Excerpt from Big City Eyes by Delia Ephron, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Our transition was initially easy. I worried that Sakonnet High might reject Sam because of his hair spout, but the registrar handed over the forms and he enrolled. This surprised me so pleasantly that I stopped at a nursery and purchased tulip bulbs. That evening I planted, measuring an exact six inches from one bulb to the next. The following day I started work at the weekly paper, The Sakonnet Times. A piece of good fortune, landing this job - the editor, Art Lindsay, happened to be the uncle of one of my city friends. Each week I would write a column on a subject of my own choosing, as well as several articles on assignment. I was thrilled to give up freelancing. It's an outsider's existence. With this work, I could set an example for my son. I would join the community, be part of the life.

On October 4, the day events took an unexpected turn, Sam sat at the kitchen table ignoring his bowl of cereal, which he had saturated with so much milk that the Cheerios floated around like pool toys. NR-normal range. One leg was pulled against his chest, permitting a crusty size-twelve foot to rest on the chair seat. He picked at the cuticles on his toes. NR, but disgusting.

"Isn't it beautiful out today?" I was reduced to weather talk with Sam. Weather talk had turned out to be a big activity here. Commenting on how crisp it was, or how great the air felt on one's cheeks. Sam didn't bother to reward me with his usual grunt. I tried a more provocative approach. "I saw a fox the other day, hanging out down the street, near the corner." Sam poked the Cheerios with a spoon, sinking them and then allowing them to bob up. "I think the fox had a baby in its mouth."

He made the strange noise that I heard from him a couple of times a day: he opened his mouth as if to yawn, but what issued forth was somewhere between a sigh and a wail. I hadn't yet settled on a rating for this behavior-NR or NNR.

I really had thought the fox had a baby clamped between its jaws. In a foggy twilight, I was driving home from the Italian deli when I spied the animal by some tall shrubs. First I noticed the flat bushy tail - unmistakable, definitely not dog - then how surprisingly lithe the fox was. Just as it vanished, I thought I saw...

As a part of my job on the paper, I was allowed to peruse the log, the town's official computer printout of reported crimes. I went to the police department dispatch office and looked:

Ellen Franklin, 245 Cummings Lane, complained that a sport utility vehicle pulled in and out of her driveway three times in approximately fifteen minutes.

Victor Marcum reported that he had received one hang-up call a day for the past three months.

An intruder entered Stanley Lamb Housewares, 106 Main Street, via an unused doggie door, rearranged some merchandise, but removed nothing.

I loved the log. I loved the innocence of the crimes and the idea that crimes could be innocent. In addition to mining the log for ideas for my column, I read selections from my notes to Sam at dinner. "Listen to this: A kitchen door was stolen. Someone's mailbox. Three Dr Peppers were lifted from the refrigerator at Oscar Limpoli's chicken ranch."

I laughed gaily, alone, about these incidents. But I have a theory that just because a child isn't reacting doesn't mean he isn't listening or appreciating. I was influenced in this belief by Enchanted April, the only movie I have seen that is about being in love as opposed to falling in love. It explores the power of relentless kindness. Even though Sam was not my husband or lover, I believed the film's message still applied. One day he would not be able to resist my stories, my enthusiasm, my jollity, and would end up, against all inclination, having fun.

"I checked that log," I continued, despite Sam's manifest lack of interest. "I scoured it from top to bottom. No missing baby. I must have imagined the whole business."

Reprinted from Big City Eyes by Delia Ephron by permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc. Copyright (c) 2000 by Delia Ephron. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.