“Let your routine be your stockings. If you wear them, wear them daringly.”I can feel him enter the room, feel him searching for me. I can see in Oma’s eyes that he is beside the pocket doors somewhere on my left. I resist the urge to acknowledge it, the slightest Oma glance confirms that I am right to ignore him, to let him search for me in the crowded room.His voice is perfect, calm but having an impatient undertone as he is greeted. He is courteous but not looking for any of the pleasantries which are so necessary in times like these. He wants me, needs to see me, breathe me in, ravish me and I want him to want this, to need this as well.I feel my beautiful boy’s eyes upon me. He is drinking in a vision of me. I hear his footfalls, his clumsy tread from hardwood to carpet… three strides… He is behind my chair. I admit to having to quiet my heart and restrain myself from looking around.“Miss Emily… It’s great to see you!” as I turn, he gives courteous greeting to Oma, but his eyes. My folks spent a couple of weekends in May scouting places to live.As soon as school let out, the moving began. I was farmed out to my maternal grandmother, with whom I was always extremely close, for a couple of weeks of settling-in; my younger sister to my Dad's older sister, who had a crop of girl cousins.Eventually the family was reunited, and we began to meet and know the neighborhood folk.Among my friends was a fellow named David L___, about thirteen months my senior, but with whom I shared an immediate and easy rapport. My family lived in a corner duplex apartment; his in the same configuration at the end of the block.David's family was interesting. He and his three younger sisters lived with their (relatively young) grandparents. Their son and his wife had gotten the "d" word, scandalous back then, and had unceremoniously dumped the four kids on Gramma and Grampa L___.Of the sisters, the youngest was Barbara, cute as a button, six years old, and besotted with my father. She'd.
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