Well, everything about that day was perfect—the weather, the walk, the view—except I was so nervous that my stomach was in agonies the whole slow walk across the East River and down Henry Street. I had been planning to recite a Walt Whitman poem as I opened the front door. I’d thought a marriage proposal might scare Lil off, but even if I was just asking her to move in with me, I wanted to mark the occasion. The problem was, by the time we got to the house, my insides were so knotted up that I didn’t have it in me to recite a limerick, not to mention several stanzas by the father of free verse. As soon as I turned the key in the lock, I made a beeline for the john. When I came out, Sam was toddling down the hallway making happy chirping noises, and Lil was in the empty living room, basking in a square of sunlight on the parquet floor. The different shades of honey in her hair matched the grain of the wood. Either your friend has taken a vow of poverty or he’s been robbed, she said. I ditched the poem and reached for her hand. I showed her the room where I thought we would sleep, and the bedroom for Sam, and the smallest bedroom, where we could install a sink and board up the window for a darkroom. Once Lil came around to what I was saying, it was like watching a curtain drop away. Her face relaxed. For a moment I saw how hard she had been struggling, and how grateful she was that she would not have to struggle anymore. A different man might have been hoping for a different face, a more passionate one, perhaps; but I was happy because I saw a face that said yes.

41. Batter, Brooklyn, 1956

JOURNAL ENTRY, JUNE 1956: You know, Squirrel, when I first arrived in New York, there were so many interesting people and buildings and cars and bars and bookstores and movie theaters and museums to distract me that I simply underestimated the importance of trees. Our Brooklyn move has made me realize that for three years I have been holding my breath. All these oaks and sycamores make me feel sorry for Manhattan!