During the intervening days, at moments fear became an anguish. He began to realize what might happen, what might threaten his hitherto perfect understanding with his only son.
He need not have worried.
Driving uptown in the limousine beside his son, their hands still tightly interlocked, he told him very quietly what he had done, and why. The boy, astonished, listened in silence to the end. Then all he said was:
"For heaven's sake, Father!"
There was not the faintest hint of resentment, no emotion at all except a perfectly neutral amazement.
"How old is she?"
"Eleven, Jim."
"Oh. A kid. Does she cry much?"
"They don't cry at eleven," explained his father, laughing in his relief. "You didn't squall when you were eleven."
"No. But this is a girl."