30

One very early morning in very early spring, Victor sat on the windowseat in the parlor with his youngest daughter in his arms. Anne, nearly three, was always up before the birds. So was Victor, on workdays. Sometimes he'd collect her from the nursery and they would sit together at the parlor window. And just watch.

The sky was just beginning to turn rosy at the edges. From the window they had a good view of the rosebushes and the hawthorn tree, where this season's birds were already beginning to assemble. Anne, still very small and slight for her age, cuddled tightly into her father's lap. Victor held her close.

He loved these quiet moments with Anne. They were so few and far between. Often, sadly, she got a little lost in between the forceful personalities of Liddie and Catherine. They took up a lot of room, especially now that Catherine's speech had caught up. His youngest was so unlike her sisters. She was quiet to the point where Victoria had worried that she might be mute or deaf when she was a little younger. She still did not speak very much, though when she did she was quite articulate for a small girl. Anne liked to be outside with the birds and flowers. She liked to sit and draw pictures. Quiet and solitary, reserved and imaginative, she was an absolute contrast to her older sisters. Victor gave her a brief squeeze.

"There," Anne whispered. She was looking out the window, transfixed. "The dawn chorus."

Sure enough, birdsong was beginning to fill the air. Victor pricked his ears to listen. "Which bird is that?" he asked as a warbling sort of trill cut through the other calls and songs.

"Mama robin," Anne replied promptly, pointing. Indeed, a female robin was sitting in the hawthorn tree. Oh, she was smart when it came to animals and birds. A little nature encyclopedia. Victor regarded her, filled with a sense of paternal pride. "Is there a nest in the tree?"

"Maybe," Victor replied. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Then he grinned at her.

"Shall we go outside and look?" he asked. Anne's face lit up and she nodded eagerly.

Out in the hall he helped her put on her boots, and then wrapped her snugly in a woolen shawl. He snagged his overcoat from the hall tree. Together, quietly, they made their way out into the chilly dawn to the hawthorn tree, birdsong all around them.

31

"I didn't know there was such a thing as a shrimp emergency until I married into your family," Victoria remarked. "Or that anything about fish rose to the level of an emergency, really."

They sat close side by side in the cannery's back room processing area. Each of them had a large pail at their feet. Together they were shelling a small mountain of freshly cooked shrimp. The day's catch had been late arriving, and most of the workers had already gone home by the time the shrimp were being unloaded. The big machinery had already been shut off, so that meant this catch was destined to be potted shrimp. It also meant a late night for Victor if they were going to avoid a lot of waste and loss.

Victoria had brought Victor his dinner, which had been very kind of her. When she'd seen the quite literal pile of work to be done, she'd donned a long apron and stayed to help. He'd tried to dissuade her, but not very sincerely. He liked his wife's company no matter the circumstances. Also, she was quite good at this. Her fingers were nimble and quick from all of the needlework she did, and she popped the shrimp out of their shells as deftly as if she'd been doing it for years.

"The fish merchant's life is a high-stakes and glamorous one," Victor said as he twisted off a shrimp's head. He couldn't help grimacing a little. He didn't care for the feel of all the sharp little legs. "Aren't you pleased you married into it?"

"Every day," Victoria replied, looking sidelong at him from under her eyelashes.

They shelled in silence for a moment. Victoria shifted a little so that she could press her leg against his. Eventually a small smile lifted her lips.

"It should have been part of my vows," she said. Then, eyes on her work, she added solemnly, "With this hand, I will help you peel fifty pounds of brown shrimp."

Victor chuckled quietly. "If that isn't love, I can't think what is," he told her.

32

It was Saturday afternoon and Victor was dozing in his armchair in the parlor. He had his feet propped up on the ottoman and his hands folded over his middle. When he heard small footsteps, he cracked open one eye. Anne stood beside his chair.

"May I sit with you?" she asked in a near-whisper, as though afraid she'd wake him.

"Of course," he said. Anne smiled and climbed carefully up onto his lap. She curled up against him and he put an arm around her. He'd just closed his eyes again when he heard yet another small pair of feet approach.

"Are we snuggling?" Catherine asked when he opened his eyes to look at her. "May I?"

"Certainly," Victor told her, and she beamed. Anne politely shifted farther to one side so that Catherine had room to clamber up. Victor did not have very much lap, so each daughter was tucked against the armrests of the chair on either side of him. He put an arm around each of them, their small heads resting on his chest. Once everyone was settled he closed his eyes again. He listened to his children breathing, their small selves tucked securely in his arms. He began to doze, his thoughts wandering on that borderline between sleep and waking.

A jostling on the ottoman pulled him back. He looked. Boisduval the cat, who had grown plump and sleek on kitchen scraps, had leapt up. His purr was rusty and loud. Delicately he walked up Victor's legs to what was left of his lap. The cat turned around once, twice, then settled himself in the space between Anne and Catherine. Anne put out a hand to gently stroke his head. After only a moment or two, the cat had dozed off, still purring.

The chair was very crowded. But in a sweet way that Victor could not bring himself to mind. He looked down at the dark head, the fair head, and the happy ball of fur, and smiled to himself.

"What is that?" Catherine asked in a hushed voice.

"What is what?" Victor asked. Catherine had her ear against his chest and was listening closely.

"The noise," she said. "The ba-thump."

It took Victor a second to figure out what she meant. "Oh! My heartbeat," he told her. "That's my heart beating. It beats and makes my blood flow and...well, keeps me alive."

"Oh," she said in wonder. Anne had snuggled in closer to listen, too. For a long time they sat that way. Victor couldn't help being very aware of his heart beating away, thump after thump, once attention had been called to it.

"I'm happy your heart beats," Catherine said. Victor looked at his daughters, his cat, his own self in his chair. A lump formed in his throat.

"Me, too," he replied, a little embarrassed by the way his voice caught.