Mendocino and Other Stories by Ann Packer Page A

say.
    They look at me in surprise, almost as if they've forgotten that I'm there.
    “Stay a minute,” Sam says. “Would you like to hold her?”
    She seems to want me to, so I sit on the bed and carefully take the bundle from her.
    I look down at the tiny face. She's so little, but somehow she is remarkably heavy, substantial. There's a real body inside this blanket. A real baby. I touch her cheek; it's so incredibly soft and pink and warm. I can't believe how warm she is, how I can feel the warmth of her body, all the way through the blanket and through my clothes, all the way to my breast. Which one was she, in the nursery? How could I not have wondered? I can't help it; there are tears rolling down my face. In a moment this crying will find a voice, and I am afraid to hear it.
    Someone, the nurse, takes the baby from me. I don't want to look at Sam, I'm so ashamed. But I do look at her, and when I see the way she's biting her lip, when I see the squint of understanding in her eyes, I let out a single, hoarse cry. Her arms come up around me and she pulls me close and holds me. She runs her hand down the back of my head, and I can imagine how it would feel to really let myself go, to sink against her.
    But I don't. I pull away and stand up. I grab a Kleenex from the box on her table and dab at my eyes. “I've got to go,” I say.
    “No,” she says, “Virginia—”
    “I'm sorry,” I say. “I'll call you.”
    Without looking at Josh or the nurse—or at Isabel—I hurry out of the room and past the nurses' station to the main hall. I hit the button and wait for the elevator to come and take me down.
    I WENT BACK to Babes in Arms and bought the mobile for Isabel; I have decided to keep the bear for myself. He sits on my couch, a mute and pleasant companion. Lately I have been spending a lot of time on my couch, too. I read there, of course, and I nap there, but that's also where I eat, my knees bent, a plate of cheese and crackers in the hollow of my lap. I just can't be bothered to set the table.

IN THIS CITY , there are dozens of pairs of sneakers, their laces knotted together, hanging from telephone wires and power lines. This city is Madison, Wisconsin, and Winch is trying to understand the sneakers because, a newcomer, he thinks they might explain something to him—tell him how to live here, whether to live here.
    Winch sits on the porch steps of Luke and Sarah's apartment. He has forgotten his key again. He knows exactly where it is, too—in the little painted bowl Sarah keeps on the coffee table in the living room, where he sleeps. He put the key there last night because Sarah was trying to get Luke to talk about whether or not there ought to be something in the bowl—whether the bowl would look better with something in it—and Luke would not cooperate. Winch felt like a peacemaker, donating his key to the cause. When he saw the key in the bowl Luke snorted, a soundthat Winch finds extremely disagreeable. He can't remember Luke ever making it before, but he makes it a lot now.
    Sarah comes pedaling up the street on her three-speed, her short hair flapping against her head. Whenever Winch sees her on her bicycle he can't help thinking of
Butch Cassidy—
that part when Paul Newman takes Robert Redford's beautiful girlfriend for a spin on a rickety old bike. Who played the girlfriend? Winch can't remember, but Sarah looks a bit like her. Winch thinks she should wear more long skirts, should try letting her hair grow.
    “ARE YOU LOCKED OUT? ” Sarah says, just stopping herself from adding “again.” The way he sits there just kills her. He's so—passive. She refuses to feel guilty, though; the guy is thirty years old and ought to be able to keep track of a key.
    “Yeah,” Winch drawls. “I guess I am.”
    “Well,” Sarah says, adjusting her pack and lifting the groceries from her bike basket, “I hope you haven't gotten cold waiting for me.” She walks up the steps and past him to the door. She