Mommy wore the deep-blue dress that day, her favorite. It fluttered in the hot breeze that whistled through the cracked window. Her hair was pinned up but strands had escaped the bun. They whipped at her neck, which was long and white. Daddy drove and his hat was a black mountain range against the light. I lay on the back seat kicking my feet and watched the sky go by.

“Can I have a kitty?” I asked, as I did every so often. Maybe I thought I could surprise her into a different answer.

“No animals in the house, Teddy,” she said. “You know how I feel about pets. It’s cruel, keeping living things in captivity.” You could tell she wasn’t from around here. Her voice still bore the faintest trace of her father’s country. A pinched sound around the “r”s. But it was more how she held herself, as if waiting for a blow from behind.

“Daddy,” I said.

“You listen to your mother.”

I made a crying face at that, but only to myself. I didn’t want to be a nuisance. I stroked my hand through the air and pretended I could feel silky fur under my hand, a solid head with inquiring ears. I had wanted a cat ever since I could remember. Mommy always said no. (I can’t help but wonder, now, if she knew something I didn’t, whether she saw the future, like a streak of red on the horizon.)

As we came close to the lake, the air took on the scent of deep water.

We got there early but the shore was already covered with families, blankets spread out like squares on a checkerboard on the white sand. Shadflies hung in clouds over the sheeny surface. The morning sun was strong; it tingled on my skin like vinegar.

“Keep your sweater on, Teddy,” Mommy said. It was hot but I knew better than to argue.

I played with Daddy in the water. Mommy sat in her chair, holding her blue silk parasol. The fringe rippled in the breeze. She didn’t read. She just looked out through the forest and the land and the water, at something none of us could see. She seemed like she was dreaming, or watching for an enemy. Looking back, she was probably doing both.

The souvenir stand had little key rings carved from local forest pine. They were wonderful, shaped like dogs and fish and horses. They swung gently, looking at me with their wooden eyes, silver rings catching the light. I picked through them with water-wrinkled fingers. At the back of the rack I found her, a perfect little cat, sitting straight upright, paws together. Her tail was a question mark, her ears delicate. The carver had worked with the whorls and grain of the wood to make it look like a silky coat. I longed to have her. I felt like we were made for one another.