comforted and troubled by their beauty, trying not to notice that they looked, from this distance, like snow.

June 1970 WELL, PHOEBE CERTAINLY HAS YOUR HAIR," DORO OBSERVED.

Caroline touched the nape of her neck, considering. They were on the east side of Pittsburgh, in an old factory building that had been converted into a progressive preschool. Light fell through the long windows and splashed in motes and patterns on the plank floor; it caught the auburn highlights in Phoebe's thin braids as she stood before a big wooden bin, scooping lentils, letting them cascade into jars. At six, she was chubby, with dimpled knees and a winning smile. Her eyes were a delicate almond shape, upslanted, dark brown. Her hands were small. This morning she wore a pink-and-white striped dress, which she had chosen and put on by herself-backwards. She wore a pink sweater, too, which had caused a spectacular tantrum at home. She's certainly got your temper. She's certainly got your temper. Leo, dead now for almost a year, had been fond of muttering this, and Caroline had always been astonished: not so much that he'd seen a genetic connection where none could exist but that anyone would define her as a woman with a temper. Leo, dead now for almost a year, had been fond of muttering this, and Caroline had always been astonished: not so much that he'd seen a genetic connection where none could exist but that anyone would define her as a woman with a temper.

"Do you think so?" she asked Doro, running her fingers through the hair behind her ear. "Do you think her hair's like mine?"

"Oh, yes. Sure it is."

Phoebe was shoving her hands deep into the velvety lentils now, laughing with the little boy beside her. She lifted fistfuls and let them run through her fingers, and the boy held out a yellow plastic cup to catch them.

To the other children in this preschool Phoebe was simply herself, a friend who liked the color blue and Popsicles and twirling in circles; here, her differences went unnoticed. In the first weeks, Caroline had watched warily, braced against the sorts of comments she'd heard too often, on playgrounds, at the grocery store, in the doctor's office. What a terrible shame! Oh, you're living my worst nightmare. What a terrible shame! Oh, you're living my worst nightmare. And once, And once, At least she won't live very long-that's a blessing. At least she won't live very long-that's a blessing. Thoughtless or ignorant or cruel, it didn't matter; over the years these comments had rubbed a raw spot in Caroline's heart. But here the teachers were young and enthusiastic, and the parents had quietly followed their example: Phoebe might struggle more, go slower, but like any child she'd learn. Thoughtless or ignorant or cruel, it didn't matter; over the years these comments had rubbed a raw spot in Caroline's heart. But here the teachers were young and enthusiastic, and the parents had quietly followed their example: Phoebe might struggle more, go slower, but like any child she'd learn.

Lentils scattered on the floor as the boy dropped his shovel and ran into the hall. Phoebe followed, braids flying, headed for the green room with its easels and its pots of paint.

"This place has been so good for her," Doro said.

Caroline nodded. "I wish the Board of Education could see her here."

"You have a strong argument, and a good lawyer. You'll be fine."

Caroline glanced at her watch. Her friendship with Sandra had grown into a political force, and today the Upside Down Society, over 500 members strong, would ask the school board to include their children in public schools. Their chances were good, but Caroline was still very nervous. So much rested on this decision.

A speeding child careened past Doro, who caught him gently by the shoulders. Doro's hair was pure white now, in striking contrast to her dark eyes, her smooth olive skin. She swam every morning and she'd taken up golf, and lately Caroline often caught her smiling to herself, as if she had a secret.

"It's so good of you to come today to cover for me," Caroline said, pulling on her coat.

Doro waved her hand. "Don't mention it. I'd much rather be here, actually, than fighting with the department over my father's papers." Her voice was weary, but a smile flickered across her face.

"Doro, if I didn't know better, I'd guess you were in love."

Doro only laughed. "What a bold conjecture," she said. "And speaking of love, can I expect Al this afternoon? It's Friday, after all."

The patterns of light and shadow in the sycamores were so soothing, like moving water. It was Friday, yes, but Caroline hadn't heard from Al all week. Usually he called from the road, from Columbus or Atlanta or even Chicago. He'd asked her to marry him twice this year; each time her heart had flared with possibility, and each time she'd said no. They had argued on his last visit-You hold me at arm's length, he'd complained-and he'd left angry, without saying goodbye. he'd complained-and he'd left angry, without saying goodbye.

