All day the child has been trying to get the window open. He’s four and he isn’t strong enough. The father has noticed this, but it’s winter, and he doesn’t want the window open, so he’s been ignoring the child’s efforts. Eventually the child cries and the father asks him what’s wrong.
“I can’t open the window.”
“Well, I don’t want you to open the window. It’s cold.”
“But I have to get the pins!”
“What pins?”
“The pins.”
What the child is talking about is a cache of small safety pins he slipped under the sash one unseasonably warm day when the window was open. He wants the pins because tomorrow he’s going to preschool, and his friend Julia wears the same kind of socks he does, and he figures he can put the safety pins on his socks, so that they won’t get mixed up. But today, anyway, this is beyond his power to explain.
The father goes to the window and looks out, into the yard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Later that day the child manages to slide a metal ruler underneath the sash and is able to pry open the window. He sees the pins and reaches for them, but the ruler slips and the window crushes his hand. He wails in pain.
The father examines the hand. “I told you not to play at the window,” he says. “I need the pins!” says the child. “Arthur, I don’t know what you mean.” “The pins! The pins!” “Please stop crying and tell me what you mean.” “I need the pins!” The father is exasperated. The child is sent to bed early.
The next day, at school, the children make a puppet theater. They use their socks as puppets. The child’s socks are mixed up with his friend’s, and he returns home with a mismatched set. “This isn’t your sock,” his father says.
“I know.”
“Where’s your sock?”
“Julia has it.”
“Then whose is this?”
“Julia’s.”
“Oh.” The father scratches his head. “We should put your initials on them or something. Your socks. So you know they’re yours.” The father looks at the child’s hand. It is discolored where the window landed on it. “Does this hurt?”
“No.”
“What do you think? Should we put your initials on your socks?”
“Okay.”
But they don’t get around to it. The father is pretty busy and the child’s mind wanders. Eventually the child is given new socks that look nothing like Julia’s. Spring comes and the father replaces the storm windows with screens. He finds the little pile of safety pins. He says to himself, “Where the hell did these come from?” and throws them into a drawer.