Innocence. Kathleen Tessaro

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      As I pass by Allyson’s room, I hear her humming softly. Something lovely. Something I don’t know. Probably something German.

      I climb the last flight, twisting the doorknob very carefully. Slowly, I creep through to the next room.

      And there he is, sleeping. In his Thomas the Tank Engine pyjamas. Alex, my lovely, gorgeous, perfect four-year-old son. I lean down, softly kissing his forehead. And he shifts, brushing away the clinging attentions of his watchful mother, even in sleep.

      I could spend all night staring at him, at the gentle curve of his forehead, the soft, smooth pink of his cheeks, the angelic (at least in repose) set of his mouth. Every day he grows more and more beautiful.

      Like his father.

      A cloud trails across the night sky. Cold white moonlight floods in through the window. Everything’s illuminated, the countless toys scattered across the floor, the second-hand rocking chair in the corner, the brightly painted toy chest…Here is a world where nothing’s lost for very long; where everything’s retrievable. A fragile, temporary universe.

      I settle quietly, as I do so many nights now, in the wooden rocking chair and watch.

      He’ll be bigger tomorrow and yet I’ll have never seen a glimpse of him growing in the night. But I’m here, nonetheless. A sentinel, standing guard against a whole, impossible, unknowable future.

      And here, in the stillness of my son’s room, with the soft, sighing rhythm of his breathing for company, the thought enters again, uninvited.

      Would I do it differently?

      If I had to make the choice again, is this the fate I would choose?

      I look out at the silent street below. At the daffodils bowed by the wind and rain.

      It’s a fragile, temporary universe.

      And always has been.

      ‘This is it,’ Robbie says.

      We’re standing outside a pub in Camden Town called the Black Dog. The throbbing bass of the music inside pulses each time the door opens.

      I waver.

      ‘Come on,’ she says, swinging the door wide. She’s a New Yorker; nothing can scare her. She gives me a little smile and I follow.

      It’s crowded, heaving. A Friday night mix of drunken Irishmen and City boys straight from the office. Jesus and the Mary Chain are wailing on the sound system. The bar is three deep. We find a corner at one of the low round tables.

      ‘Do you mind if we join you?’ Robbie asks. It’s a group of girls, mid-gossip. They nod and wave their cigarettes at us. ‘Go ahead.’ We perch on the edge of our stools; I’m clutching my handbag in front of my chest like an old lady waiting for a bus. Robbie pushes it down on to my lap.

      ‘I’ll get us a drink. What will you have?’

      I fumble for my wallet. ‘Ah…I don’t know…a beer, I guess.’

      She puts her hand over mine. ‘How ’bout a pint? On me.’

      And then she’s gone, engulfed in the crowd. I smile at the girls across the table. They ignore me. Can they tell I’ve never been in a pub before? Does it show that I’m American? I readjust the embroidered vintage cardigan Robbie lent me and my Guess? Jeans. Everyone else seems to be chicer, more convincingly put together. With bigger hair, shorter skirts and sharper shoulder pads. I’m the only one with a ponytail. Slipping the band out, my hair falls round my shoulders. I check my Swatch. Almost nine o’clock.

      Robbie comes back, carrying two overflowing pints. ‘Here.’ She hands me one. I take a sip and almost immediately spit it back out.

      ‘Jesus, Robbie! It’s warm!’

      The girls across from us stare at me like I’m a freak. Robbie giggles. ‘Yup,’ she says, settling onto the stool next to me. She whips out a compact and reapplies her lip gloss. I marvel at her poise. This is probably the sort of thing she does all the time back home in the Village.

      I take another sip of my warm beer. ‘How will we recognize them?’ I feel childish and stupid even asking.

      ‘Well’—she pouts at herself in the mirror—‘Hughey will be wearing a white shirt and carrying a copy of the Evening Standard.’

      I look around the bar. All the men are wearing white shirts and carrying copies of the Evening Standard.

      ‘Robbie…’

      ‘Just kidding.’ She slips her compact back into her bag and crosses her legs. ‘He’s bringing me a bunch of flowers, so all we need to do is spot the sap with the bouquet and we’re in business.’

      I’m impressed. ‘How romantic!’

      She makes a face. ‘I told him to. Start as you mean to go on, Evie. I may be easy but I’m not cheap!’

      I laugh and we sit, side by side, staring at the door. It opens and closes. More men in white shirts. More copies of the Evening Standard. Not a single petal in sight.

      The girls across from us are laughing loudly, opening a fresh pack of cigarettes, flirting with the guys at the table opposite.

      ‘How ’bout another?’ I’m feeling brave.

      ‘Sure.’ Robbie hands me her glass and I weave my way towards the bar.

      ‘What it’ll be?’ the barman asks.

      ‘Two more pints,’ I say, proud that I’ve mastered the lingo.

      ‘Yeah, what kind, luv?’ He points to a vast array of pumps.

      I blink.

      ‘Are they all the same temperature?’

      He frowns. ‘Yeah.’

      I choose the pump with a picture of a harp on it. That seems pretty. ‘I’ll have that one, please.’

      He raises an eyebrow. ‘Suit yourself.’ And begins to fill the glasses.

      It’s black.

      I panic.

      ‘It’s black,’ I say.

      He hands me the glasses. ‘It’s what you ordered.’ And removes the fiver from my hand. I wait for change but he turns to the next person. I guess that’s it.

      I walk back to the table with the drinks.

      ‘I’m sorry, Robbie. It’s black. I think it may have gone off.’

      ‘It’s Guinness.’ She takes a sip and wipes the white foam from her upper lip. I hold mine warily. Warm and yellow is bad enough. ‘Don’t worry’ She nods encouragingly. ‘It’s sexy. And Irish.’

      We wade through the Guinness. The music gets СКАЧАТЬ