"We're just close friends, Al and I. It's not that easy."

"Don't be ridiculous," Doro said. "Nothing's simpler."

So it was was love, Caroline thought. She kissed Phoebe's soft cheek and went away in Leo's old Buick: black, vast, with a ride like a boat. In the last year of his life Leo had grown frail, spending most of his days in an armchair near the window with a book in his lap, gazing out at the street. One day Caroline had found him slumped, his gray hair sticking up at an awkward angle, his skin-even his lips-so pale. Dead. She knew this before she touched him. She took off his gla.s.ses, placed her fingertips on his eyelids, and drew them closed. Once they had taken his body away she sat in his chair, trying to imagine what his life had been like, the tree branches moving silently outside the window, her own footsteps, and Phoebe's, making patterns on his ceiling. "Oh, Leo," she'd said out loud, to the empty air. "I'm sorry you were so alone." love, Caroline thought. She kissed Phoebe's soft cheek and went away in Leo's old Buick: black, vast, with a ride like a boat. In the last year of his life Leo had grown frail, spending most of his days in an armchair near the window with a book in his lap, gazing out at the street. One day Caroline had found him slumped, his gray hair sticking up at an awkward angle, his skin-even his lips-so pale. Dead. She knew this before she touched him. She took off his gla.s.ses, placed her fingertips on his eyelids, and drew them closed. Once they had taken his body away she sat in his chair, trying to imagine what his life had been like, the tree branches moving silently outside the window, her own footsteps, and Phoebe's, making patterns on his ceiling. "Oh, Leo," she'd said out loud, to the empty air. "I'm sorry you were so alone."

After his funeral, a quiet affair crowded with physics professors and gardenias, Caroline offered to leave, but Doro wouldn't hear of it. I'm used to you. I'm used to the company. No, you stay. We'll take it day by day. I'm used to you. I'm used to the company. No, you stay. We'll take it day by day.

Caroline drove across the city she had come to love, this tough, gritty, strikingly beautiful city with its soaring buildings and ornate bridges and vast parks, its neighborhoods tucked into every emerald hill. She found a parking spot on the narrow street and entered the building, its stone darkened by decades of coal smoke. She walked through the foyer with its high ceilings and intricate mosaic floor and climbed two flights of stairs. The wooden door was darkly stained, with a panel of cloudy gla.s.s and tarnished bra.s.s numbers: 304B. She took a deep breath-she had not been this nervous since her oral exams-and pushed the door open. The room's shabbiness surprised her. The big oak table was scratched and the windows were cloudy, making the day outside seem muted and gray. Sandra was already sitting with half a dozen other parents from the Upside Down board. Caroline felt a surge of affection. They had drifted into meetings one by one at first, people she and Sandra met in grocery stores and on buses; then the word had spread and people started calling. Their lawyer, Ron Stone, sat next to Sandra, whose blond hair was pulled severely back, her face serious and pale. Caroline took the remaining seat beside her.

"You look tired," she whispered.

Sandra nodded. "Tim has the flu. Of all days. My mother had to come from McKeesport to watch him."

Before Caroline could answer the door swung open again, and men from the Board of Education began to file in, relaxed, joking with one another, shaking hands. When everyone was settled and the meeting had been called to order, Ron Stone stood and cleared his throat.

"All children deserve an education," he began, his words familiar. The evidence he presented was clear, specific: steady growth, tasks accomplished. Still, Caroline watched the faces in front of her turn impa.s.sive, masked. She thought of Phoebe sitting at the table last night, a pencil gripped in one hand, writing the letters of her name: backwards, all over the page, wavering, but written. The men on the board shuffled papers and cleared their throats. When Ron Stone paused, a young man with dark wavy hair spoke up.

"Your pa.s.sion is admirable, Mr. Stone. We on the board appreciate everything you say, and we appreciate the commitment and devotion of these parents. But these children are mentally r.e.t.a.r.ded; that's the bottom line. Their accomplishments, significant though they may be, have taken place within a protected environment, with teachers capable of giving extra, perhaps undivided, attention. That seems a very significant point."

