not let it matter, drift. This is why he hated Brint sometimes. Because he interrupted the sweet drifting. With his questions. His incessant, never-ending questions.
T
:
Tell me what there is to tell, whether it’s very much or not.
A
:
I don’t know if I want to talk about the call.
And yet there was something good in the talking, in the discoveries. He had learned that the talking
was
discovery, words would come to his tongue that he had not known were lying in wait for him. The facts of his life would appear the moment he told them. The empty spaces were filled, the terrifying blankness that loomed before him sometimes at night in the darkness when he’d wake up, not knowing who he was or where he was. In the talking, the blank spots were filled in.
T
:
What about your mother and the telephone calls?
A
:
The calls were made every Thursday …
Adam had been aware of the calls and not aware of them. He knew that Thursdays were his mother’s best days. She was usually downstairs waiting for him when he got home from school. There was always the aroma of newly baked cookies or cake in the kitchen—something chocolate. Adam loved chocolate and on Thursdays his mother prepared a chocolate treat for him and watched with pleasure as he wolfed it down. Sometimes she hummed or sang as she worked around the house, dusting or mopping up. Early in the evening on Thursdays she would disappear into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Adam was cautioned not to use the telephone at that hour. “Your mother’s special telephone hour,” his father had explained a long time ago. Adam had accepted the explanation without question and the telephone hour became part of the fabric of the household. He figured that his mother had setaside this time of day to complete all her calls to friends (but what friends?), to relatives (they had no living relatives, his father had informed him with regret a long time ago), her committeewomen (his mother was too shy and withdrawn to be active in social or civic affairs). And yet the telephone hour had gone on for so long a time that Adam had never really questioned its purpose or reason. It belonged to the world of adults, and adults often did things, sometimes ridiculous, sometimes beyond his comprehension, but they were allowed to do them simply because they were adults. They needed no other reason.
His suspicions aroused by the two birth certificates and the tantalizing problem they presented, Adam began to question the familiar, everyday events of his life, and the comings and goings of his mother and father. He watched for telltale clues, any remark or action, that could not be explained. He listened avidly for any mention of Rawlings, Pennsylvania. None. The routine of their lives went on without incident, and Adam told himself that he was looking for trouble where none existed. He told himself that both the birth certificates and the strange stuff about Rawlings could be explained away.
One Thursday evening, his mother excused herself as usual and went upstairs to the bedroom, closing the door. His father went downstairs to the cellar; he had transformed part of the cellar into a combination recreation room and office, pine-paneled, with some office paraphernalia plus a Ping-Pong table and a television set. He and his father played Ping-Pongoccasionally, but most of the time his father used the room for business purposes, writing reports and policies there and meeting once in a while with businessmen or insurance company officials. On that particular Thursday, with his mother upstairs and his father downstairs, Adam spotted the extension telephone hanging on the wall of the den. He drew a sharp breath. Holding the breath, he made his way across the room like a sleepwalker. He placed his hand on the telephone; the instrument was cool to his touch, and the coolness established reality, the reality of what he was about to do: eavesdrop on his mother. He thought of Amy’s belief in
T
:
Tell me what there is to tell, whether it’s very much or not.
A
:
I don’t know if I want to talk about the call.
And yet there was something good in the talking, in the discoveries. He had learned that the talking
was
discovery, words would come to his tongue that he had not known were lying in wait for him. The facts of his life would appear the moment he told them. The empty spaces were filled, the terrifying blankness that loomed before him sometimes at night in the darkness when he’d wake up, not knowing who he was or where he was. In the talking, the blank spots were filled in.
T
:
What about your mother and the telephone calls?
A
:
The calls were made every Thursday …
Adam had been aware of the calls and not aware of them. He knew that Thursdays were his mother’s best days. She was usually downstairs waiting for him when he got home from school. There was always the aroma of newly baked cookies or cake in the kitchen—something chocolate. Adam loved chocolate and on Thursdays his mother prepared a chocolate treat for him and watched with pleasure as he wolfed it down. Sometimes she hummed or sang as she worked around the house, dusting or mopping up. Early in the evening on Thursdays she would disappear into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Adam was cautioned not to use the telephone at that hour. “Your mother’s special telephone hour,” his father had explained a long time ago. Adam had accepted the explanation without question and the telephone hour became part of the fabric of the household. He figured that his mother had setaside this time of day to complete all her calls to friends (but what friends?), to relatives (they had no living relatives, his father had informed him with regret a long time ago), her committeewomen (his mother was too shy and withdrawn to be active in social or civic affairs). And yet the telephone hour had gone on for so long a time that Adam had never really questioned its purpose or reason. It belonged to the world of adults, and adults often did things, sometimes ridiculous, sometimes beyond his comprehension, but they were allowed to do them simply because they were adults. They needed no other reason.
His suspicions aroused by the two birth certificates and the tantalizing problem they presented, Adam began to question the familiar, everyday events of his life, and the comings and goings of his mother and father. He watched for telltale clues, any remark or action, that could not be explained. He listened avidly for any mention of Rawlings, Pennsylvania. None. The routine of their lives went on without incident, and Adam told himself that he was looking for trouble where none existed. He told himself that both the birth certificates and the strange stuff about Rawlings could be explained away.
One Thursday evening, his mother excused herself as usual and went upstairs to the bedroom, closing the door. His father went downstairs to the cellar; he had transformed part of the cellar into a combination recreation room and office, pine-paneled, with some office paraphernalia plus a Ping-Pong table and a television set. He and his father played Ping-Pongoccasionally, but most of the time his father used the room for business purposes, writing reports and policies there and meeting once in a while with businessmen or insurance company officials. On that particular Thursday, with his mother upstairs and his father downstairs, Adam spotted the extension telephone hanging on the wall of the den. He drew a sharp breath. Holding the breath, he made his way across the room like a sleepwalker. He placed his hand on the telephone; the instrument was cool to his touch, and the coolness established reality, the reality of what he was about to do: eavesdrop on his mother. He thought of Amy’s belief in
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