The Memory Keeper's Daughter Part 13

"Hurry!" she cried, her voice so loud and strange. "Oh Al, she's allergic."

She was lifting Phoebe, heavy in her arms, and then she paused, bewildered, because her keys were in her purse on the kitchen counter and she couldn't figure out how to open the door while holding Phoebe, who was wheezing harder now. Then Al was there, taking Phoebe and running to the car, and Caroline had the keys somehow, the keys and her purse. She drove as fast as she dared through the city streets. By the time they reached the hospital, Phoebe's breath was coming in short, desperate gasps.

They left the car at the entrance and Caroline grabbed the first nurse she saw.

"It's an allergic reaction. We need to see a doctor now. now."

The nurse was older, a bit heavyset, her gray hair turned under in a pageboy. She led them through a set of steel doors where Al put Phoebe gently, gently, on the gurney. Phoebe was struggling to breathe now, her lips faintly blue. Caroline, too, was having trouble breathing, fear pulled so tightly in her chest. The nurse swept Phoebe's hair back, touching her fingers to the pulse in her neck. And then Caroline watched her see Phoebe as Dr. Henry had seen her on that snowy night so long ago. She saw the nurse taking in the beautifully sloped eyes, the small hands that had gripped the net so hard as she ran after b.u.t.terflies, saw her eyes narrow slightly. Still, she was not prepared.

"Are you sure?" the nurse asked, looking up and meeting her eyes. "Are you really sure you want me to call a doctor?"

Caroline stood fixed in place. She remembered the scents of boiled vegetables, and the day she had driven away with Phoebe, and the impa.s.sive expressions worn by the men on the board of education. In a rush of wild alchemy her fear transformed itself into anger, fierce and piercing. She raised her hand to slap the bland, impa.s.sive face of the nurse, but Al caught her wrist.

"Call the doctor," he said to the nurse. "Do it now."

He put his arm around Caroline and didn't let go, not when the nurse turned away or when the doctor appeared, not until Phoebe's breathing began to ease and some of the color returned to her cheeks. Then they went together to the waiting room and sat in the orange plastic chairs, hand in hand, nurses buzzing and voices coming over the intercom and babies crying.

"She could have died," Caroline said. Her calm broke; she began to tremble.

"But she didn't," Al said firmly.

Al's hand was warm, large and comforting. He had been so patient all these years, he had come back again and again, saying he knew a good thing when he saw it. Saying he'd wait. But he'd been away two weeks this time, not one. He hadn't called from the road, and though he'd brought her flowers as always, he hadn't proposed for six months. He could drive away in his truck and never come back, never give her another chance to say yes.

She raised his hand and kissed his palm, strong, so rough with calluses, so marked with lines. He turned, startled from his thoughts, as puzzled as if he'd just been stung himself.

"Caroline." His tone was formal. "There's something I want to say."

"I know." She placed his hand on her heart, held it there. "Oh, Al, I've been such a fool. Of course I'll marry you," she said.

1977.

July 1977 LIKE THIS?" NORAH ASKED.

She was lying on the beach, and beneath her hip the gritty sand slid and shifted. Every time she took a deep breath and released it, sand slithered out from under her. The sun was so hot, like a shimmering metal plate against her skin. She had been here for over an hour, posing and re-posing, the word repose repose like a taunt, for it was what she longed to do and could not. It was her vacation, after all-she had won two weeks in Aruba for selling the highest number of cruise packages in the state of Kentucky last year-and yet here she was: sand sticking to the sweat on her arms and neck as she lay still, pressed between sun and beach. like a taunt, for it was what she longed to do and could not. It was her vacation, after all-she had won two weeks in Aruba for selling the highest number of cruise packages in the state of Kentucky last year-and yet here she was: sand sticking to the sweat on her arms and neck as she lay still, pressed between sun and beach.

To distract herself, she kept her gaze on Paul, who was running along the sh.o.r.e, a speck on the horizon. He was thirteen, and he'd shot up like a sapling in this last year. Tall and awkward, he ran every morning as if he might escape from his own life.

Waves crashed slowly against the beach. The tide was turning, coming in, and the harsh noon light would soon change, making the picture David wanted impossible until tomorrow. A strand of hair was stuck against Norah's lip, tickling, but she willed herself to stillness.

