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very bad thing, you know.” I looked at my feet. I was trying to squeeze them between the radiator tubes. The heat stung fiercely.
    “Were you by yourself? Was it your idea to forge my signature?”
    “It was me and Melissa,” I mumbled. “We both did it. We didn’t feel like going to gym today ‘cause it was raining.”
    “That’s no reason to forge my signature. You know, if you were older you could go to jail for that. It’s a very serious crime to sign someone else’s name. It’s against the law.” My father did not raise his voice; he maintained a stern, even tone. His eyes, when I glanced at them quickly, seemed worried rather than angry.
    I wished he would yell or give me that licking he was always talking about. Then I could be furious at him. If he’d slap me I’d cry, then we’d make up and love each other again and forget it. But he wasn’t mad, he was disappointed, and that was horrible.
    “You’re just too damn used to getting what you want. I guess I’ve been too easy on you.” He sighed, then, as he did whenever he was trying to think hard, pressed his hand against his wrinkled forehead, and rubbed his eyebrows. When he did this his eyes focused on nothing and he became cross-eyed.
    I began to cry. I clenched my teeth and pressed my lips together. I thought about when I fell and hurt myself. He bandaged my sprains and cuts and whispered our secret to me—a soldier’s daughter never cries.
    He stood by the tall window and looked out at the dismal day. The building across the street was old and gray, darker than the sky. I watched him arch his back and bring his shoulder blades and elbows together behind him.
    “I’m sore,” he said. “I’ve been sitting up here all day. That goddamn Beauvier’s voice sends chills down my back that make my hairs stand up. It’s stopped raining. You dry enough?” He turned to me. I nodded.
    “Want to go for a walk?”
    I nodded again. He bent over me and helped me with the jacket and shoes. “Shoes are still damp,” he said, sliding them onto my feet.
    “It’s not cold out,” I said.
    Just then the phone buzzed. It was the recently installed line that connected my father’s office to the rest of the house.
    “Hello,” he said. There was a pause. “She’s here, honey. Everything’s okay. We’re going for a walk…I’m explaining,” he said in a preoccupied tone. “She’s very sorry.” He told my mother we’d be back in an hour or so and hung up.
    “Here.” He took an olive cashmere sweater off the back of his office chair and wrapped it around my shoulders like a shawl. It was the same color as his eyes.
    “I don’t want to stop downstairs and involve the whole damn house in this.”
    I was immensely relieved that he wasn’t planning to force me to atone in front of the entire family.
    We went down to the riverbank. The lower quai ran almost completely around our side of the island, the southern side. It was where people walked their dogs, and lovers sat on the green park benches and “necked.” I had learned this word from him and did not quite know what it meant although I knew it involved boys and girls and sounded dirty.
    Once we rounded the first bend, Notre-Dame was in full view, looming tall and gray across the river.
    “You know, I like the pissy smell this place has,” my father said.
    “Oo, gross, Daddy.”
    He took slow, even steps so that I could keep up with him. After a while he held my hand. My mother and Candida seemed to forget when my brother and I were holding on and made us run to keep up. My father never seemed to be in any hurry. I watched the cobblestones and tried to avoid the cracks because it was good luck.
    He said, after a long silence, “I don’t know what to tell you. You know I have to punish you. What do you think would be a fair punishment?”
    “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe nobody can sleep over for a month?” I looked up at him and my eyes felt heavy. He nodded slowly but