The Good House: A Novel by Ann Leary

truck.
    “She didn’t need to treat him like some kind of monster. He’s never hurt anybody. It was just the truck…”
    “I know,” I said. “I know.”
    Rebecca’s silver Land Cruiser cut a sharp reverse in the sandy lot and then she sped off, leaving a wake of hot sand and dust behind her.
    *   *   *
    I remember Jake as an infant. Cassie brought him by the office a few times when she was driving through town. He was cuter than your average baby; all plump, with those big blue eyes. Just gorgeous. I guess it was when he was about a year old that Cassie started to notice he wasn’t developing like the other babies his age. Her sister had a daughter four months younger who was more advanced—at everything. I have two daughters, but I remember telling Cassie that I’d always heard that boys are just slower. “He’ll catch up,” I said. That’s what we all said to her. But Jake didn’t catch up. When he was about a year and a half old, he started having seizures, and that’s when they detected the chromosomal abnormality. There’s a genetic problem of some sort—I don’t recall the specific name—but by the time he turned two, anyone could see that there was something wrong. He never spoke, he laughed at nothing, and he twirled in circles until he was so dizzy that he fell over, or he spent hours spinning the wheels of a truck and staring at them. These were things he did during his good moments.
    The day I first went to look at the Dwight house after they told me they wanted to list it, I got a little glimpse of their life. It was a Saturday morning, and when I rang the bell, I had to wait quite a while. Nobody answered, but I heard a high-pitched, repetitive screaming coming from inside. I waited and then rang again. Realizing they were unlikely to hear the bell over the screaming, I tried to open the door. It was locked. I walked around to the kitchen door and knocked again. Cassie saw me through the window. Jake was seated on the floor, with his back against the wall, banging his head against it and wailing. Cassie was trying to pull him away from the wall, but he repeatedly wriggled from her grasp and moved back to the wall, where he rocked back and forth in a rhythmic precision, like a human metronome, whacking his head against the plaster on every upbeat. Cassie left him for a moment, flew to the door and unlocked it for me, then returned to Jake.
    “LOCK THE DOOR BEHIND YOU , ” she shouted. It took me a moment to find the lock, which was at shoulder level.
    “PATCH,” Cassie shouted over Jake’s high-pitched screams. I have to admit, I was overwhelmed by what was going on. I’d really had no idea, until then. After a moment, Patch came out of the back hall, wearing old sweats and a T-shirt, his hair wet.
    “I’ve been calling and calling you. He’s having a total fucking meltdown, and Hildy’s here to see the house,” Cassie hissed.
    “I was in the shower,” Patch said in a tone of barely controlled rage. “Hi, Hildy,” he said without looking at me. He was looking at Jake, his head moving back and forth in time with the boy’s head banging.
    “Hi, Patch,” I said.
    “C’mon, Jake,” Patch said, grabbing the boy by his wrists. “Let’s watch Sesame Street. Let’s watch Elmo.”
    Jake said, “Sneakahs, Sneakahs,” and continued his wailing as Patch hauled him away from the wall and lifted him up in his arms like a baby. Jake’s fists swung at Patch’s face.
    “We’ll find Sneakers,” said Patch. “No hitting, Jake.”
    Cassie stood for a moment to catch her breath, and then gave me a little smile. “He’s getting too big for me to handle.”
    “Yes, I see, he’s getting to be so … big,” I replied.
    Really, what do you say?
    Cassie gave me a tour of the house. It was, to put it mildly, a wreck. Holes had been punched through the plaster. What looked like a large dried turd lay on a closet floor. Blood had been smeared on the bathroom walls and adult-size