Pickup

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Cath looked out the wide front window, saw the street distorted by the large wet flakes that melted against the glass — and something in the wet asphalt’s shining, something about the yellow of the early street lights, the soggy fall of snow, called up the feeling of emptiness, of strangeness that had haunted her for over a month.

The street seemed to brood, the small houses cheerless under the brittle blackness of the elms, and she weighed and tested her own emotion, thinking back to her lab classes in college. Quantitative and qualitative analysis. What is this feeling of darkness that I get? How important is it? What should I do about it?

It was only in the winter, after the leaves were gone that she could see one corner of the tan stone school.

She glanced at her watch. Almost four. In a few minutes small Catherine, walking with little-girl directness, walking with the graceful promise of what she would one day become, would turn the corner, mittened hand holding onto Jerry’s snow suit, yanking him back whenever he tried to straggle off the sidewalk.

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