"Good," David said, bent over his camera and clicking off a rapid series of shots. "Oh, yes, great, that's really very good."

"I'm hot," she said.

"Just a few more minutes. We're almost done." He was on his knees now, his thighs winter pale against the sand. He worked so hard, and spent long hours in his darkroom too, clipping images to dry on the clotheslines he'd strung from wall to wall. "Think about the sea. Waves in the water, waves in the sand. You're part of that, Norah. You'll see in the photo. I'll show you."

She lay still beneath the sun, watching him work, remembering days early in their marriage when they'd gone out for long walks in the spring evenings, holding hands, the air infused with scents of honeysuckle and hyacinths. What had she imagined, that younger version of herself, walking in the soft still light of dusk, dreaming her dreams? Not this life, certainly. Norah had learned the travel business inside out over the past five years. She'd organized the office, and gradually she'd started overseeing trips. She'd built a stable client list and learned to sell, pushing glossy brochures across her desk, describing in breathless detail places she herself had only dreamed of going. She'd become an expert at solving last-minute crises: lost luggage, misplaced pa.s.sports, sudden bouts of giardiasis. Last year, when Pete Warren decided to retire, she'd taken a deep breath and bought the business. Now it was all hers, from the low brick building to the boxes of blank airline tickets in the closet. Her days were hectic, busy, satisfying-and every night she came home to a house full of silence.

"I still don't see it," she said, when David finally finished, when she was standing up and brushing sand from her legs and her arms, shaking sand from her hair. "Why take the photo of me at all, if you're hoping I'll just disappear into the landscape?"

"It's about perspective," David said, looking up from his equipment. His hair was wild, his cheeks and forearms flushed with noon sun. In the far distance Paul had turned and was on his way back, drawing nearer. "It's about expectations. People will look at this picture and see a beach, rolling dunes. And then they'll glimpse something a little odd, something familiar in your particular set of curves, or they'll read the t.i.tle and look again, searching for the woman they didn't see the first time, and they'll find you."

There was intensity in his voice; the wind coming off the ocean moved through his dark hair. It made her sad, because he spoke of photography as he had spoken once of medicine, of their marriage, a language and tone that evoked the lost past and filled her with longing. Do you and David talk about big things or small things? Do you and David talk about big things or small things? Bree asked her once, and Norah was shocked to realize how many of their conversations were about things as perfunctory and necessary as household ch.o.r.es and Paul's schedule. Bree asked her once, and Norah was shocked to realize how many of their conversations were about things as perfunctory and necessary as household ch.o.r.es and Paul's schedule.

The sun was bright on her hair and the gritty sand had caught in the tender skin between her legs. David was absorbed in putting away his camera. Norah had hoped this dream vacation would be a path back to the closeness they'd once shared. This was what had compelled her to spend so many hours lying in the hot sun, holding herself still while David took roll after roll of photos, but they had been here three days now, and nothing but the setting was significantly different from home. Each day they drank their morning coffee in silence. David found ways to work; he was either taking pictures or fishing. He did read in the evenings, swinging in the hammock. Norah took walks and naps, puttered, and went shopping at the bright, overpriced tourist shops in town. Paul played his guitar, and he ran.

Norah shaded her eyes and looked down the golden curve of the beach. Closer now, the runner's shape had emerged, and she saw it was not Paul after all. The man running was tall, lean, maybe thirty-five or forty. He wore blue nylon shorts edged with white piping and no shirt. His shoulders, already tanned dark, were edged with a burn that looked painful. As he drew close to them, he slowed and then stopped, hands on his hips, breathing heavily.

"Nice camera," he said. Then, looking straight at Norah, he added, "Interesting shot." He was beginning to go bald; his eyes were dark brown, intense. She turned away, feeling their heat, as David began to talk: waves and dunes, sand and flesh, two conflicting images at once.

She gazed down the beach. Yes. There, barely visible, was another running figure, her son. The sun was so bright. For a few seconds she felt dizzy, little silverfish of light flashing behind her eyelids just as it glanced across the edges of the waves. Howard: she wondered where he was from, where he'd gotten a name like that. He and David were talking intently now about apertures and filters.

"So you're the inspiration for this study," he said, turning to include Norah.

"I suppose," she said, brushing sand off her wrist. "It's a bit hard on the skin," she added, aware suddenly that the new bathing suit left her nearly naked. The wind moved over her, moved through her hair.

