Taft (32 page)

Taft pulls a green sweater over Carl's head. He's always afraid he's going to tear his ears off, the neck fits so close. Taft's wife never seems to mind the ears. She doesn't worry about things the way he does. Taft is watching the children while she makes the trip to the big grocery in Oak Ridge. "Put your arms out," he says. Carl raises one arm and Taft threads it through the sleeve. "Other arm now," Taft tells him.

Fay has gotten her own sweater, a cardigan. She has buttoned it up by herself. Fay likes to do things herself now, she's at that age. Taft calls her a big girl and big sister and she likes that.

It's a Saturday, the last part of February. For just less than a month, both of Taft's children are four years old. Carl turned four the first of February and Fay will be five next week. She has been telling people she was five since Christmas. Taft puts on a denim shirt over his T-shirt and rolls up the sleeves, checks the laces on Carl's shoes.

"I'm going outside," Carl says.

"In a minute," Taft tells him.

"In a minute," Fay says.

He doesn't like Fay saying she's five. He's still wondering how he got to be twenty-six and he thinks it's partly his own fault. He rushed himself, saying he was older when he was sixteen so he could go get a beer with his friends, saying he was older to the draft board who turned him down anyway on account of a hernia, getting married right away, before there was any thought of other girls or other ways things could work out, but that was fine. Look at these babies. Even if he did rush himself, it isn't a bad place he's rushed to.

Taft sits back on his heels, hands Fay a Kleenex. Every body's ready. It's cool outside. In March there's no telling. One day it's seventy-five and the next day there's snow. He takes the kids out the back door, watches them down the steps, though they can do that fine. They rent a two-bedroom house at the end of the street and the street borders on a field. The edge of the field takes a sharp slope down to a creek. Fay and Carl love the creek. They'd stay down there all the time if Taft would let them, but there are strict rules, no going without a grown-up, no putting your feet in when the water was high, which it was now from the snow melting off in the mountains. The creek makes Taft and his wife nervous, the way it gets deep in the middle, gets fast once it starts to turn. There are always other people's kids playing down there alone and Taft wonders what those parents are thinking.

"I can get there first," Fay says, and takes off past the end of the gravel and into the grass. Carl runs after her on automatic, doesn't even think, just runs. Taft lets them go. It's a long field, let them run themselves out a little, he thinks, then they'll be easier to rein in. His children are blond, the way Taft had been as a child, though he isn't now. They are running, running, gaining on the water.

Taft watches them, but he's thinking about the washer he's been meaning to change in the bathroom sink, wondering if there's one in his toolbox that will fit. He's thinking about work and wishing he had been able to get some overtime this weekend, but he doesn't have enough seniority for overtime. When he looks up again the kids are farther away than he'd like. "Fay," he calls, "mind your brother. Wait till I get there before you go down."

Fay stops and turns and smiles. Just the sound of his voice brings her around. She waves while Carl shoots past her.

"Carl." Taft tries to make himself sound stern. He moves a little faster, into a kind of horse trot. He isn't afraid of anything. As close as he is, from here to there, nothing can happen. He is twenty-six. His hair hasn't started to thin and his hearing hasn't been damaged by the noise of the machines in the carpet factory and he hasn't had that partial bridge yet. He is still fast enough to outrun any sort of trouble and there is no trouble because Fay has stopped in the middle of the field and Carl has stopped at the edge before the slope down to the water and they are both waiting for their father. They are doing exactly what they've been told.

Carl raises both of his arms over his head and his green sweater pulls up, showing a sliver of stomach. Taft passes Fay and is almost to Carl. He isn't running because he doesn't need to. From where he is now he could practically catch him if he were to fall.

"Hey," Carl yells. "Watch me."