A Different Kind of Summer. Caron Todd
neck muscles tightened.
“A change in the climate is happening.” He glanced at Chris then looked back at Gwyn, apparently deciding she was his target audience. “It’s complicated and there’s still disagreement about the details. Whether or not the Earth could experience another ice age is difficult to say. If it did, it would be a response to excessive warming.”
She should have left well enough alone. The mammoth had fallen into a crevasse, end of story.
“Warming?” Chris asked. “You get ice from warming?”
“We have a video that explains how that works. If you like I can take you over to watch it.”
“Not today,” Gwyn said quickly.
The man glanced at Chris again. “I’d say a true ice age is unlikely. It’s speculation at this point. Some changes we can observe and measure, though. The planet’s temperature is increasing. So is the level of carbon dioxide in the oceans. The polar ice caps and all the world’s glaciers are melting. Permafrost is thawing. We’re seeing more extreme weather events—like the hurricane that’s pounding the Caribbean today.”
How could he talk that way in front of a little boy? Chris had drawn closer to Gwyn’s side. She took his hand in hers and smiled, trying to communicate all her confidence and none of her anger. “He’s guessing, hon. That’s what scientific people do. They make hypotheses and then they disprove them.”
She thanked the man for his time and started away from the painting. She would emphasize part of what he’d said and hope Chris wouldn’t worry too much about the rest. The message was that weather was a complicated thing to understand, but scientists thought a new ice age was unlikely. That was the main point. Not a very reassuring main point, but it would have to do.
DAVID HAD OFTEN SEEN the woman and child around the museum. They came maybe once a month, the boy eager, the mother patient, the two of them a perfect example of why he did this work.
And now he’d scared them off. She’d asked the question, hadn’t she? How was he supposed to know she didn’t want an answer? When he’d started to explain her smile had frozen as fast as that mammoth and she’d looked at him as if he’d committed a hit-and-run or something.
He didn’t have any reason to feel guilty. “Ma’am?” That sounded all wrong. Ma’am didn’t suit her.
Their rush out the door slowed, then stopped. She directed the boy to a cutaway view of hibernating insects and rodents before rejoining him.
“If you were going to apologize, it isn’t necessary. You were trying to do your job. My son will be fine.”
“I wasn’t going to apologize.”
That ticked her off. “What did you want, then?”
Her phone number, for one thing. The thought came out of nowhere. He had no business wanting her phone number. “The gift shop has a very good book about the mammoth, if you’re interested. Pictures. Maps. Discussion.”
“Does it? Thank you.”
A dismissive smile and she was on her way. She had no intention of going anywhere near the book. Why did she bring the boy to the museum so often if she didn’t want him to understand how the world worked?
They trailed out of the room, the boy speaking in an anxious tone that made it impossible for David to continue feeling guiltless. He’d drawn some conclusions from his brief look at the hibernation display.
“Mom, if we got buried in snow I guess we’d be all right. Because bees and mice and gophers are all right deep down in the snow.”
“There won’t be an ice age, Chris. That’s what the man said. We won’t be buried in snow. Not ever.”
She was good at conveying a mother’s certainty. What she didn’t seem to realize was that her son had grown beyond being helped by it.
THE BOOK David Whoever had recommended was displayed near the front of the gift shop, all one hundred glossy pages of it, with unnecessarily detailed and colorful photos of the frozen animal and its stomach contents. Hard cover. Forty-eight bucks. Gwyn flipped through it, trying to decide if it would be forty-eight dollars well spent, or just an invitation to sleepless nights for Chris.
“Can we go home, Mom?”
Gwyn looked at him with concern. He liked the gift shop almost as much as the museum itself. Since the store’s glow-in-the-dark star charts had first held his attention when he was two she’d found most of his birthday and Christmas presents here. “Sure we can. Don’t you want to get lunch in the cafeteria first?”
He shrugged.
“Just home?”
His shoulders came up again. He looked miserable. Gwyn led him out of the gift shop, wishing that David person could see what he’d done. Chris had nothing to say on the ride home, only showing a spark of interest when she whispered in his ear, “How about Johansson’s?”
They rode a couple of blocks past their usual stop, and got off near a small brick building on the river side of the street. Johansson’s Fine Foods carried gourmet treats, locally grown produce and homemade take-out meals for when people had no time to cook. It had its own small bakery, too, where it made the richest desserts Gwyn had ever tasted. It was a place for special occasions or emergency spirit lifting.
As she’d hoped, the display case of chocolates got Chris’s attention. He considered a dark chocolate car, a milk chocolate hammer and a hazelnut hedgehog, then settled on the one she’d suspected he would, a six-inch-high hollow tyrannosaurus that cost as much as a restaurant lunch.
“Do we want anything else? Oysters?” His head shaking and face screwing increased as she went on, “Snails? Squid?” She looked around the store, hoping to keep going until he laughed. “Parsnips? Fennel bulbs? Oh—”
Strawberries. Tiers of strawberries in pint containers. Picked that morning, the sign said. No pesticides. They were small, lusciously red and smelled sweeter than any berries Gwyn had seen in her entire life. They hardly cost less than the dinosaur chocolate, but she put a pint on the counter anyway, along with two bottles of a fizzy orange drink from Italy that she’d tried before and loved.
“We’d better stop there. My purse is empty.”
Chris looked up from his chocolate, his gaze sharp. Gwyn wished she hadn’t said anything about money.
“Don’t worry. There’s more in the bank. And even more waiting for me at work.”
Outside, pansies grew in window boxes and there were a few round tables by the sidewalk. Gwyn picked a spot partly shaded by a boulevard tree and put the berries in the middle of the table. With all those seeds and hollows she usually scrubbed berries until they were almost jam, but she put her faith in the no pesticides claim. She picked the one on the very top and popped the whole thing in her mouth. Biting into it was a revelation. It was like taking a drink. She couldn’t believe how fresh, how sweet, how juicy the berry was. She looked at Chris, his feet swinging slowly, a faraway expression on his face.
“You’ve got to have a strawberry, Chris.”
Still holding his dinosaur in his right hand, he took a berry with his left. “Mmm.” He took another.
“That’s the taste of sunshine,” she told him.
He frowned. Space was one of his favorite things, and he took it seriously. “The sun is made of gas.” He watched her for a moment, looking ready to argue if she had anything else silly to say. She confined herself to eating berries, and his attention drifted.
Hers did, too. Back to the damp-legged man at the museum. He must be new. She didn’t remember seeing him before, and she couldn’t have seen him and forgotten. It was years since she’d noticed a man, noticed in a way that made looking at his chest to read his name tag uncomfortable.