boy grasps girl part 1

You're never sorry until it's too late. Bobby cradled his brand new baby sister in his arms. Two weeks old, healthy, home from the hospital and nursing, she seemed peaceful here in her new room. Bobby held her close and danced her around the crib, singing "Angie" - her namesake. Every so often he paused to show her the carousel dangling above the crib. "Look, Angie," he said, pointing her arm at Mickey Mouse, "this little mouse is a racist. Do you know what a racist is?" Angie spit bubbles and thrashed her arms wildly, smiling at Bobby with innocent brown eyes. "That's right, of course you do," he said, lying her down in her crib. He smiled and closed the door softly behind him.

Out in the hallway, Bobby slumped to the carpeted floor. Glancing up at the papered walls he saw family photos- his father decked out in his brand new powder-blue tuxedo, the one he bought just before he got the job in Tuscon; his mother serving Sunday brunch to Bobby and his sister, Louise; his first car- the Chrysler LeBaron that ended up in a tree later that summer. Bobby wrung his wrists and gazed down at his ever-expanding gut. "Where the hell is Dad?"

In the fall of 1988, George Hallbrook would not shut up about his new gun. "She's a beaut, Bobby. A 12-gauge Smith & Wesson shot gun with cherry wood. We're going hunting!" Rushing home from his realty office, he would bound through the door, his hulking frame creaking the floorboards. As he loosened his tie, tiny beads of sweat would drip down his nose, onto his neck and under his yellow shirt collar. "There she is," he would say, fixating on the shot gun prominently displayed above the mantle, "What a beaut." Crossing in front of Bobby and Louise, who sat calm and ignored on the couch watching television, George would practically kneel at the foot of his weapon. He liked to spend his afternoons walking around the house with the shot gun in his hand. Bobby and Louise would occasionally distract themselves from America's Funniest Videos long enough to catch George cleaning the fine china in his boxer shorts and under-shirt at the dining room table. George's solid grip on his new toy held steadfast as he tried to balance the plates on his knee and scrub them with a dish cloth. The kids would crack a dry smile and turn back to Bob Saget at every plate that was broken. George seemed equally surprised and annoyed that his cleaning system never seemed to work out. "Dad, maybe try it without the gun?" Bobby said after the sixth plate was broken. "Huh?" George's head darted up, his eyes invisible from the chandelier's glare on his wire-rimmed glasses, "Oh-" he said, gazing at the shot gun, "She sure is a beaut."