been watching had gone dark just after eleven, which meant I was free to go. My lids, though, were heavy, getting heavier, so I put away my momâs old camera, the one with the telephoto lens, doubling for me at the moment as a pair of binoculars, and crawled in the back. As I stretched out, my hand brushed the sleeve of a jacket: Nicaâs, thin, dark blue denim, button-flap pockets. Immediately I recoiled. Sheâd left it there the day before she died. The way sheâd tossed it, it still seemed to retain her shape. And I didnât want to touch it, make it flat, or jostle it so that the scent of her, caught in its folds, escaped. As I moved back to thefront of the car, reclined the passenger seat, I told myself Iâd just close my eyes for fifteen minutes then drive home. Thatâs the last thought I remember having.
I lower the windows and get out of the car. The street Iâm on is crowded with single-story houses set back among scraggly shrubs, the plaster statues of Our Lady in the front yards chipped and faded: a run-down neighborhood in a borderline part of town. The dayâs going to be a hot one. I reach through the window for the Diet Coke can in the cup holder, swish the liquid around my mouth before swallowing, slowly and carefully, in distinct shifts, hoping my stomach wonât notice. Then I walk to the rear of the car, pop the trunk. The pack of paper towels is under a tennis hopper.
I use nearly an entire roll cleaning the passenger-side door.
Itâs too early for traffic and I make it home in under ten minutes. I havenât even stepped all the way inside the front door when the smell hits me: a kind of stale fustiness, a combination of dust and old furniture, of meals cooked and eaten, of frayed carpeting. If sadness has a scent, this is it. Dad wouldâve gotten back from work just a couple hours ago, is probably in bed now, asleep. I move quietly as I go upstairs, shower and change, slip a book in my bag so Iâll have something to read later.
Before heading out the door again, I walk into the kitchen, as dark as the rest of the house. I open the refrigerator, the sudden bright light making me blink. On the bottom shelf, in front of a carton of milk, its use-by date several days past, is an aluminum container with a clear plastic top: linguine in red clam sauce. Dad mustâve swung by that all-night Italian place near the Amtrak station on his way home. My stomach begins to churn again, and I have to close my eyes, keep myself from imagining the smell of the congealed Parmesan, the glisteningnoodles, the gynecological-looking bits of gray shellfish coated in pureed tomato.
Blindly, I reach for the milk. Next, I take the box of Raisin Bran out of the cabinet. I pour a few flakes into a bowl, wet them with a splash of expired milk, then drop the bowl inside the sink. Dadâs pretty checked out these days. I doubt it would register with him that Iâve stopped eating breakfast, and if it did register with him, I doubt even more that it would register why. Still, it never hurts to be careful.
Iâm about to get back in my car. Then I think better of it. If I smell throw-up I probably will. While Iâm standing there, hand on the latch, I catch sight of the dashboard clock. Itâs already past eight. Immediately I let go of the latch, start walking. If I donât hurry, Iâll be late to my first day of work.
Chapter 6
Chandler Academy of Hartford, Connecticut, was established in 1886 when an Episcopal clergyman, Reverend Peabody Chandler of the Boston Chandlers, converted the ancestral summer home in the Sheldon/Charter Oak section of the city into an academy whose mission was to âtake the wayward sons of distinguished New England families and mold the disposition of their minds and morals so that they might become good Christian gentlemen.â In 1971 the minds and morals of the daughters of distinguished families became eligible for
I lower the windows and get out of the car. The street Iâm on is crowded with single-story houses set back among scraggly shrubs, the plaster statues of Our Lady in the front yards chipped and faded: a run-down neighborhood in a borderline part of town. The dayâs going to be a hot one. I reach through the window for the Diet Coke can in the cup holder, swish the liquid around my mouth before swallowing, slowly and carefully, in distinct shifts, hoping my stomach wonât notice. Then I walk to the rear of the car, pop the trunk. The pack of paper towels is under a tennis hopper.
I use nearly an entire roll cleaning the passenger-side door.
Itâs too early for traffic and I make it home in under ten minutes. I havenât even stepped all the way inside the front door when the smell hits me: a kind of stale fustiness, a combination of dust and old furniture, of meals cooked and eaten, of frayed carpeting. If sadness has a scent, this is it. Dad wouldâve gotten back from work just a couple hours ago, is probably in bed now, asleep. I move quietly as I go upstairs, shower and change, slip a book in my bag so Iâll have something to read later.
Before heading out the door again, I walk into the kitchen, as dark as the rest of the house. I open the refrigerator, the sudden bright light making me blink. On the bottom shelf, in front of a carton of milk, its use-by date several days past, is an aluminum container with a clear plastic top: linguine in red clam sauce. Dad mustâve swung by that all-night Italian place near the Amtrak station on his way home. My stomach begins to churn again, and I have to close my eyes, keep myself from imagining the smell of the congealed Parmesan, the glisteningnoodles, the gynecological-looking bits of gray shellfish coated in pureed tomato.
Blindly, I reach for the milk. Next, I take the box of Raisin Bran out of the cabinet. I pour a few flakes into a bowl, wet them with a splash of expired milk, then drop the bowl inside the sink. Dadâs pretty checked out these days. I doubt it would register with him that Iâve stopped eating breakfast, and if it did register with him, I doubt even more that it would register why. Still, it never hurts to be careful.
Iâm about to get back in my car. Then I think better of it. If I smell throw-up I probably will. While Iâm standing there, hand on the latch, I catch sight of the dashboard clock. Itâs already past eight. Immediately I let go of the latch, start walking. If I donât hurry, Iâll be late to my first day of work.
Chapter 6
Chandler Academy of Hartford, Connecticut, was established in 1886 when an Episcopal clergyman, Reverend Peabody Chandler of the Boston Chandlers, converted the ancestral summer home in the Sheldon/Charter Oak section of the city into an academy whose mission was to âtake the wayward sons of distinguished New England families and mold the disposition of their minds and morals so that they might become good Christian gentlemen.â In 1971 the minds and morals of the daughters of distinguished families became eligible for
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