Trompe l'Oeil by Nancy Reisman

girls, her sister Meg a daily companion. And if the thought of Newton or Lydia or Cambridge also arose, she’d refocus on the baby, or turn the radio to a pop station. Timid at first, the girls would sing along.

A DAY AT THE PARK
    On a May Sunday, he took Theo to Fenway Park and discovered that Fenway Park remained itself. As it appeared in televised games, yes, but from those images who could make the imaginative leap to such scale and immersion? It seemed that after all, he and Theo could reenter Fenway as ordinary fans: that he could take a place in Fenway as he had for years. Here were their tickets; here were their seats. A sunny warm day, no sign of rain, a game against the Royals. Theo brought a transistor radio he held to his ear. He rattled off statistics with an intensity James recalled in himself.
    When the game began, the day telescoped, pinned itself to the fortunes of the Red Sox, one pitch at a time. The first two Royals out, the third. The Sox began with a single; after a double play, Yastrzemski came to bat and singled. Yastrzemski, whom James had followed for more than a decade. Now, at Fenway, one could focus on Yaz at first base, and the Royals pitcher readying for the rookie batter, the dramatic moment when Yaz made his move to steal second and found himself caught out. It was, at least, early. The Royals scored a run at the top of the third; the Sox responded with a three-run homer from BernieCarbo, James and Theo shouting with the crowd. By then the world beyond the ballpark had dropped away: the world was the game, the crowd, the family beside them, the Little Leaguers in the next row, the man in front of them cheerfully insulting the umpire. One batter then the next settled into his stance; the pitcher wound up and threw, the ball flying into the dust or out toward the field, infielders shifting, outfielders in motion, catching and throwing almost faster than the eye could track, the umpire’s emphatic gestures. And from the crowd the uncensored shouts, flashes of outrage, drawn-out resignation, flashes of joy. Here James and Theo were one more father, one more son, awaiting the next hit, the next swift realignment of the men on the field after the bat connected. A pure if temporary belonging. In the fourth a Royals home run, the Sox hitless. Theo and James drank cold sodas, watched for a sign. Then in the fifth another Carbo home run, another collective burst, Theo rising up, thrilled—as if, yes, thrill were again possible. Then the innings rolled forward, the rookie Lynn hitting a double in the sixth, the third out coming too soon. The Royals changed pitchers; the Sox held on, Rick Wise pitching the full nine.
    Even when the game ended and the throng exited Fenway into the city, despite the crowded sidewalks and occasional shoving, James’s elation did not end, not yet, but morphed into a sensation of contentment and possibility, as if he and Theo could go anywhere. Nothing distinguished them from the fathers and sons heading into restaurants or to evenings in unfamiliar towns: all seemed equal. Had he described it, James might have used the word normalcy , considered the day a return from exile.
    When they arrived at the house, the late-day light was clear gold, the bay cobalt. Katy and a redheaded MacFarland girl raced bikes up and down the empty street; on the deck, Nora paged through an art magazine while Sara dozed on her lap. They had dinner; James drank a cold beer. Theo described the three-run homer; Nora laughed, reached over and mussed Theo’s hair. A routine gesture of hers before but not since . It was and was not the same gesture; and the laugh clearly genuine, clearly hers but slightly altered, as if he had heard it from the next room. Was there, too, a missed beat? He paused, but then Sara threw her spoon on the floor.
    â€œSo much for the spoon,” Nora said, and held out a pacifier.
    â€œNext weekend,” Katy said, “Lucy MacFarland’s coming