"No, you have beautiful skin," Howard said. David's eyes widened-he looked at her as if he'd never seen her before-and Norah felt a surge of triumph. See? See? she wanted to say. she wanted to say. I have beautiful skin. I have beautiful skin. But the intentness of Howard's gaze stopped her. But the intentness of Howard's gaze stopped her.

"You should see David's other work," Norah said. She gestured to the cottage, tucked low beneath the palms, bougainvillea cascading off the porch trellises. "He brought his portfolio." A wall, her words; also an invitation.

"I would like that," Howard said, turning back to David. "I'm interested in your study."

"Why not?" David said. "Join us for lunch."

But Howard had a meeting in town at one o'clock.

"Here comes Paul," Norah said. He was running very fast along the edge of the water, pushing through the last hundred yards, his arms and legs flashing in the light, the wavering heat. My son, Norah thought, the world opening for an instant as it sometimes did around the very fact of his presence. "Our son," she said to Howard. "He's a runner too."

"He has good form," Howard observed. Paul drew close and began to slow down. Once he reached them he bent down with his hands on his knees, dragging deep breaths into his lungs.

"And good time," David said, glancing at his watch. Don't do it, Don't do it, Norah thought; David couldn't seem to see how much Paul recoiled at David's suggestions for his future. Norah thought; David couldn't seem to see how much Paul recoiled at David's suggestions for his future. Don't. Don't. But David pushed on. "I hate to see him miss his vocation. Look at that height. Think what he could do on a court. But he doesn't give a d.a.m.n about basketball." But David pushed on. "I hate to see him miss his vocation. Look at that height. Think what he could do on a court. But he doesn't give a d.a.m.n about basketball."

Paul looked up, grimacing, and Norah felt a flare of familiar irritation. Why couldn't David understand that the more he pushed basketball, the more Paul would resist? If he wanted Paul to play, he ought to forbid it instead.

"I like running," Paul said, standing up.

"Who can blame you," Howard said, reaching to shake hands, "when you run like that?"

Paul shook his hand, flushing with pleasure. You have beautiful skin, You have beautiful skin, he'd said to her, moments ago. Norah wondered if her own face had been so transparent. he'd said to her, moments ago. Norah wondered if her own face had been so transparent.

"Come to dinner," she suggested impulsively, inspired by Howard's kindness to Paul. She was hungry, thirsty too, and the sun had made her light-headed. "Since you can't come for lunch, come for dinner. Bring your wife, of course," she added. "Bring your family. We'll build a fire and cook out on the beach."

Howard frowned, looking out over the shining water. He clasped his hands and put them behind his head, stretching. "Unfortunately," he said, "I am here alone. A retreat of sorts. I am about to be divorced."

"I'm sorry," Norah said, though she was not.

"Come anyway," David said. "Norah throws wonderful dinner parties. I'll show you the rest of the series I'm working on-it's all about perception. Transformation."

"Ah, transformation," Howard said. "I'm all for that. I'd love to come to dinner."

David and Howard talked for a few minutes while Paul paced along the waves, cooling down, and then Howard left. A few minutes later, standing in the kitchen, slicing cuc.u.mbers for lunch, Norah watched him walk far down the beach, there and gone and there again as the curtain caught the breeze. She remembered the dark burn on his shoulders, his penetrating eyes and voice. Water rushed in the pipes as Paul showered, and there was the soft rustling of paper as David arranged his photos in the living room. He'd seemed obsessed over the years, always seeing the world-seeing her-as if from behind the lens of a camera. Their lost daughter still hovered between them; their lives had shaped themselves around her absence. Norah even wondered, at times, if that loss was the main thing holding them together. She slid the cuc.u.mber slices into a salad bowl and started peeling a carrot. Howard was a pinp.r.i.c.k in the distance, then gone. His hands were large, she remembered, the palms and cuticles pale against his tan. Beautiful skin, Beautiful skin, he'd said, and his eyes hadn't left hers. he'd said, and his eyes hadn't left hers.

After lunch, David dozed in the hammock and Norah lay down on the bed beneath the window. An ocean breeze flowed in; she felt abundantly alive, somehow connected to the sand and the sea by this wind. Howard was just an ordinary person, almost scrawny and beginning to go bald, yet he was mysteriously compelling too, conjured perhaps from her own deep loneliness and wishing. She imagined Bree, delighted with her, laughing.

