he had ducked it. And here she was, at the age of six, trying to piece together the greatest puzzle of life.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, darling?” He held his breath.
“You know Mrs. Winston’s bicycle?”
Mrs. Winston’s bicycle? Then he remembered. Two years ago, at Campbell’s nursery school, there had been a teacher named Mrs. Winston who braved the traffic and rode a bicycle to school every day. All the children had thought this was wonderful, a teacher who rode a bicycle to school. He had never heard Campbell mention the woman since then.
“Oh yes, I remember.” An anxious pause.
“MacKenzie has one just like it.”
MacKenzie? MacKenzie Reed was a little girl in Campbell’s class.
“She does?”
“Yes. Only it’s smaller.”
Sherman waited…for the leap of logic…but it never came. That was it. God lives! God is dead! Mrs. Winston’s bicycle! No way, José! N O, Séjo! They all came out of the same heap in the toy box. Sherman was relieved for a moment, but then he felt cheated. The thought that his daughter might actually have questioned the existence of God at the age of six—this he had taken as a sign of superior intelligence. Over the past ten years, on the Upper East Side, for the first time, intelligence had become socially correct for girls.
Several little girls in burgundy jumpers, and their parents or nannies, were assembled at the Taliaferro bus stop, on the other side of Park Avenue. As soon as Campbell saw them, she tried to remove her hand from Sherman’s. She had reached that age. But he wouldn’t let her. He held her hand tightly and led her across the street. He was her protector. He glowered at a taxi as it came to a noisy stop at the light. He would gladly throw himself in front of it, if that was what it would take to save Campbell’s life. As they crossed Park Avenue, he had a mental picture of what an ideal pair they made. Campbell, the perfect angel in a private-school uniform; himself, with his noble head, his Yale chin, his big frame, and his $1,800 British suit, the angel’s father, a man of parts; he visualized the admiring stares, the envious stares, of the drivers, the pedestrians, of one and all.
As soon as they reached the bus stop, Campbell pulled free. The parents who brought their girls to the Taliaferro bus stop in the morning were a cheery bunch. What a chipper mood they were always in! Sherman began saying his good mornings. Edith Tompkins, John Channing, MacKenzie Reed’s mother, Kirby Coleman’s nanny, Leonard Schorske, Mrs. Lueger. When he got to Mrs. Lueger—he had never known her first name—he did a double take. She was a thin pale blond woman who never wore makeup. This morning she must have rushed down to the bus stop with her daughter at the last minute. She was wearing a man’s blue button-down shirt with the top two buttons unbuttoned. She had on a pair of old blue jeans and some ballet slippers. The jeans were very tight. She had a terrific little body. He had never noticed that before. Really quite terrific! She looked so…pale and half-awake and vulnerable. You know, what you need is a cup of coffee, Mrs. Lueger. Come on, I’m going over to that coffee shop on Lexington. Oh, that’s silly, Mr. McCoy. Come on up to the apartment. I have some coffee already made. He stared at her for a good two seconds longer than he should have, and then …pop… the bus arrived, a big solid Greyhound-size vehicle, and the children bounded up the steps.
Sherman turned away, then looked back at Mrs. Lueger. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was walking toward her apartment building. The back seam of her jeans practically clove her in two. There were whitish spots on either side of the seat. They were like highlights for the flesh that welled up underneath. What a marvelous bottom she had! And he had always thought of these women as moms. Who knew what hot little fires burned within these moms?
Sherman started walking east, toward the taxi stand at