Helene asked patiently, watching the toddler closely. He presented her with an expression as innocent and angelic as that of a Botticelli Madonna. “Show me,” she said. He shook his head. Helene sighed. “We don’t want to bother Daddy with this when he comes in, do we? He has other things on his mind today.” Martin considered that for a long moment, then thrust his fist forward, still clenched. “Open,” she said. His fingers relaxed. “Bug,” he announced. “Yes, indeed, that is a bug,” Helene said, wrinkling her nose as she examined the rather large, very dead bee. The insect was cradled in the palm of the child’s hand on its back, multiple legs curled upward in final surrender. “May I have it?” she asked. “Mine,” Martin said stubbornly. One look into his brown eyes, so like his father’s, convinced her that a contest of wills was about to ensue. “Gee, I wonder if Maria made that lemonade she promised you,” Helene said brightly, shamelessly employing a diversionary tactic.
