energy, just sheer will. You had to compartmentalize each discrete part. It was surprising, when you thought about it, how little people really knew about one anothers’ lives anyway, and how easy it was to lie.
Charlie had never thought of himself as a particularly good liar; his father had always told him he was terrible at it, transparent as glass. Now it occurred to him that this was psychological bullying, typical of the old man. His father told him he was a bad liar so he wouldn’t lie. But he wasn’t actually a bad liar. As it turned out, he seemed to have a knack for it.
Of course, Charlie had always had a remarkable ability to shuffle his thoughts so as to avoid certain subjects altogether. It was a skill he’d acquired long ago, way back in his Kansas childhood, and it had served him well. It was what enabled him to excel in high school and then in college while his mother was undergoing treatment for cancer and his father was driving the family business into the ground. It was what propelled him to graduate magna cum laude and with a fellowship to Cambridge, as far away from the mess of his family as he could manage.
Charlie thought about his parents’ bland insistence that his father’s company was fine, until the day they announced that it was going under. Of course he’d suspected there was trouble—they all did. But nobody had said anything about it. And then, when his mother got cancer for the second time, though Charlie knew about the chemo and the radiation and the lymph nodes, it was months before anyone acknowledged how serious it was. She was dying by the time Charlie’s sister called and urged him home.
Charlie felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes. Claire was leaning over him, her auburn hair brushing his face. She kissed him on the lips.
“Were you dreaming about me?” she whispered.
“Of course,” he said. “I only ever dream about you.”
Chapter Two
The morning after the book party, Ben was yanked into consciousness by the ringing of the phone.
“You get it. Probably your mother,” Claire groaned, turning over into her pillow and pulling the covers over her head. His mother, it was true, had an irritating habit of calling early in the morning. “I just assumed you’d be up by now,” she’d chirp with surprise when they complained. “The morning’s half over.”
“Hello,” Ben said flatly into the receiver, not bothering to check caller ID.
“Ben, it’s Charlie.”
“Oh, hey.” Ben shook his head to clear it. “What’s up?”
“Well, I’m—I’m—aah … ”
Something in his voice made Ben sit up. He pushed Claire’s shoulder, and she rolled over and looked at him, sleepy-eyed. “What is it?” he said into the phone.
“Alison was in an accident last night coming home from the party,” Charlie said.
“Oh, Jesus,” Ben said.
“What? What?” Claire demanded.
“Alison was in a car accident.”
“Oh my God,” she gasped.
“She’s all right,” Charlie said.
“She’s okay,” Ben reported.
“Is she … ?” Claire sat up, pressing against him. “Wait, I’ll get another phone.” She jumped up and ran into the living room. “Hi, Charlie, I’m here,” she said, her voice loud and breathless on the line.
“She’s all right,” Charlie repeated. “It’s just … somebody—in the other car … there was a boy … ”
“Oh, no,” Claire said, getting it before Ben did.
“We just got a call. As it turned out … he didn’t make it,” Charlie said.
“Oh my God.”
“My God,” Ben said, thinking even in that moment how inadequate their words were—how inadequate any words would be.
“Charlie,” Claire said, her voice strangely calm. “Oh my God. Charlie. What are we going to do?”
Her response was odd—the “we” too familiar, Ben thought. Why did she always have to go inserting herself into the center of other people’s dramas? For a moment no one said a word. Ben could hear them all breathing,
Charlie had never thought of himself as a particularly good liar; his father had always told him he was terrible at it, transparent as glass. Now it occurred to him that this was psychological bullying, typical of the old man. His father told him he was a bad liar so he wouldn’t lie. But he wasn’t actually a bad liar. As it turned out, he seemed to have a knack for it.
Of course, Charlie had always had a remarkable ability to shuffle his thoughts so as to avoid certain subjects altogether. It was a skill he’d acquired long ago, way back in his Kansas childhood, and it had served him well. It was what enabled him to excel in high school and then in college while his mother was undergoing treatment for cancer and his father was driving the family business into the ground. It was what propelled him to graduate magna cum laude and with a fellowship to Cambridge, as far away from the mess of his family as he could manage.
Charlie thought about his parents’ bland insistence that his father’s company was fine, until the day they announced that it was going under. Of course he’d suspected there was trouble—they all did. But nobody had said anything about it. And then, when his mother got cancer for the second time, though Charlie knew about the chemo and the radiation and the lymph nodes, it was months before anyone acknowledged how serious it was. She was dying by the time Charlie’s sister called and urged him home.
Charlie felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes. Claire was leaning over him, her auburn hair brushing his face. She kissed him on the lips.
“Were you dreaming about me?” she whispered.
“Of course,” he said. “I only ever dream about you.”
Chapter Two
The morning after the book party, Ben was yanked into consciousness by the ringing of the phone.
“You get it. Probably your mother,” Claire groaned, turning over into her pillow and pulling the covers over her head. His mother, it was true, had an irritating habit of calling early in the morning. “I just assumed you’d be up by now,” she’d chirp with surprise when they complained. “The morning’s half over.”
“Hello,” Ben said flatly into the receiver, not bothering to check caller ID.
“Ben, it’s Charlie.”
“Oh, hey.” Ben shook his head to clear it. “What’s up?”
“Well, I’m—I’m—aah … ”
Something in his voice made Ben sit up. He pushed Claire’s shoulder, and she rolled over and looked at him, sleepy-eyed. “What is it?” he said into the phone.
“Alison was in an accident last night coming home from the party,” Charlie said.
“Oh, Jesus,” Ben said.
“What? What?” Claire demanded.
“Alison was in a car accident.”
“Oh my God,” she gasped.
“She’s all right,” Charlie said.
“She’s okay,” Ben reported.
“Is she … ?” Claire sat up, pressing against him. “Wait, I’ll get another phone.” She jumped up and ran into the living room. “Hi, Charlie, I’m here,” she said, her voice loud and breathless on the line.
“She’s all right,” Charlie repeated. “It’s just … somebody—in the other car … there was a boy … ”
“Oh, no,” Claire said, getting it before Ben did.
“We just got a call. As it turned out … he didn’t make it,” Charlie said.
“Oh my God.”
“My God,” Ben said, thinking even in that moment how inadequate their words were—how inadequate any words would be.
“Charlie,” Claire said, her voice strangely calm. “Oh my God. Charlie. What are we going to do?”
Her response was odd—the “we” too familiar, Ben thought. Why did she always have to go inserting herself into the center of other people’s dramas? For a moment no one said a word. Ben could hear them all breathing,
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