Well, why not? she would say. she would say. Really, Norah, why not? Really, Norah, why not?

I'm a married woman, Norah replied, shifting to look out the window at the dazzling, shifting sand, eager for her sister to refute her. Norah replied, shifting to look out the window at the dazzling, shifting sand, eager for her sister to refute her.

Norah, for heaven's sweet sake, you only live once. Why not have some fun?

Norah stood, walking softly on the old worn boards, and fixed herself a gin and tonic with lime. She sat on the porch swing, lazy in the breeze, watching David dozing, so unknown to her these days. Notes from Paul's guitar floated through the soft air. She imagined him, sitting cross-legged on the narrow bed, head bent in concentration over the new Almansa guitar that he loved, a gift from David on his last birthday. It was a beautiful instrument, with an ebony fretboard and rosewood back and sides, bra.s.s turners. David tried, with Paul. He pushed too hard on sports, it was true, but he also made time to take Paul fishing or hiking in the woods, on their endless search for rocks. He'd spent hours researching this guitar, ordering it from a company in New York, his face full of quiet pleasure as Paul lifted it reverently from the box. She looked at David now, sleeping on the other side of the porch, a muscle working in his cheek. David, David, she whispered, but he did not hear her. she whispered, but he did not hear her. David, David, she said a bit louder, but he did not stir. she said a bit louder, but he did not stir.

At four o'clock she roused herself, dreamily. She chose a sundress splashed with flowers, gathered at the waist, thin straps over her shoulders. She put on an ap.r.o.n and began to cook, simple, but luxurious foods: oyster stew with crisp crackers on the side, corn yellowing on the cob, a fresh green salad, small lobsters she'd bought that morning at the market, still in buckets of seawater. As she moved in the tiny kitchen, improvising roasting pans from cake pans and subst.i.tuting oregano for marjoram in the salad dressing, the crisp cotton skirt moved lightly against her thighs, her hips. The air, warm as breath, glanced across her arms. She plunged her hands into a sink of cold water, rinsing the lettuce leaf by delicate leaf. Outside, Paul and David worked to light a fire in the half-rusted grill, its holes patched with aluminum foil. There were paper plates on the weathered table, and wine poured into red plastic gla.s.ses. They would eat the lobster with their fingers, b.u.t.ter running down their palms.

She heard his voice before she saw him, another tone, slightly lower than David's and slightly more nasal, with a neutral northern accent; crisp air, edged with snow, floated into the room with every syllable. Norah dried her hands on the kitchen towel and went to the doorway.

The three men-it shocked her that she thought of Paul this way, but he stood shoulder to shoulder with David now, nearly grown and independent, as if his body had never had anything to do with hers at all-were cl.u.s.tered on the sand just beyond the porch. The grill gave off its aromas of smoke and resin, and the coals sent a wavering heat into the sky. Paul, shirtless, stood with his hands thrust into the pockets of his cutoffs, answering with awkward brevity the questions that came his way. They did not see her, her husband and her son; their eyes were on the fire and on the ocean, smooth as opaque gla.s.s at this hour. It was Howard, facing them, who lifted his chin to her and smiled.

For an instant, before the others turned, before Howard raised the bottle of wine and slid it into her hands, their eyes met. It was a moment real to only the two of them, something that could not be proven later, an instant of communion subject to whatever the future would impose. But it was real: the darkness of his eyes, his face and hers opening in pleasure and promise, the world crashing around them like the surf.

David turned, smiling, and the moment slammed shut like a door.

"It's white," Howard said, handing her the bottle. Norah was struck by how ordinary Howard seemed then, by the silly way his sideburns grew halfway down his cheeks. The hidden meaning of the earlier moment-had she imagined it then?-was gone. "I hope that's all right."

"Perfect," she said. "We're having lobster." Yes, so ordinary, this talk. The stunning moment was behind them now, and she was the gracious hostess, moving as easily in her role as she moved within her whisper of a dress. Howard was her guest; she offered him a wicker chair and a drink. When she came back, carrying bottles of gin and tonic and a bucket of ice on a tray, the sun had reached the edge of the water. Clouds billowed high in airy shades of pink and peach.

