okay?”
“I’m all right.”
“Are you safe?”
“I’m okay.”
“If you want to come in to my office, and talk about it, you can—any-time. You don’t need an appointment, it doesn’t have to be a big deal.
You can just come in and we can talk.”
“Is there any kind of law for me?”
“There’s something called the Emancipated Minor Act.”
She’s silent for the moment. Daniel has for the most part suppressed a s h i p m a d e o f pa p e r
his own adolescence, and he finds it difficult to project himself into what exactly it feels like to be Mercy’s age, to be in that jumble of misery and helplessness, hormonal energy and sheer lassitude.
“There’s case law,” he says, “in which the court has required parents to pay for rent and food for emancipated minors.”
“You mean they’d have to pay for me even if I moved out?”
“It’s not really my specialty. I’d have to look it up.”
“I guess I’d feel really guilty,” she says, smiling for the first time.
“Guilty? Why?”
“Well, they’re my parents. I don’t want to hurt them.” But the smile remains.
“You don’t have anything to feel guilty about.You have a right to make yourself happy. You’re not obliged to stay where you’re miserable. Nobody does.”
She nods quickly. She’s heard enough. She opens the door on her side. The light comes on in the car and she glances back at Daniel.
“Thanks, Mr. Emerson,” she says, “really, thank you.” And then, right before she slips out of the car she puts her arms around him and touches her forehead against his chest.
Daniel waits until she is safely in her house, though he wonders if her house is really safe. She opens the front door and waves good-bye, and a moment later the door is closed and the porch light goes off and every window in her house is opaque.
He backs away from Mercy’s house and onto Culbertson Street, the beams of his headlights filled with fluttering moths. He turns on the radio, as if the voice of reason might be broadcasting from somewhere on the dial, but there are only love songs, urging him on.
He tries to pretend to himself that he has no idea where he is going next. But after a minute or two, he must admit that he’s heading toward Juniper Street, where Iris lives. All he wants is to look at her house—
once—and then he’ll be able to return to his own, he’ll be able to walk up the stairs to the second floor, tiptoe into the bedroom, disrobe, slip into bed next to Kate, close his eyes.
[ 39 ]
A few moments later, he’s in front of Iris’s house. The Volvo station wagon is in the driveway; every window in the house is slate black. It means they are asleep. In bed. Together. Daniel’s hands tense, he lowers his head until his forehead touches the steering wheel. Go home, he says to himself.
Yet a competing inner voice also weighs in on the matter, a sterner, hungrier, more focused self that he has somehow managed to keep at bay for his entire life, and this voice wordlessly wonders: All around you life seethes, grasps, conquers, and here you are, thirty feet from what you desire most and all you can do is quake, all you can think about is Go home.
He pulls away. He switches on the radio.Van Morrison singing “Here Comes the Night.”
Upstairs, in bed, Hampton sleeps in his customary pose of noble death: flat on his back, his legs straight, his toes up, his arms folded across his chest, his fingertips resting on his shoulders, his face waxy and unmoving, his breath so silent and slow that sometimes it seems not to exist.
He dreams of the train. He is getting on in New York, at Pennsylvania Station, presumably on his way up to Leyden.The Amtrak conductor who directs him onto one of the cars looks familiar, a white guy, the guy who is always on Chambers Street selling souvlakis and hot sausages from his steam cart. Here you go, Mr. Davis, the conductor says, gesturing to an open door. Steam pours up from the tracks, onto the
“I’m all right.”
“Are you safe?”
“I’m okay.”
“If you want to come in to my office, and talk about it, you can—any-time. You don’t need an appointment, it doesn’t have to be a big deal.
You can just come in and we can talk.”
“Is there any kind of law for me?”
“There’s something called the Emancipated Minor Act.”
She’s silent for the moment. Daniel has for the most part suppressed a s h i p m a d e o f pa p e r
his own adolescence, and he finds it difficult to project himself into what exactly it feels like to be Mercy’s age, to be in that jumble of misery and helplessness, hormonal energy and sheer lassitude.
“There’s case law,” he says, “in which the court has required parents to pay for rent and food for emancipated minors.”
“You mean they’d have to pay for me even if I moved out?”
“It’s not really my specialty. I’d have to look it up.”
“I guess I’d feel really guilty,” she says, smiling for the first time.
“Guilty? Why?”
“Well, they’re my parents. I don’t want to hurt them.” But the smile remains.
“You don’t have anything to feel guilty about.You have a right to make yourself happy. You’re not obliged to stay where you’re miserable. Nobody does.”
She nods quickly. She’s heard enough. She opens the door on her side. The light comes on in the car and she glances back at Daniel.
“Thanks, Mr. Emerson,” she says, “really, thank you.” And then, right before she slips out of the car she puts her arms around him and touches her forehead against his chest.
Daniel waits until she is safely in her house, though he wonders if her house is really safe. She opens the front door and waves good-bye, and a moment later the door is closed and the porch light goes off and every window in her house is opaque.
He backs away from Mercy’s house and onto Culbertson Street, the beams of his headlights filled with fluttering moths. He turns on the radio, as if the voice of reason might be broadcasting from somewhere on the dial, but there are only love songs, urging him on.
He tries to pretend to himself that he has no idea where he is going next. But after a minute or two, he must admit that he’s heading toward Juniper Street, where Iris lives. All he wants is to look at her house—
once—and then he’ll be able to return to his own, he’ll be able to walk up the stairs to the second floor, tiptoe into the bedroom, disrobe, slip into bed next to Kate, close his eyes.
[ 39 ]
A few moments later, he’s in front of Iris’s house. The Volvo station wagon is in the driveway; every window in the house is slate black. It means they are asleep. In bed. Together. Daniel’s hands tense, he lowers his head until his forehead touches the steering wheel. Go home, he says to himself.
Yet a competing inner voice also weighs in on the matter, a sterner, hungrier, more focused self that he has somehow managed to keep at bay for his entire life, and this voice wordlessly wonders: All around you life seethes, grasps, conquers, and here you are, thirty feet from what you desire most and all you can do is quake, all you can think about is Go home.
He pulls away. He switches on the radio.Van Morrison singing “Here Comes the Night.”
Upstairs, in bed, Hampton sleeps in his customary pose of noble death: flat on his back, his legs straight, his toes up, his arms folded across his chest, his fingertips resting on his shoulders, his face waxy and unmoving, his breath so silent and slow that sometimes it seems not to exist.
He dreams of the train. He is getting on in New York, at Pennsylvania Station, presumably on his way up to Leyden.The Amtrak conductor who directs him onto one of the cars looks familiar, a white guy, the guy who is always on Chambers Street selling souvlakis and hot sausages from his steam cart. Here you go, Mr. Davis, the conductor says, gesturing to an open door. Steam pours up from the tracks, onto the
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