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Mother got married. We were content, all of us, though it’s common knowledge that she has never been divorced from Daddy. The name next to hers on the marriage license is Sidney LaValle, Jr., Lieut, (j.g.), U.S.N. An earlier, curlier generation of LaValles came to Michigan from Quebec, and Sid has a couple of usable idioms in Mother’s favorite tongue.
    I have received one card from Browny. It shows an aerial view of Joplin, Mo. It says: “Hi, kid, chin up, love, Browny. P.S. Health improved.”
    Living as I do on a turnpike of discouragement, I am glad to hear the incessant happy noises in the next room. I enjoyed hugging with Browny’s body, though I don’t believe I was more to him than a hope for civilian success. Joanna has moved in with me. Though she grinds her teeth well into daylight, I am grateful for her company. Since I have been engaged, she looks up to me. She is a real cuddly girl.

The Pale Pink Roast
    Pale green greeted him, grubby buds for nut trees. Packed with lunch, Peter strode into the park. He kicked aside the disappointed acorns and endowed a grand admiring grin to two young girls.
    Anna saw him straddling the daffodils, a rosy man in about the third flush of youth. He got into Judy’s eye too. Acquisitive and quick, she screamed, “There’s Daddy!”
    Well, that’s who he was, mouth open, addled by visions. He was unsettled by a collusion of charm, a conspiracy of curly hairdos and shiny faces. A year ago, in plain view, Anna had begun to decline into withering years, just as he swelled to the maximum of manhood, spitting pipe smoke, patched with tweed, an advertisement of a lover who startled men and detained the ladies.
    Now Judy leaped over the back of a bench and lunged into his arms. “Oh, Peter dear,” she whispered, “I didn’t even know you were going to meet us.”
    â€œGod, you’re getting big, kiddo. Where’s your teeth?” he asked. He hugged her tightly, a fifty-pound sack of his very own. “Say, Judy, I’m glad you still have a pussycat’s sniffy nose and a pussycat’s soft white fur.”
    â€œI do not,” she giggled.
    â€œOh yes,” he said. He dropped her to her springy hind legs but held on to one smooth front paw. “But you’d better keep your claws in or I’ll drop you right into the Hudson River.”
    â€œAw, Peter,” said Judy, “quit it.”
    Peter changed the subject and turned to Anna. “You don’t look half bad, you know.”
    â€œThank you,” she replied politely, “neither do you.”
    â€œLook at me, I’m a real outdoorski these days.”
    She allowed thirty seconds of silence, into which he turned, singing like a summer bird, “We danced around the Maypole, the Maypole, the Maypole …
    â€œWell, when’d you get in?” he asked.
    â€œAbout a week ago.”
    â€œYou never called.”
    â€œYes, I did, Peter. I called you at least twenty-seven times. You’re never home. Petey must be in love somewhere, I said to myself.”
    â€œWhat is this thing,” he sang in tune, “called love?”
    â€œPeter, I want you to do me a favor,” she started again. “Peter, could you take Judy for the weekend? We’ve just moved to this new place and I have a lot of work to do. I just don’t want her in my hair. Peter?”
    â€œAh, that’s why you called.”
    â€œOh, for godsakes,” Anna said. “I really called to ask you to become my lover. That’s the real reason.”
    â€œO.K., O.K. Don’t be bitter, Anna.” He stretched forth a benedicting arm. “Come in peace, go in peace. Of course I’ll take her. I like her. She’s my kid.”
    â€œBitter?” she asked.
    Peter sighed. He turned the palms of his hands up as though to guess at rain. Anna knew him, theme and choreography. The sunshiny spring afternoon seeped through his