They ate on the porch. Darkness fell swiftly, and David lit the candles set at intervals along the railing. Beyond, the tide came in, waves rushing invisibly against the sand. In the flickering light, Howard's voice rose and fell and rose again. He talked about a camera obscura he had built. The camera obscura was a mahogany box that sealed out all light, except for a single pinpoint. This pinp.r.i.c.k cast a tiny image of the world onto a mirror. The instrument was the precursor to the camera; some painters-Vermeer was one-had used it as a tool to achieve an extraordinary level of detail in their work. Howard was exploring this, too.

Norah listened, awash in the night, struck by his imagery: the world projected on a darkened interior wall, tiny figures caught in light but moving. It was so different from her sessions with David, when the camera seemed to pin her in place and time, hold her still. That, she realized, sipping her wine in the darkness, was the problem at the heart of everything. Somewhere along the way, she and David had gotten stuck. They circled each other now, fixed in their separate orbits. The conversation shifted, and Howard told stories about the time he'd spent in Vietnam, working as a photographer for the army, doc.u.menting battles. "A lot of it was boring, actually," he said, when Paul expressed his admiration. "A lot of it was just riding up and down the Mekong on a boat. It's an extraordinary river, though, an extraordinary place."

After dinner Paul went to his room. A few minutes later, notes from his guitar cascaded amid the sounds of the waves. He had not wanted to come on this vacation; he had given up a week at music camp, and he had an important concert to play just a few days after they got home. David had insisted that he come; he did not take Paul's musical ambitions seriously. As an avocation it was fine, but not as a career. But Paul was pa.s.sionate about the guitar, determined to go to Juilliard. David, who had worked so hard to give them every comfort, got tense every time the subject came up. Now Paul's notes fell through the air, winged and graceful but each one a little cut, too, the point of a knife piercing flesh.

The conversation moved from optics to the rarefied light of the Hudson River Valley, where Howard lived, and southern France, where he liked to visit. He described the narrow road, a thin dust rising, and the fields of pulsing sunflowers. He was all voice, hardly more than a shadow next to her, but his words moved through her like Paul's music did, somehow both inside and outside her at once. David poured more wine and changed the subject, and then they were standing, stepping into the brightly lit living room. David pulled his series of black-and-white photos from his portfolio, and he and Howard launched into an intent discussion about the qualities of light.

Norah lingered. The photographs they were discussing were all of her: her hips, her skin, her hands, her hair. And yet she was excluded from the conversation: object, not subject. Now and then when she went into an office in Lexington, Norah would find a photo, anonymous yet eerily familiar too-some curve of her body or a place she had visited with David, stripped of its original meaning and transformed: an image of her own flesh that had become abstract, an idea. She had tried, by posing for David, to ease some of the distance that had grown between them. His fault, hers-it didn't really matter. But watching David now, absorbed in his explanation, she understood that he did not really see her and hadn't for years.

Anger rose up in a rush that left her trembling. She turned and walked from the room. Since the day with the wasps she had drunk very little, but now she went into the kitchen and poured herself a red plastic gla.s.s br.i.m.m.i.n.g with wine. All around her were dirty pots and congealing b.u.t.ter, the fiery red husks of lobsters like the sh.e.l.ls of dead cicadas. Such a lot of work for such brief pleasure! Usually David did the dishes, but tonight Norah tied an ap.r.o.n around her waist and filled the sink and put the remaining oyster stew away in the refrigerator. In the living room the voices went on and on, rising and falling like the sea. What had she been thinking, putting on this dress, falling into Howard's voice? She was Norah Henry, the wife of David, the mother of Paul, a son nearly grown. There were strands of gray in her hair, which she did not believe anyone could see except herself, squinting in the harsh light of the bathroom. Still, it was true. Howard had come to discuss photography with David, and that was that.

She stepped outside, carrying the garbage to the dumpster. The sand was faintly cold against her bare feet, the air as warm as her own skin. Norah walked to the edge of the ocean and stood gazing at the vivid white sweep of stars. Behind her the screen door opened and swung shut. David and Howard came out, walking through the sand and darkness.

"Thanks for cleaning up," David said. He touched his hand briefly to her back and she tensed, making an effort not to move away. "Sorry not to help. I guess we got talking. Howard has some good ideas."

