Boo Radley!”
“Yes!”
“Let’s try to be like Atticus, Grace.”
“Okay, let’s.”
“Tell me what else that lady wrote.”
“Sorry. That’s it.”
Long silence. “No fucking way.”
“Yes. She wrote one genius book.”
“Damn. Why?”
“No one knows. Maybe she scared herself with how good this one was. Or maybe she only had one story she wanted to tell.”
“It’s a mystery,” he said.
“It is.”
He blew his nose loudly. “Are you at your mom’s still?”
“No, actually, I’m at my dad’s. For dinner.”
“Okay, I’ll let you go. Sorry.”
“No, it’s all right. Where are you?”
“At my parents’ house. Heading back to the city tomorrow night.”
“Oh.”
“While we’ve been home I got Bogue to help finish the Facebook page.”
“Oh, that’s great!” I was so happy to be off the web-geek hook. I peeked over my shoulder at Dan, who was sitting at the island, watching me, waiting patiently.
Tyler was quiet.
“Are you there?” I said.
“Damn , Gracie.”
His response to the book was so completely gratifying. I knew exactly how he was feeling.
“I think I’ll read it again,” he said.
I laughed. “Okay, well, happy New Year, Ty. Be safe.”
“ ’Kay, Grace. You, too.”
I returned to the table.
“Who was that?” Dan asked.
I helped myself to a big spoonful of chutney. “A friend.”
“Must be a good one.”
“Huh?”
“Well, you changed, when you were talking on the phone. Your face. It was like you woke up.”
“Have I been asleep, all this time?”
“Let’s just say you’ve been typically enthused to see me.”
“Dan—”
“Never mind, dear.” He patted my hand. “What’s your friend’s name?”
“Tyler.”
“Five Words.”
I smiled. “Oh, come on.”
Five Words is a game my dad made up when I was a sullen teenager, to force me to communicate. As clever parental manipulation goes, it bordered on the diabolical. With my thing for words, I could never resist. And there was cash involved, if I managed to make a small poem.
“You come on. Give me five words about Tyler.”
I laughed and shrugged. Easy money. “Warm . . . smiling . . . shining . . . autumn . . .”
My dad leaned toward me as I reached for the last word.
“. . . song.”
“Ahh,” my dad said, as though I had just painted a fascinatingly comprehensive verbal portrait. He got out his wallet and handed me a five. All the while piercing me with his extrasensory Dan Barnum eyes.
“I barely know the guy,” I said as I tucked the bill into my pocket. “He’s just . . . really nice. And I am glad to see you, Dan, please don’t think I’m not.”
“Susannah Grace Barnum.” My dad smiled and patted my arm. “All is well.” He passed the basket of fragrant bread to me. “Naan?”
sad, inevitable, winter wedgie
It’s winter in New York, and you do what you have to. You hunker down, pay your holiday bills, and try not to freeze your ass off schlepping to work and home again. You drink lots of hot tea and put full-spectrum lightbulbs in all the lamps. You watch What’s Up, Doc? three times in one weekend for some medicinal Madeline Kahn. You decide that now is the time to take that trip to Cancún. You go online and choose a vacation package, but no one else can go with you right now. You seriously consider going by yourself.
You vacuum out Big Green and restock all items. You set aside the Toni Morrison you are reading and pick up Janet Evanovich. You think about dyeing your hair blond. You think about going back to therapy. You hijack your boyfriend’s Wii and play Dance Dance Revolution: Hottest Party , ignoring the downstairs neighbors’ complaints, until you are sidelined by a pulled groin muscle.
You time your comings and goings to minimize the possibility of running into the dog walker. You only run into him a handful of times, and you keep the interactions friendly but brief. You let him leave messages on your cell and leave him a
“Yes!”
“Let’s try to be like Atticus, Grace.”
“Okay, let’s.”
“Tell me what else that lady wrote.”
“Sorry. That’s it.”
Long silence. “No fucking way.”
“Yes. She wrote one genius book.”
“Damn. Why?”
“No one knows. Maybe she scared herself with how good this one was. Or maybe she only had one story she wanted to tell.”
“It’s a mystery,” he said.
“It is.”
He blew his nose loudly. “Are you at your mom’s still?”
“No, actually, I’m at my dad’s. For dinner.”
“Okay, I’ll let you go. Sorry.”
“No, it’s all right. Where are you?”
“At my parents’ house. Heading back to the city tomorrow night.”
“Oh.”
“While we’ve been home I got Bogue to help finish the Facebook page.”
“Oh, that’s great!” I was so happy to be off the web-geek hook. I peeked over my shoulder at Dan, who was sitting at the island, watching me, waiting patiently.
Tyler was quiet.
“Are you there?” I said.
“Damn , Gracie.”
His response to the book was so completely gratifying. I knew exactly how he was feeling.
“I think I’ll read it again,” he said.
I laughed. “Okay, well, happy New Year, Ty. Be safe.”
“ ’Kay, Grace. You, too.”
I returned to the table.
“Who was that?” Dan asked.
I helped myself to a big spoonful of chutney. “A friend.”
“Must be a good one.”
“Huh?”
“Well, you changed, when you were talking on the phone. Your face. It was like you woke up.”
“Have I been asleep, all this time?”
“Let’s just say you’ve been typically enthused to see me.”
“Dan—”
“Never mind, dear.” He patted my hand. “What’s your friend’s name?”
“Tyler.”
“Five Words.”
I smiled. “Oh, come on.”
Five Words is a game my dad made up when I was a sullen teenager, to force me to communicate. As clever parental manipulation goes, it bordered on the diabolical. With my thing for words, I could never resist. And there was cash involved, if I managed to make a small poem.
“You come on. Give me five words about Tyler.”
I laughed and shrugged. Easy money. “Warm . . . smiling . . . shining . . . autumn . . .”
My dad leaned toward me as I reached for the last word.
“. . . song.”
“Ahh,” my dad said, as though I had just painted a fascinatingly comprehensive verbal portrait. He got out his wallet and handed me a five. All the while piercing me with his extrasensory Dan Barnum eyes.
“I barely know the guy,” I said as I tucked the bill into my pocket. “He’s just . . . really nice. And I am glad to see you, Dan, please don’t think I’m not.”
“Susannah Grace Barnum.” My dad smiled and patted my arm. “All is well.” He passed the basket of fragrant bread to me. “Naan?”
sad, inevitable, winter wedgie
It’s winter in New York, and you do what you have to. You hunker down, pay your holiday bills, and try not to freeze your ass off schlepping to work and home again. You drink lots of hot tea and put full-spectrum lightbulbs in all the lamps. You watch What’s Up, Doc? three times in one weekend for some medicinal Madeline Kahn. You decide that now is the time to take that trip to Cancún. You go online and choose a vacation package, but no one else can go with you right now. You seriously consider going by yourself.
You vacuum out Big Green and restock all items. You set aside the Toni Morrison you are reading and pick up Janet Evanovich. You think about dyeing your hair blond. You think about going back to therapy. You hijack your boyfriend’s Wii and play Dance Dance Revolution: Hottest Party , ignoring the downstairs neighbors’ complaints, until you are sidelined by a pulled groin muscle.
You time your comings and goings to minimize the possibility of running into the dog walker. You only run into him a handful of times, and you keep the interactions friendly but brief. You let him leave messages on your cell and leave him a
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