Caroline met Sandra's eye. These words were familiar too.

"Mentally r.e.t.a.r.ded is a pejorative term," Ron Stone replied evenly. "These children are delayed, yes, no one's questioning that. But they are not not stupid. No one in this room knows what they can achieve. The best hope for their growth and development, as for all children, is an educational environment without predetermined limits. We only ask for equity today." stupid. No one in this room knows what they can achieve. The best hope for their growth and development, as for all children, is an educational environment without predetermined limits. We only ask for equity today."

"Ah. Equity, yes. But we haven't got the resources," said another man, thin, with spa.r.s.e graying hair. "To be equitable, we would have to accept them all, a flood of r.e.t.a.r.ded individuals that would overwhelm the system. Take a look."

He pa.s.sed around copies of a report and began doing a cost-benefit a.n.a.lysis. Caroline took a deep breath. It would do no good for her to lose her temper. A fly buzzed, caught between the panes of gla.s.s in the old windows. Caroline thought again of Phoebe, such a loving quicksilver child. A finder of lost things, a girl who could count to fifty and dress herself and recite the alphabet, a girl who might struggle to speak but who could read Caroline's mood in an instant.

Limited, the voices said. the voices said. Flooding the schools. A drag on resources and on the brighter children. Flooding the schools. A drag on resources and on the brighter children.

Caroline felt a rush of despair. They'd never really see Phoebe, these men, they would never see her as more than different, slow to speak and to master new things. How could she show them her beautiful daughter: Phoebe, sitting on the rug in the living room and making a tower of blocks, her soft hair falling around her ears and an expression of absolute concentration on her face? Phoebe, putting a 45 on the little record player Caroline had bought her, enthralled by the music, dancing across the smooth oak floors. Or Phoebe's soft small hand suddenly on her knee, at a moment when Caroline was pensive or distracted, absorbed by the world and its concerns. You okay, Mom? You okay, Mom? she would say, or simply, she would say, or simply, I love you. I love you. Phoebe, riding on Al's shoulders in the evening light, Phoebe hugging everyone she met. Phoebe having tantrums and stubbornly defiant, Phoebe dressing herself that morning, so proud. Phoebe, riding on Al's shoulders in the evening light, Phoebe hugging everyone she met. Phoebe having tantrums and stubbornly defiant, Phoebe dressing herself that morning, so proud.

The talk around the table had turned to numbers and logistics, the impossibility of change. Caroline stood up, trembling. Her dead mother's hand flew to her mouth in shock. Caroline herself could not quite believe it, how her life had changed her, what she had become. But there was no going back. A flood of the mentally r.e.t.a.r.ded, indeed! She pressed her hands to the table and waited. One by one the men stopped speaking, and the room grew quiet.

"It's not about numbers," Caroline said. "It's about children. I have a daughter who is six years old. It takes her more time, it's true, to master new things. But she has learned to do everything that any other child learns to do: to crawl and walk and talk and use the bathroom, to dress herself, which she did this morning. What I see is a little girl who wants to learn, and who loves everyone she sees. And I see a roomful of men who appear to have forgotten that in this country we promise an education to every child-regardless of ability."

For a moment no one spoke. The tall window rattled slightly in the breeze. Paint was beginning to bubble and peel on the beige walls.

The voice of the dark-haired man was gentle.

"I have-we all have-great sympathy for your situation. But how likely is it that your daughter, or any of these children, will master any academic skills? And what would that do to her self-image? If it were me, I'd rather have her settled in a productive and useful trade."

"She's six years old," Caroline said. "She's not ready to learn a trade."

Ron Stone had been watching the exchange intently, and now he spoke.

"Actually," he said. "This entire discussion is beside the point." He opened his briefcase and took out a thick cl.u.s.ter of papers. "This is not just a moral or logistical issue. It's the law. This is a pet.i.tion, signed by these parents and by five hundred others. It's appended to a cla.s.s-action lawsuit filed on behalf of these families to allow the acceptance of their children into Pittsburgh's public schools."

