Zoology

That night David and Lucy were out to dinner with friends, and when they came home David was a little drunk. He laughs a lot when he’s drunk, and his cheeks get splotchy. He sat down with me on the couch, smelling like alcohol and cologne.

“How are you, buddy?”

I heard Lucy get in the shower.

“Something bad happened today,” I said, and I told him the whole story. Listening was such work for him right then that his mouth fell open.

“This happened to you today?” he said. “What I’d do, I’d write up a nice note, something about how you’re so sorry and you think the kid’s so great, and I’d put it under their door. That’s rough.” And then he stood up to leave, probably to get in the shower with Lucy, but he got distracted by the Mets game and stood there behind the couch with his shirt unbuttoned. “They’ve been down the whole time?” he said. I nodded. “They really stink, don’t they?” Then he looked at me, and I thought he was going to add some warm, wise touch to his advice before he said, “They actually, totally stink.”

In a drawer in the kitchen I found a card, still in its plastic sleeve, with a picture of a puppy running through a bed of sunflowers. Inside I wrote:

Dear Matthew and family,

I’m writing to tell you how bad I feel about what happened with Matthew at the pool, and I wanted to wish him the best of luck in feeling better. I also wanted to be sure you knew that everything that happened was my fault, and not at all your goddaughter’s. She seems to care about him very much, and I was the one watching when the accident happened—I should have been more careful.

Again, I’m sorry, and if there’s anything I can do, whether it’s bringing ice cream or anything else, please let me know.

Very sincerely, Henry Elinsky, 23B

On the envelope I wrote again, Matthew and family, and before I sealed it I decided to add one of the hotel chocolates that David keeps next to the cereal. Before I went to bed, I took the elevator downstairs, my heart pounding like a thief, and slipped the envelope under the door at 12F.

* * *

The next night I was lying on David and Lucy’s bed watching Emeril make jambalaya when David came in and handed me an envelope with HENRY written in small capital letters. On a folded sheet of lined paper I read:

Henry,

I’m not going to show your letter to the Marsens. I’m sure you’d agree that it doesn’t add much to a babysitter’s credibility to have left a child in the care of a complete stranger—especially when the stranger let the child chip two teeth and split his lip.

The chocolate was delicious.

Yours, Margaret

“Who’s writing you letters?” David said, and because he sounded a little insulting, I ignored him. I liked her handwriting, small and sharp. Yours. Mine. Delicious delicious delicious. In my memory she was suddenly beautiful. I imagined her eating the chocolate while she wrote. She must be lonely, I thought. She was probably desperate for someone to talk to other than this weird little kid.