"Actually, I was mesmerized by your arms, "Howard noted, referring to the hundreds of shots David had taken. He picked up a piece of driftwood and flung it, hard. They heard it splash and the waves licking, pulling it out to sea.

Behind them the house was like a lantern, casting a bright circle, but the three of them stood in a darkness so complete that Norah could barely see David's face, or Howard's, or her own hands. Only shadowy shapes and disembodied voices in the night. The conversation meandered, circling back to technique and process. Norah thought she might scream. She put one bare foot behind the other, meaning to turn and leave, when suddenly a hand brushed her thigh. She paused, startled. Waiting. In a moment Howard's fingers ran lightly up the seam of her dress, and then his hand was slipping inside her pocket, a sudden secret warmth against her flesh.

Norah held her breath. David talked on about his pictures. She was still wearing the ap.r.o.n, and it was very dark. After a moment she made a slight turn, and Howard's hand flowered open against the thin cloth, the flatness of her stomach.

"Well, that's true," Howard said, his voice low and easy. "You'd sacrifice something in clarity if you were to use that filter. But the effect would certainly be worth it."

Norah let her breath out, slowly, slowly, wondering if Howard could feel the wild rapid pulsing of her blood. Warmth radiated from his fingers; she was filled with such yearning that she ached. The waves rose and eased away and rose again. Norah stood very still, listening to the rush of her own breath.

"Now, with the camera obscura you're one step closer to the process," Howard said. "It's really quite remarkable, the way it frames the world. I wish you'd come by and see it. Will you?" he asked.

"I'm taking Paul deep-sea fishing tomorrow," David said. "Maybe the next day."

"I think I'll go inside," Norah said faintly.

"Norah gets bored," David said.

"Who can blame her?" Howard said, and his hand pressed low on her belly, hard and swift, like the beat of a wing. Then he slid it from her pocket. "Come tomorrow morning if you want," he said. "I'm making some drawings with the camera obscura."

Norah nodded without speaking, imagining the single shaft of light piercing through darkness, casting marvelous images on the wall.

He left a few minutes later, disappearing almost at once into the darkness.

"I like that guy," David said later, when they were inside. The kitchen was immaculate now, all evidence of her dreamy afternoon hidden away.

Norah was standing at the window looking out at the dark beach, listening to the waves, both hands sunk deeply in the pockets of her dress.

"Yes," she agreed. "So do I."

The next morning, David and Paul rose before sunrise to drive up the coast and catch the fishing boat. Norah lay there in the dark while they got ready, the clean cotton sheet soft against her skin, listening to them b.u.mp around awkwardly in the living room, trying not to make any noise. Footsteps, then, and the roar of the car starting, then fading into silence, the sound of waves. She lay there, languid, as a line of light formed where sky and ocean met. Then she showered and got dressed and made herself a cup of coffee. She ate half a grapefruit, washed her dishes and put them neatly away, and walked out the door. She was wearing shorts and a turquoise blouse patterned with flamingos. Her white sneakers were tied together and swinging from her hand. She had washed her hair and the ocean wind was blowing it dry, tangling it around her face.

Howard's cottage, a mile down the beach, was nearly identical to her own. He was sitting on the porch, bent over a darkly finished wooden box. He was wearing white shorts and an orange plaid madras shirt, unb.u.t.toned. His feet, like hers, were bare. He stood up as she drew near.

"Want some coffee?" he called. "I've been watching you walk down the beach."

"No, thanks," she said.

"You sure? It's Irish coffee. With a little jolt, if you know what I mean."

"Maybe in a minute." She climbed the steps and ran her hand over the polished mahogany box. "Is this the camera obscura?"

"It is," he said. "Come. Take a look."

She sat down on the chair, still warm from his flesh, and looked through the aperture. The world was there, the long stretch of beach and the cl.u.s.ter of rocks, and a sail moving slowly in the horizon. Wind lifted in the piney casuarina trees, everything tiny and rendered in such sharp detail, framed and contained, yet alive, not static. Norah looked up then, blinking, and found that the world had been transformed as well: the flowers, so sharply drawn against the sand, the chair with its bright stripes, and the couple walking at the edge of the water. Vivid, startling, so much more than she'd realized.

"Oh," she said, looking back into the box. "It's astonishing. The world is so precise, so rich. I can even see the wind moving in the trees."

Howard laughed. "It's wonderful, isn't it? I knew you'd like it."