"This is the civil rights law," the gray-haired man said, looking up from the doc.u.ment. "You can't use that. That's not the letter or the spirit of this law."

"You look those doc.u.ments over," Ron Stone said, shutting his briefcase. "We'll be in touch."

Outside, on the old stone steps, they burst into talk; Ron was pleased, cautiously optimistic, but the others were ebullient, hugging Caroline to thank her for her speech. She smiled, hugging them back, feeling both drained and moved by a deep affection for these people: Sandra, of course, who still came over every week for coffee; Colleen, who with her daughter had gathered the names on the pet.i.tion; Carl, a tall sprightly man whose only son had died young from heart complications related to Down's and who had given them office s.p.a.ce in his carpet warehouse for their work. She'd known none of them four years ago except Sandra, yet they were bound to her now by many late nights, many struggles and small triumphs, and so much hope.

Agitated, still, from her speech, she drove back to the preschool. Phoebe jumped up from the circle group and ran to Caroline, hugging her knees. She smelled of milk and chocolate and there was a streak of dirt across her dress. Her hair was a soft cloud beneath Caroline's hand. Caroline told Doro briefly what had happened, the ugly words-flood, drag-still running through her mind. Doro, late for work, touched her arm. We'll talk more tonight. We'll talk more tonight.

The drive home was beautiful, leaves on the trees and lilacs blooming like drifts of foam and fire against the hills. It had rained the night before; the sky was a clear bright blue. Caroline parked in the alley, disappointed to see that Al hadn't yet arrived. Together, she and Phoebe walked beneath the flickering shade of the sycamores, through the piercing hum of bees. Caroline sat on the porch steps and turned on the radio. Phoebe started spinning on the soft gra.s.s, her arms held out and her head flung back, face to the sun.

Caroline watched her, still trying to shed the tension and acrimony of the morning. There was reason to hope, but after all these years of struggling to change the world's perceptions, Caroline made herself stay cautious.

Phoebe ran over and cupped her hands around Caroline's ear, whispering a secret. Caroline couldn't catch the words, just the breathless excited rush of air, and then Phoebe ran off into the sunshine again, twirling in her pale pink dress. The sunlight touched amber glints in her dark hair, and Caroline remembered Norah Henry beneath the bright clinic lights. For an instant she was stung with weariness and doubt.

Phoebe stopped in her twirling, arms held out to keep her balance. Then she gave a shout and ran headlong across the lawn and up the steps to where Al stood, looking down, a brightly wrapped package in one hand for Phoebe and bunch of lilacs that Caroline knew were for her.

Her heart lifted. He had courted her with a slow, persistent patience, showing up, solid and steady, week after week, offering a fistful of flowers or some other cheerful gift, the pleasure on his face so real that she could not bear to turn him away. Yet she'd held herself back from him, not trusting this love that had come so unexpectedly, from such an unexpected source. Now she stood, feeling a rush of pleasure. How afraid she'd been that this time he would stay away!

"Pretty day," he said, squatting to hug Phoebe, who flung her arms around his neck in welcome. The package contained a filmy b.u.t.terfly net with a carved wooden handle, which she took at once, running off toward a bank of dark blue hydrangeas. "How did the meeting go?"

She told him the story and he listened, shaking his head.

"Well, school's not for everyone," he said. "I sure didn't like it much. But Phoebe's a sweet kid, and they shouldn't keep her out."

"I want her to have a place in the world," Caroline said, realizing suddenly that it wasn't Al's love for her she doubted, it was his love for Phoebe.

"Honey, she has a place. It's right here. But yeah, I think you're right. I think you're doing the right thing to fight for her so hard."

"I hope you had a better week," she said, noting the shadows beneath his eyes.

"Oh, same old, same old," he said, sitting on the steps beside her and picking up a stick, which he started to peel. Distantly, mowers hummed; Phoebe's little radio played "Love, Love Me, Do." "I logged 2,398 miles this week. A record, even for me."

He'll ask again, Caroline thought. This was the moment; he was road weary and ready to settle down, and he'd ask. She watched his hands move deftly, swiftly, stripping the bark, and her heart surged. This time she'd say yes. But Al didn't speak. The silence extended for so long that finally she felt pressured to break it.

