What he felt like doing was just driving off and leaving her there, but that wouldn’t work, of course, and he’d never do it anyway, because then there’d be a whole long soap opera of tears and recrimination to get through when he came back. Plus, Tim had insisted he bring her (“This isn’t just for you, you know”), and the last thing he wanted was to disappoint Tim. Or countermand him, or whatever you wanted to call it. On top of it all, he was feeling increasingly ambivalent about the whole thing—scared, that is—and he needed her. Now more than ever. And where was she?

He was turned sideways, feeling around on the floor for something to pin down the accelerator so he could go up there and drag her out of the house if that was what it was going to take, when a shadow drifted up the dark tube of the shoveled walk and suddenly cohered into the shape and form of the babysitter, Mrs. Pierzynski, and he caught his breath. He watched her come lumbering past the car without even realizing he was there—knock-kneed, rubber boots, scarf, mittens, knit hat—and then stamp up the steps, the door opening and closing in a quick flash of light and the figure of Joanie replacing hers on the landing. In the next moment there was a rush of cold air and Joanie was sliding into the seat beside him, smelling of the perfume her mother had given her for Christmas.

“Jesus,” was all he said, and then he put the car in gear and lurched out onto the icy street, feeling the wheels slide out from under him for one terrifying moment before finally taking hold where the plow had scraped the pavement.

“What?” she said. “Don’t blame me—you’re the one who insists on treating him like a child. Fitz, Corey’s thirteen years old, thirteen. He doesn’t need a babysitter—it’s just a waste of money we don’t have.”

“You’re the one who infantilized him.”

His wife’s face, elaborately made up, false eyelashes, lipstick so red it looked black in the dim glow of the dash lights, hung there beside him as if it were floating free, one more satellite in orbit. “How would you know? You’re always at the library.”

“You baby talk him.”

“It’s not baby talk—it’s a code, we have a code between us, okay? Mother and son? Our own special vocabulary.” He heard her purse snap open, the rattle of the cellophane on a fresh pack of Marlboros. They were silent a moment, then she said, “Don’t blame me. It’s ridiculous, is what it is—you tell me he can’t be home alone for a couple of hours on a Saturday night?”