Mr. Sawyer stomped the snow from his boots. The lowest part of the door behind him dragged on the ground. Bringing it to, he put his foot against the bottom of the door and nudged it closed. A big windstorm had swept through the previous fall. Since then, half the doors in the house didn’t quite close properly.

A starter home, the realtor had called it. Lately, Mr. Saywer had grumbled to a fellow professor, A home that was starting to fall apart, maybe.

Mr. Sawyer called out, “Anybody home?”

“In here,” called his wife. Where here was, she didn’t say. He’d just have to explore.

He took off his boots and laid them aside. A cold tongue licked his foot. He realized he’d been standing in water and jumped back. But he’d only realized it because the water had soaked through his sock. Too late then. He rubbed the bottom of his foot against his pants and moved on.

Andrea was in the kitchen. Tiny orange pucks of carrots and green basketballs of brussels sprouts were fanned out over the counter. Basketballs were the round ones, were they not? His nostrils widened with the promise of sweet onions frying on the stove, almost burnt but not.

Mr. Sawyer threw his briefcase down on the table next to the backdoor. “What a day,” he started. “My T.A. was sick and I had to mark all three hundred papers by myself. Took me until two o clock to do that alone. And I started it at nine. Then James came in and asked if I could substitute for Wilma on Thursday. She’s out with the flu. God I hope I don’t get that. It’s been going around. She’s got three classes tomorrow, two on Wednesday, and a test on Friday. And I have no idea about how to teach Pre-Sophoclean philosophy. So that’s going to be a mess.”

He could feel a draft coming from the door behind him. It was old and its paint was peeling. The window in the center, sure it was nice, looking out into their yard, but it was old and thin, and even a little warped, the way ancient windows sometimes got. Probably brittle as a sheet of ice too. Might shatter if they slammed the door too hard. Especially now that winter had come.

Mr. Sawyer rubbed bits of dirt off his feet he'd picked up from around the door. His wet sock was stuck to his foot. “Oh,” he laughed, “and then Stan asked me to fill in for someone on their hockey team Friday. I was thinking I might do it. For the experience of it all.”

Mrs. Sawyer had paused in her cutting and was standing idly by the wooden island in the center of the kitchen, looking at her husband quizzically.

Mr. Sawyer looked up for his wife’s reaction and thought, Damn. Andrea is doing her squinty eye look. “Stan said I could borrow some extra equipment of his. Imagine that,” he said, “Me playing hockey. On skates.”

Mrs. Sawyer took a half-hearted chop through an already sliced dice of carrot on the counter. The animation left Mr. Sawyer’s face. He sighed. “What did our boy do now?”

Mrs. Sawyer picked up a zucchini and started cutting it into larger pucks. “Had a visit from Mrs. Chatman this afternoon.”

Chop chop chop CHOP.

“She was most displeased with our little angel.”

“Is she the one from down the street? With the blue car?”

“No. Right across the road.”

“Okay. What did Billy do?”

“Well, it turns out that Billy... stole all of her daughter’s Barbie dolls.”

Mr. Sawyer laughed. “Is that all? God, I thought you were going to say he lit the house on fire. Or you caught him watching the Disney Channel. But that’s not so bad. Probably just a game they're playing.”

Mrs. Sawyer padded over to their old green stove in her bare feet. She threw a handful of veggies into the pan and the oil sizzled in appreciation. She never wore shoes or socks around the house, even in winter. In summer had to be tortured into donning footwear outside in case there was glass around.

“I knew you were going to say that,” she said. “And let me tell you. For a little girl to have her Barbie’s stolen is no laughing matter. That little girl was distraught. She was in tears, Daniel.”

“Okay. You’re right. I never thought about that. Still, Andrea, boys....”

“No.”

“What?”

“Boys will be boys? That’s not it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I knew you were going to say that, but that’s not it. There’s more.”

“Oh.”

Mr. Sawyer could feel his left leg cooling. His wet sock felt like he'd just donned it straight out of the freezer. That draft is really, really bad. Probably costing us a fortune in heat.

“When Mrs. Chatman left – and she was pretty mad, let me tell you – she has this vein by her ear which is sorta gross, really, and sticks way out when she’s mad....”

“Andrea...?”

“Right. Anyway. When she left I went to talk to Billy. I found him playing with little Jenny’s Barbies....”

“Well that’s perfectly normal too. I remember when I was a boy, I used to go over to my grandmother’s house. The only toys over there besides the ones I brought myself were my cousin’s old Barbies. I used to pretend that this doll with high boots – actually, now that I think about it, they were rather suggestive boots for a Barbie doll, way up past her thighs....”

“Daniel...?”

“I’d pretend that one was Wonder Woman and use her to fight all the other dolls. And I think a carving of an old man playing the banjo too....”

“Daniel, that’s not what I’m getting at.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t care that he was playing with Barbies. He plays with those boy dolls all the time.”

Mr. Sawyer grinned. “Well, it’s not really the same. They’re action-figures, dear.”

“Daniel,” asserted Mrs. Sawyer. “Not the point.”

“Right.”

Mrs. Sawyer shook the pan on the burner. “Like I said, I went to Billy’s room and found him playing with the dolls.”

“And...?”

“He had made a big stage out of his bed, and all his toy soldiers were on the floor in front of it.”

“All of them? He has a lot.”

“Most of them. Some were scattered around the room. A few of them were up really high. He must have been climbing on something to put those so high, Daniel.”

“Boys like to climb, dear.”

“Daniel, it was a U.S.O. show. He had all of Jenny Chatman’s Barbies on the bed performing for the boy soldiers. He had at least a dozen of them set up on a stage he’d made from his desk drawers.”

“That’s very interesting.”

“I'm worried it's strange, Daniel.”

“It’s not that strange, Andrea. He’s just playing with his army men. Mind you, it’s a little degrading, perhaps. Were the Barbies doing anything else?”

“No, just on the stage.” Mrs. Sawyer cleared her throat. “Billy said troop morale was low and his men needed a break from the rigors of combat.”

"I see."

"A reminder for why they were fighting."

“Well... all boys play with their army men in different ways. It’s normal. He has a healthy imagination. What else did you say to him?”

The stir fry on the stove was starting to smell really good.

“Not much. I asked what sort of show they were putting on and he told me I had to leave if I wasn’t a civilian entertainer pre-approved by the corps’ recreational co-ordinator.”

“Right.”

“Daniel, you’re a boy. You played with army men when you were a kid. Did you ever set up a U.S.O. show?”

Mr. Sawyer chuckled and got up from the table. He leaned against the wooden island opposite his wife and popped a carrot puck into his mouth. “Honestly, it was so long ago, I don’t remember. I was more about the big Tonka trucks than the army men. Back then they really made those trucks sturdy. Out of metal.”

“I think maybe you should have a talk with him.”

“It’s perfectly normal for a boy his age, Andrea.”

“He had music playing. I think it was Creedence. Suzie Q.”

“The boy has fine taste in music.”

Mrs. Sawyer relaxed. “Well, if you think it’s all okay....”

Mr. Sawyer smiled reassuringly. “I do.”

Mrs. Sawyer took the frying pan off the burner and turned on the overhead fan which started off clanging noisily. “Oh. One more thing Mrs. Chatman said while she was here....”

“What’s that?”

“She said little Jenny wanted to send her hello to the funny Scottish ninja man.”

Mr. Sawyer blinked and tapped his fingers on the island. He chewed on his lip and scratched his belly.

“Okay. Maybe I should have a talk with him.”