It was suppertime when I came home. He was on the couch with Sup and
Susta and the puppies.
He didn't act mad, just nasty-nice. So you came home, he said. I never
realized how limited you were, Listie. Your diary's shown me a lot. Can
you at least find homes for the puppies?
I said, I guess. I put the baby down. He hadn't thrown anything or
burned my diary.
He said, Good, then. I've fixed supper.
He had hamburger, frozen pie and hot chocolate. Some of it tasted bad.
I didn't say anything.
* * * * *
_September 15, 1983_ I asked Bimmie, Should I quit my diary? He said,
Yes. Then, No, keep on. I asked, was he doing another experiment? He
said, Not yet. I said, Bim better not start talking early. He said, You
don't think I'd experiment with my own child? I didn't know. He said,
Bim might be smart anyway. I said, He might be, he's your son. It was a
good compliment.
* * * * *
_September 17, 1983_ Bimmie wants to learn cooking. He said, You have
to work hard, hanging diapers. It will help if I can cook.
I'll teach him hot chocolate first. His fixing tastes _awful_.
* * * * *
_October 5, 1983_ I have little to report. Bimford, Jr. is flourishing.
The puppies are adorable. Susta and Sup tend them jointly.
Bimmie has no new project. He has thrown all his energies into cooking.
He does quite well, except for hot chocolate, which still tastes of
chemicals.
I never, until yesterday, realized the intellectual and sensual joy to
be derived from delving into Greek drama.
* * * * *
_November 9, 1983_ Bimford, Jr. is six months old today. Since I
gave up the last puppy, the house seems barnlike in its emptiness. I
mentioned the fact to Bimford.
His glance was speculative. "I have some money saved. Want a
tridiversion wall?"