“That’s funny—Molly almost ran over Bigfoot Bob just the other night,” my mother told me. “Trail groomers sometimes have an adversarial relationship with snowshoers,” Ray explained, keeping her voice low. Her expertise regarding all matters related or tangential to the ski business couldn’t deter me from telling her what I wanted her to know. I somehow knew the snowshoer was intended for Little Ray and me; he was not just my snowshoer.

“Go on, go on—tell me everything, Adam,” my mom repeated.

I did. My aspirations to be a snowshoer and a writer, which of course became confusing to my mother when I mentioned Great Expectations—failing to be clear that it was a novel.

“Sweetie, wait!” my mom cried. “What kind of great expectations did Mr. Barlow give you?”

When that was sorted out, there were various pitfalls of misunderstanding awaiting us in the area of Mr. Barlow’s extraordinary handsomeness. “Are you saying you find Mr. Barlow very handsome, sweetie?” my mother asked me.

“I’m saying I think Mr. Barlow will strike you as very handsome—good-looking and small,” I emphasized to her.

“Oh, Adam—are you fixing me up with someone?” my mom asked. “Oh, sweetie—that is the sweetest thing!” she cried. It had occurred to me, of course, that I was consciously matchmaking for my mother.

“I think you’ll like him,” was all I said. “I know you’ll think he’s handsome—good-looking and small,” I repeated.

“Adam: promise me Abigail and Martha didn’t put you up to this,” my mom suddenly said.

“I don’t think they like Mr. Barlow!” I told her. “Abigail said he was ‘a little light in his loafers,’ or something; ‘the midget fairy,’ I think Martha called him,” I said.

“Well, that explains why I haven’t heard about Mr. Barlow from those two,” my mom softly said.

“Mr. Barlow said you were ‘definitely pretty’; he called you ‘very pretty’—really, he did,” I told her.

“Mr. Barlow said that about me?” my mother asked.

“I told him you were ‘very pretty,’ and he agreed with me—he’s seen you,” I said. I even told my mom how Mr. Barlow drove his Beetle—with both hands holding tight to the steering wheel and his ass not touching the seat, as if he were doing wall sits and driving at the same time.

“Adam, sweetie—just how small is he?” she asked me. “Surely, Mr. Barlow isn’t smaller than me!” my mother asserted.

I should have known his size would be the clincher. At the time, I didn’t know all the reasons why. “Mr. Barlow is much smaller than you—he’s four feet nine, only fifty-seven inches. He doesn’t look like he has to shave,” I told her.