House of Wonder by Sarah Healy Page B

great,” he added, “at helping with Gabs.” I thought about Bobby’s wife, Mia. What could make a woman leave a man like Bobby? What could make her leave her daughter? Wasn’t it always the men who left?
    Gabby and Rose had already headed off together toward the jungle gym, and Bobby and I followed.
    â€œHey,” I began, feeling the rhythm of our steps, hoping it would, beat by beat, bring the right words to my lips. “I want to thank you . . . for everything with Warren.”
    From the corner of my eye, I studied Bobby; he was focused on the girls, on their excited shrieks and squeals as they whipped down the slide. “I’m glad I was there,” he offered. We came to the line where the grass met the wood-chip-covered playground floor and stopped—the demarcation between the land of adults and the realm of children. “Did he end up going to the police?” he asked.
    I crossed my arms over my chest, not knowing how to explain that we didn’t have the ability to make Warren do anything: not go to the police, not tell us who had hurt him.
    â€œNo,” I said. “He hasn’t even really told us what happened.” I stared out at the line of woods past the park, at the colored leaves on the trees, which every fall seemed less vivid than I had remembered. It was wrong, what everyone said about memories. They didn’t fade. They became sharper—brighter and more concentrated—making the present look diluted and thin in comparison. “So you think that’s what it was?” I asked, dreading his answer. “Assault?”
    â€œYou never know, but . . .” Bobby’s head dropped slightly, and I realized that he would never be the type of doctor who was comfortable delivering bad news. “I’d say so.”
    A burst of wind came, sent a strand of my hair across my face. I hooked it back behind my ear and nodded.
That’s what I thought.
    Bobby might have said more. Or maybe I would have. We might have talked about the thefts, and now this trouble with Warren, and how we couldn’t believe that things like this were happening in Harwick. But Rose called for me from the swings. “Can you push us?”
    As we went to the girls, Bobby nodded toward the seesaws. “Do you remember the old wooden ones they used to have when we were little?” he asked. Like many things from our childhood, the old seesaws had been replaced with safety-tested plastic versions.
    â€œYeah,” I said, smiling. Warren used to walk across them, seeking the spot in the middle where both sides were elevated equally off the ground. When he found it, he’d hold there for as long as he could, his arms and legs straining.
    In the parking lot on the other side of the playground, I saw Mr. Kotch glide by on his bike, the wheels spinning as he lookedat Bobby and me. Bobby gave him a wave. “Hey, Bill!” he called. Mr. Kotch nodded back as he began to make a U-turn, his lips forming a small smile that was covered by his thick mustache. I imagined that it must be difficult for Mr. Kotch, seeing Bobby and me grown and with children of our own.
    â€œMom says he’s been riding his bike around the neighborhood a lot lately,” I said.
    Bobby squinted after him. “I think it has something to do with the neighborhood watch. I guess they have a meeting tonight.”
    And I wondered what the man who had already lost so much could be worried about losing now.
    For the rest of our time in the park, we tended to the girls, spotting them, lifting them. And I found myself aware of Bobby’s presence as I moved.
    â€œMaybe we can get the girls together again sometime,” he offered, after we had given Rose and Gabby the five-minute warning that it would soon be time to leave the park, then the three-minute warning, only to have to pull them off the jungle gym. We were now each gripping their respective