"That was a nice gift," she said, nodding across the gra.s.sy s.p.a.ce where Phoebe was running, the net making bright arcs in the air.

"Fellow in Georgia made it," Al said. "Nicest guy. Had a whole bunch of them he'd carved for his grandkids. We got to talking in the grocery store. He collects shortwave radios and invited me to stop by and see them. Spent the whole night talking, me and him. Now, that's the plus of the wandering life. Oh, yeah," he went on, reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out a white envelope. "Here's your mail from Atlanta."

Caroline took the envelope without comment. Inside there would be several twenty-dollar bills folded neatly into a plain white paper. Al brought them back from Cleveland, Memphis, Atlanta, Akron: cities he frequented on his runs. She told him simply that the money was for Phoebe, from her father. Al accepted this without comment, but Caroline's feelings were more complex. Sometimes she dreamed she was walking through Norah Henry's house, taking things from the shelves and the cupboards, filling a cloth bag, happy until she came upon Norah Henry standing by a window, her expression distant and infinitely sad. She'd wake, trembling, and get up and make herself some tea, sitting in the darkness. When the money came she put it in the bank and didn't think about it until the next envelope arrived. She had done this for five years now, and she had saved almost $7,000.

Phoebe was still running, chasing after b.u.t.terflies, birds, motes of light, the fluttering notes spilling from the radio. Al was fiddling with the dial.

"The nice thing about this city is that you can really find some music. Some of those podunk little towns I stay in, all you get is the Top Forty. Gets old, after a while." He began to hum along with "Begin the Beguine."

"My parents used to dance to this song," Caroline said, and for an instant she was sitting on the stairs of her childhood home, invisible, watching her mother, in a full-skirted dress, welcoming guests at the door. "I haven't thought of it in years. But every now and then they used to roll the rug up in the living room on a Sat.u.r.day night and have some other couples in, and they'd dance."

"We ought to go dancing sometime," Al said. "You like to dance, Caroline?"

Caroline felt something shift in her then, some excitement. She couldn't place its source: something to do with her anger from the morning pa.s.sing, and the vibrant day, and the warmth of Al's arm next to hers. The breeze fluttered the poplars, revealing the silvery undersides of their leaves.

"Why wait?" she asked, and stood, extending her hand.

He was puzzled, bemused, but then he was standing with his hand resting on her shoulder and they were moving on the lawn to the thin strains of the music, the background of rushing cars. Sunlight mingled in her hair, the gra.s.s was soft beneath her stocking feet, and they moved together so easily, dipping and turning, the tension she'd carried with her from the meeting dissipating with each step. Al smiled, pressing her close; sunlight struck her neck.

Oh, she thought, as he spun her again, she thought, as he spun her again, I'll say yes. I'll say yes.

There was the pleasure of the sunlight and Phoebe's floating laughter and Al's hands warm through the fabric on her back. They moved in the gra.s.s, turning with the music, connected by it. The traffic rushing by was as present and soothing as the ocean. Other sounds, thin, lifted through the strands of music, through the bright day. Caroline didn't register them at first. Then Al turned her, and she stopped dancing. Phoebe was kneeling in the soft warm gra.s.s by the hydrangeas, crying too hard to speak, holding up her hand. Caroline ran and knelt in the gra.s.s, studying the angry swollen circle on Phoebe's palm.

"It's a beesting," she said. "Oh, honey, it hurts, doesn't it?"

She pressed her face into Phoebe's warm hair. Soft, soft skin, and her chest, rising and falling; beneath that, the steady pattern of her heart. Here was the thing that couldn't be measured, couldn't be quantified or even explained: Phoebe was herself alone. You could not, finally, categorize a human being. You could not presume to know what life was or what it might hold.

"Oh, sweetie, it's all right," she said, smoothing Phoebe's hair.

But Phoebe's sobs were giving way to a wheezing like the croup she'd suffered as a child. Her palm was swelling; the back of her hand and her fingers too. Caroline felt herself grow still inside, even as she rose swiftly and called to Al.