She moved quietly down the hallway to watch Willy from the doorway. He was lying on his back, holding the tiny child overhead, cupped in his right hand—her chubby arms and legs thrashing like a turtle's seeking traction. He was lowering her as he might an exercise weight, until they were touching nose to nose, and then catapulting her back up into the air, to her repeated delight. Willy, his self-preservative instincts never at rest, addressed Sammie without looking at her, despite the fact that she'd not made a noise. "You laying bets she's gonna throw up on me?" Sammie laughed. "God, I hope not." She entered the room and settled into a rocking chair as Willy continued his play. For her part, she hadn't even heard him enter the house. Only Emma's giggles had informed her. But that was nothing unusual. She was living with a ghost in some ways—a man so bolted down and private, half the time he seemed to wish he'd been born invisible. He wasn't entirely alone there.
