Free Protecting Marie by Kevin Henkes Page A

stifled a laugh. The stiffness that had descended upon the kitchen, overwhelming them, made it seem wrong to giggle, much less laugh. But holding it in was a difficult task. Each time Fanny glanced at Dinner, it struck her more deeply how comical she looked.
    â€œWho does she think she is, Catherine Deneuve?” Ellen said, her voice bubbling. She had barely managed to get the words out before she burst into a lovely fit of laughter. Mockingly, she flipped one wrist over the other and barked once.
    Now Fanny felt free to laugh, and so she did. Henry did, too.
    Ellen’s line about Catherine Deneuve wasmore than a joke, and Fanny knew it. Madonna or Julia Roberts would have been better choices, in Fanny’s opinion, but Catherine Deneuve was Henry’s favorite actress, and by mentioning her, Fanny sensed that her mother was telling her father that everything would be all right. It was a signal. Fanny wasn’t sure why, but sometimes this way of communicating seemed more direct than actually saying what was on one’s mind, and easier.
    â€œThank you,” Henry said, exchanging a look with Ellen. And Fanny’s perception was confirmed.
    The fact that Henry had brought two bags of Whoppers and french fries home from Burger King was another sign, an unspoken apology.
    Henry had never liked fast-food restaurants, never took Fanny to Hardee’s or McDonald’s or Burger King on Saturdays or after school for a special treat.
    â€œMr. Dibble goes,” Fanny would say. “And so does Mom. Even though I know shedoesn’t like the food.”
    â€œI’m not Mr. Dibble. And I’m not your mother. I’m your father. And just thinking of eating that food churns my stomach and sets my teeth on edge.” Trying to lighten the mood, he’d often add, “I’d rather eat wind sauce and air pudding.”
    Henry took her other places, of course, places Fanny enjoyed—small, dark taverns near State Street that served thick, rare hamburgers like the kind Henry made at home, or the Union Terrace behind the Memorial Union building on campus. They’d always get cheese sandwiches at the deli counter in the Union, and eat them outside if the weather was nice. At the Union Terrace, round metal tables and chairs painted in bright colors—yellow, green, orange—were scattered here and there near the shore of Lake Mendota like handfuls of M&Ms. Fanny always searched for an orange table, and she always situated her chair so that she would face the water. This way she could watch the sailboats skim across the lake. She could watch birds ride the wind, then swoopdown to peck about at the water’s foamy edge. And she could watch the students. Students with pierced lips and noses. Students stooped from backpacks crammed with too many books. Students zipping by on Rollerblades, leaving musky trails behind them. Students folded together, their faces concealed, kissing. They all seemed so exotic to her.
    Occasionally, they’d run into some of Henry’s graduate students, and they’d share their table with them. The students would bring pitchers of beer and bags of popcorn. Although Fanny was shy around them, she’d lean into the table and listen to them talk about painting as if nothing else in the world mattered. She wasn’t terribly interested in painting; she was observing. Observing how one student twisted strands of her hair and looked sidewise at anyone who walked by. Observing how another chewed on his paper cup until the rim was tattered and flakes of wax had piled up on the table in front of him. Observing how yet another spoke with her hands flapping rapidly so that Fanny didn’t know if she should look at her face or herfingers.
    Fanny would pretend her lemonade was beer, licking her lips after every slow sip. Often she’d create stories about the students in her head—who was dating whom; who secretly had a