chicken shit still haunts the road.
Henry is listening to the Red Sox on the radio when he glances in the rearview mirror to see that Emma’s talking to Danner again. Nonstop talking in a low, deliberate voice. Her hands are flapping, head bobbing as if her talk is a dance, a secret dance done for her secret friend no one else can see.
He catches only a few words and phrases: “If you could see…only…and then I wonder…”
He thought Emma would grow out of it, but it seems the older she gets, the more important Danner becomes. Tess says it’s not cause for concern. “Emma’s imagination is so vivid,” she tells him. “We should be grateful, not worried.”
The Red Sox are behind, five to two. Henry’s chewing the insides of his cheeks again, sucking on the scars he’s made there. What must his dentist think?
It’s stuffy in the Blazer. He turns up the AC. They pass Burt’s Texaco. He spots one of his DeForge Painting pickups gassing up, gives a beep and a wave to the kid filling the tank. A new kid. College boy. David. David gives him a salute.
Henry’s mind circles back around to the phone call from Spencer’s sister. It isn’t Spencer’s death that bothers him. Or even so much the sad fact that his sister is under the illusion that Spencer had his closest friendships in college. No, what worries Henry is the fucking postcard. Dismantlement = Freedom .
Hearing the words again had torn something open inside him, a tear too jagged and unexpected to close neatly.
He tries to tell himself that it’s possible the postcard had been lost, stuffed at the bottom of some forgotten mailbag for ten years.
But what if it wasn’t?
He feels the tear inside him widen. Where had the card come from? There were only five people who had ever used that phrase: himself, Tess, Winnie, Spencer, and Suz. Surely Spencer didn’t send the card to himself. And neither he nor Tess would do such a thing. Winnie? After that summer, she returned home to Boston and they hadn’t heard from her since. In some ways, she’d lost the most that summer and would be the last person to go poking around in the past. If it was her, why would she have sent the card to Spencer? It just didn’t make sense. That left Suz. And Suz—well, she was down at the bottom of Number 10 Lake.
To understand the nature of a thing, it must be taken apart.
Was there another possibility? Someone else who knew the secrets of that summer?
Henry looks up into the rearview mirror, sees Emma talking with Danner. She’s nodding her head. Saying, “I know. I don’t think so either.”
He drums his fingers on the wheel.
Damn it. She’s too old for this. She needs more real friends. She spends too much time alone. There’s Mel, but Mel’s a little off herself with her fake glasses and hacked-up hair. He and Tess should have found a good summer camp for Emma. Something with crafts and horses and cute little campfire songs. But no lake. God, no lake.
Maybe they should have planned a camping trip themselves, like they did when she was little. They had a big old cabin tent that they’d throw in the back of the pickup with sleeping bags, and a cooler full of hot dogs, soda pop, and beer. Tess had a rainbow-striped woven hammock she’d bring, and tie it between two trees at the campground. They’d all three get into it, the sides curling up around them. Cocooning, Tess called it. Sometimes they’d fall asleep there. Mostly they wouldn’t. They’d just swing gently, wrapped in each other’s arms, sticky with sunscreen and bug spray, playing the game where you looked up at the clouds and said what you saw there: hammer, walrus, banana .
“A troll, Daddy! I see a troll. He’s watching us.”
“Want me to make him disappear?” Henry asked, and Emma, sweaty, fearful, nodded. Henry puffed out his cheeks and blew a loud, hissing breath into the sky just as the wind picked up, distorting the clouds, carrying the troll away.
Emma cheered.
“Daddy’s
Henry is listening to the Red Sox on the radio when he glances in the rearview mirror to see that Emma’s talking to Danner again. Nonstop talking in a low, deliberate voice. Her hands are flapping, head bobbing as if her talk is a dance, a secret dance done for her secret friend no one else can see.
He catches only a few words and phrases: “If you could see…only…and then I wonder…”
He thought Emma would grow out of it, but it seems the older she gets, the more important Danner becomes. Tess says it’s not cause for concern. “Emma’s imagination is so vivid,” she tells him. “We should be grateful, not worried.”
The Red Sox are behind, five to two. Henry’s chewing the insides of his cheeks again, sucking on the scars he’s made there. What must his dentist think?
It’s stuffy in the Blazer. He turns up the AC. They pass Burt’s Texaco. He spots one of his DeForge Painting pickups gassing up, gives a beep and a wave to the kid filling the tank. A new kid. College boy. David. David gives him a salute.
Henry’s mind circles back around to the phone call from Spencer’s sister. It isn’t Spencer’s death that bothers him. Or even so much the sad fact that his sister is under the illusion that Spencer had his closest friendships in college. No, what worries Henry is the fucking postcard. Dismantlement = Freedom .
Hearing the words again had torn something open inside him, a tear too jagged and unexpected to close neatly.
He tries to tell himself that it’s possible the postcard had been lost, stuffed at the bottom of some forgotten mailbag for ten years.
But what if it wasn’t?
He feels the tear inside him widen. Where had the card come from? There were only five people who had ever used that phrase: himself, Tess, Winnie, Spencer, and Suz. Surely Spencer didn’t send the card to himself. And neither he nor Tess would do such a thing. Winnie? After that summer, she returned home to Boston and they hadn’t heard from her since. In some ways, she’d lost the most that summer and would be the last person to go poking around in the past. If it was her, why would she have sent the card to Spencer? It just didn’t make sense. That left Suz. And Suz—well, she was down at the bottom of Number 10 Lake.
To understand the nature of a thing, it must be taken apart.
Was there another possibility? Someone else who knew the secrets of that summer?
Henry looks up into the rearview mirror, sees Emma talking with Danner. She’s nodding her head. Saying, “I know. I don’t think so either.”
He drums his fingers on the wheel.
Damn it. She’s too old for this. She needs more real friends. She spends too much time alone. There’s Mel, but Mel’s a little off herself with her fake glasses and hacked-up hair. He and Tess should have found a good summer camp for Emma. Something with crafts and horses and cute little campfire songs. But no lake. God, no lake.
Maybe they should have planned a camping trip themselves, like they did when she was little. They had a big old cabin tent that they’d throw in the back of the pickup with sleeping bags, and a cooler full of hot dogs, soda pop, and beer. Tess had a rainbow-striped woven hammock she’d bring, and tie it between two trees at the campground. They’d all three get into it, the sides curling up around them. Cocooning, Tess called it. Sometimes they’d fall asleep there. Mostly they wouldn’t. They’d just swing gently, wrapped in each other’s arms, sticky with sunscreen and bug spray, playing the game where you looked up at the clouds and said what you saw there: hammer, walrus, banana .
“A troll, Daddy! I see a troll. He’s watching us.”
“Want me to make him disappear?” Henry asked, and Emma, sweaty, fearful, nodded. Henry puffed out his cheeks and blew a loud, hissing breath into the sky just as the wind picked up, distorting the clouds, carrying the troll away.
Emma cheered.
“Daddy’s
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