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and formidable. There were rooms that Carl was afraid to enter alone. He was convinced that a monster lurked in that house.
    And he was right.
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    â€œWhen’s Amy going to bring the baby by so we can see him, Mrs. Sheehan?” the checkout girl asked.
    Carl stood in the next line at the Safeway. After four weeks of watching the slim, sixtyish blond lady come and go from the town house, he’d assumed she was the McMurray guy’s mother. She looked nothing like the girl. The elegant way she dressed and carried herself, she seemed to have a lot more class than either of them. He was more willing to acknowledge her as the baby’s grandmother than he was to accept that young, white trash couple as the parents.
    Those nights of sitting in his car, parked across the street from the town house had become a routine—something he looked forward to after work, before going to his empty apartment. Back in high school, he’d made the same kind of lovesick surveillance on Mary Woodrich’s house. Nothing had ever happened with that secret crush. Sometimes, he thought this business in front of the McMurrays’ house was just as pointless. Still, he wanted to find out everything he could about them, the child especially. But from where he watched, he only caught an occasional glimpse of someone in the window. He’d yet to get a good look at the baby. If they took the boy outside, it must have been during the day, while he was at work. Like the checkout girl, he too wondered: When can I see him?
    â€œMaybe we’ll bring Eddie by on our way to the airport,” Mrs. Sheehan was saying. She gave the girl a playful pout. “I have a 2:40 flight tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to be one lonesome grandma. Little Ed is so sweet and lovable, I just want to take him back to Chicago with me.”
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    â€œThank you for calling Northwest Orient. This is April. Can I help you?”
    Leaning over the kitchen counter with the receiver to his ear, Carl doodled on a notepad. He’d written down the names of twelve major airlines, and already crossed out four. “Hello,” he said. “I’d like to make a reservation on your flight to Chicago that leaves Portland at 2:40 tomorrow afternoon.”
    â€œOne minute, please.”
    He waited. The four other airlines he’d just tried had no such flight.
    â€œYes, there are still seats available on our flight 57 to Chicago O’Hare. How many will be traveling?”
    Bingo . He’d only wanted to find out the airline, so he could see them at the boarding gate, but Carl heard himself answer: “One. Just me. Um, my mother-in-law’s on that flight, and I’m wondering if I could sit next to her. The name’s Sheehan…”
    At two o’clock the next afternoon, Carl stood at the boarding gate for Northwest Flight 57. He’d been assigned a middle seat—ordinarily the least desirable place to be stuck for three and a half hours; but he’d be sitting next to the grandmother. This whole trip had him deliberately seeking the in-flight situations he usually tried to avoid. This trip, he hoped to sit next to a chatty grandmother. He wanted to see photographs of her grandchild. He wanted her to talk all about the baby.
    Carl glanced down the terminal’s long corridor, then checked his wristwatch. He’d left work early, saying he had a dentist appointment; and he still wore his light blue seersucker suit. He liked looking neat and presentable for plane rides. He never understood how some people allowed themselves to appear as if they’d just finished cleaning the garage before jumping into the car and driving to the airport.
    The father of the baby boy looked exactly like that. He wore a dirty T-shirt and cut off jeans. Carl cringed a little at the sight of him, holding the baby in his sweaty, dirt-stained arms. Beside him, the grandmother was a sharp contrast in an airy, yellow,