The Mask

countless other occasions during the past four years, he wondered why she had ever consented to marry him. She was beautiful. He was not. Anyone putting together a dictionary could do worse than to use a picture of his face as the sole definition of the word plain. He had once jokingly expressed a similar opinion of his physical appearance, and Carol had been angry with him for talking about himself that way.
    But it was true, and it didn’t really matter to him that he was not Burt Reynolds, just so long as Carol didn’t notice the difference. It was not only his plainness of which she seemed unaware; she could not comprehend her own beauty, and she insisted she was actually rather plain, or at least no more than “a little bit pretty, no, not even pretty, just sort of cute, but kind of funny-looking cute.” Her dark hair—even now, when it was matted and curled by rain and sweat—was thick, glossy, lovely. Her skin was flawless, and her cheekbones were so well sculpted that it was difficult to believe the clumsy hand of nature could have done the job. Carol was the kind of woman you saw on the arm of a tall, bronzed Adonis, not with the likes of Paul Tracy. Yet here she was, and he was grateful to have her beside him. He never ceased to be surprised that they were compatible in every respect—mentally, emotionally, physically.
    Now, as rain began to beat on the roof and windows with renewed force, Carol sensed that he was staring at her, and she opened her eyes. They were so brown that, from a distance of more than a few inches, they looked black. She smiled. “I love you.”
    “I love you,” he said.
    “I thought you were dead.”
    “Wasn’t.”
    “After the lightning stopped, I called you, but you didn’t answer for the longest time.”
    “I was busy with a call to Chicago,” he said, grinning.
    “Seriously.”
    “Okay. It was San Francisco.”
    “I was scared.”
    “I couldn’t answer you right away,” he said soothingly. “In case you’ve forgotten, O’Brian fell on top of me, Knocked the wind right out. He doesn’t look so big, but he’s as solid as a rock. I guess he builds a lot of muscles by picking lint off his suits and shining his shoes nine hours a day.”
    “That was a pretty brave thing you did.”
    “Making love to you? Think nothing of it.”
    Playfully, she slapped his face. “You know what I mean. You save O’Brian’s life.”
    “Nope.”
    “Yes, you did. He thought so, too.”
    “For God’s sake, I didn’t step in front of him and shield him from the tree with mine own precious bod! I just pulled him out of the way. Anyone would have done the same.”
    She shook her head. “Wrong. Not everyone thinks as fast as you do.”
    “A fast thinker, huh? Yeah. That’s something I’ll admit to being. I’m a fast thinker, but I’m sure no hero. I won’t let you pin that label on me because then you’ll expect me to live up to it. Can you just imagine what a hell on earth Superman’s life would be if he ever married Lois Lane? Her expectations would be so high!”
    “Anyway,” Carol said, “even if you won’t admit it, O’Brian knows you saved his life, and that’s the important thing.”
    “It is?”
    “Well, I was pretty sure the adoption agency would approve us. But now there’s not the slightest doubt about it.”
    “There’s always a slim chance—”
    “No,” she said, interrupting him. “O’Brian’s not going to fail you after you saved his life. Not a chance. He’s going to wrap the recommendations committee around his finger.”
    Paul blinked, then slowly broke into a smile. “I’ll be damned. I didn’t think of that.”
    “So you’re a hero, Papa.”
    “Well… maybe I am, Mama.”
    “I think I prefer ‘Mom.’”
    “And I prefer ‘Dad.’”
    “What about ‘Pop’?”
    “Pop isn’t a name. It’s a sound a champagne cork makes.”
    “Are you suggesting a celebration?” she asked.
    “I thought we’d put on our robes, mosey down to the kitchen, and whip up an early dinner. If you’re hungry, that is.”
    “Famished.”
    “You can make a mushroom salad,” he said. “I’ll whip up my famous fettuccine Alfredo. We’ve got a bottle or two of Mumm’s Extra Dry we’ve been saving for a special occasion. We’ll open that, pile our plates high with fettuccine Alfredo and mushrooms, come back up here, and have dinner in bed.”
    “And watch the TV news while we eat.”
    “Then pass the evening reading thrillers and sipping champagne until we can’t keep our eyes open.”
    “Sounds wonderfully, sinfully lazy,” she said.
    More evenings than not,