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Updated: May 25, 2025
"I see you. Where's Princess?" "In her room. Why don't we bring the playpen out here? Will you watch her? I want to go to Gillespie's." "Sure." They took the playpen apart and put it back together on the lawn. Emma sat in the sun surrounded by rattles, balls, and small stuffed bears. Jennifer left and Oliver set up a window-washing station in front of the house.
He put her down in the playpen, turned off the TV, and played La Traviata. Pavarotti's voice swelled through the house. "Listen to that, Emma!" He stroked Verdi and watched the lowering clouds. Jennifer came home full of enthusiasm and plans. "Eric is having a party!" "Hot diggety." "It will be fun! And lots of Conservancy people will be there. I really have to go. And I think it's good for Emma."
Jennifer nodded wisely and took Eric to see Emma who was in her playpen in the living room. Oliver went back to the barn. Christ, he said to himself. It was beginning to get dark, a relief. "Gotta go, Handsome." Jacky appeared at his elbow. "So soon?" "Long day tomorrow. Driving back." "I'll walk you down," Oliver said. "Where's your coat? You'll get wet." "I don't need one," he said.
I had always wondered how long the real hunters were going to stand for that. They'd been standing for it ever since I could remember anything outside my own playpen, which, of course, hadn't been too long. I was about to say something to that effect, and then somebody yelled, "There she is!"
The leaves were changing color fast. It was beautiful, really. Jennifer loved the new house. Emma had a room with a baby bed and a playpen right next to their bedroom. There were plenty of projects; that was fun. Old storm windows were leaning against the wall in one corner of the barn. He had to clean them and figure out where they went. There was a wooden ladder missing a couple of rungs.
"That's my precious," Jennifer said, lifting her out of the playpen. "Oh, you need changing, oh my precious!" She looked at Oliver accusingly. "Whoops," he said. He unloaded the car while she changed Emma. "Great stuff, this cider," he said, knocking down a glass. The afternoons were short in October, but Oliver had the windows in place by four o'clock.
She was talented, I guess." "Do you think of her often?" "Hardly ever not very good memories." "Like?" Joe sipped coffee. "She was always leaving me places. Once, when I was six, she left me with an old couple in New York. They were very old. They made me stay in a playpen for a week." "A week?" "Yeah. It was torture. I was used to having the run of the block. It was summer.
Sunday afternoon, Emma lay contentedly in her playpen near the new stove while a fire burned and Oliver watched the Patriots lose another one. Jennifer had driven in to The Conservancy for a couple of hours. Woof was outside. Verdi was curled by a window. The stove had cost a bundle, but it was worth it, Oliver thought. They charged it on one of Jennifer's credit cards. "Da Da." "Yes, Emma."
The playpen was by a window where I could see the street; that was good, anyway. I remember the dust floating in the room." "How awful," Brendan said. Memories rushed into Joe's mind as though a lock had been picked. "I used to listen to radio shows every day at five o'clock. Sergeant Preston of the Yukon and his Great Dog, King.
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