The Progress of Love

time she had hoped he might become a geologist instead of a businessman.)
    So they were moving, barely. They were moving over the lake. Off to the right Sophie saw Aubreyville spread out, and the white gash of the silica quarry. Her feeling of a mistake, of a very queer and incommunicable problem, did not abate. It wasn’t the approach but the aftermath of disaster she felt, in this golden air—as if they were all whisked off and cancelled, curled up into dots, turned to atoms, but they didn’t know it.
    “Let’s see if we can see the roof of the Log House,” said Laurence. “My grandfather was a German; he built his house in the trees, like a hunting lodge,” he said to the pilot.
    “That so?” said the pilot, who probably knew at least that much about the Vogelsangs.
    This feeling—Sophie was realizing—wasn’t new to her. She’d had it as a child. A genuine shrinking feeling, one of the repertoire of frightening, marvellous feelings, or states, that are available to you when you’re very young. Like the sense of hanging upside down, walking on the ceiling, stepping over heightened doorsills. An awful pleasure then, so why not now?
    Because it was not her choice, now. She had a sure sense of changes in the offing, that were not her choice.
    Laurence pointed out the roof to her, the roof of the Log House. She exclaimed satisfactorily.
    Still shrinking, curled up into that sickening dot, but not vanishing, she held herself up there. She held herself up there, using all the powers she had, and said to her grandchildren, Look here, look there, see the shapes on the earth, see the shadows and the light going down in the water.
III .
    Sitting by herself is my wife’s greatest pleasure .
    Isabel sat on the grass near the car, in the shade of some scrawny poplar trees, and thought that this day, a pleasant family day, had been full of hurdles, which she had so far got over. When she woke up this morning, Laurence was wanting to make love to her. She knew that the children would be awake; they would be busy in Denise’s room down the hall, preparing the first surprise of the day—a poster with a poem on it, a birthday poem and a collage for their father. If Laurence was interrupted by their trooping in with this—or their pounding on the door, supposing she got up to bolt it—he was going to be in a very bad mood. Denise would be disappointed—in fact, grief-stricken. They would be off to a bad start for the day. But it wouldn’t do to put Laurence off, explaining about the children. That would be seen as an instance of her making them more important, considering their feelings ahead of his. The best thing to do seemed to be to hurry him up, and she did that, encouraging him even when he was momentarily distracted by the sound of heavy-footed Sophie, prowling around downstairs, banging open some kitchen drawer.
    “What the Christ is the matter with her?” he whispered into Isabel’s ear. But she just stroked him as if impatient for further and faster activity. That was effective. Soon everything was all right. He lay on his back holding her hand by the time the children could be heard coming along the hall making a noise like trumpets, ajumbled fanfare. They pushed open the door of their parents’ room and entered, holding in front of them the large poster on which the birthday poem was written, in elaborate, crayoned letters of many colors.
    “Hail!” they said together, and bowed, lowering the poster. Denise was revealed in a sheet, carrying a tinfoil-covered stick with a silver paper star stuck on one end, and most of Isabel’s necklaces, chains, bracelets, and earrings strung around or somehow attached to her person. Peter was just in his pajamas.
    They began to recite the poem. Denise’s voice was high and intensely dramatic, though self-mocking. Peter’s voice trailed a little behind hers, slow and dutiful and uncertainly sardonic.
“Hail upon your fortieth year
That marks your fortunate lifetime here!
And I, the Fairy Queen, appear
To wish you health and wealth and love and cheer!”
    Peter, trailing, said, “And she , the Fairy Queen, appears,” and at the end of the verse Denise said, “Actually, I am the Fairy Godmother but that has too many syllables.” She and Peter continued to bow.
    Laurence and Isabel laughed and clapped, and asked to see the birthday poster at closer range. All around the poem were pasted figures and scenes and words cut letter by letter out of magazines.