department (Bingo Every Thursday Nite 6:30), and Croydon Realty, to which we drifted in a slow stop the first time we came into town—Croydon Realty, where it’s still possible to buy a house for $26,000; not much of a house, but a house. In the summers my father and I sometimes go for exploratory drives around the countryside, getting lost on backwoods roads, finding small pockets of surprisingly well tended houses. “How do they make a living?” my father will always ask. Once we came upon a moose ambling along in front of us, hogging the narrow road. We had to follow it for twenty minutes at five miles an hour, not daring to pass it, learning to like the gentle jog of the animal’s rump.
After Croydon Realty, there are four miles of nothing—just woods with a stream that parallels the road. My father slows as he passes Mercy, the first set of buildings after the gap, the hospital housed in what was once a brick, four-story hotel, converted in the 1930s. Though it has since sprouted modern wings, the words
De Wolfe Hotel
1898
are still inscribed over the front door of the original building.
“Dad, let’s stop,” I say. “I want to see her.”
My father stares at the hospital. I know that he would like to see the baby, too. But after a few seconds, he shakes his head. “Too much red tape,” he says, accelerating.
Beyond the hospital is a strip mall into which my father turns. He stops in front of a sign that reads
Liquor Outlet, Butson’s Market, Family Dollar, Frank Renata D.D.S.
Milk, I think. Cheerios. Coffee. Chicken with Stars. American cheese. Hamburger meat. Maybe some Ring Dings.
With a week’s worth of groceries, my father makes the reverse trip—past the hospital, through the gap, then the Realtor, the three stately homes, and Remy’s and Sweetser’s right across the street from each other. Our own road is six miles out of town. Along the way we pass houses with front porches filled with couches and plastic toys and empty propane tanks. One of these houses is a small white clapboard cottage with a tiny fenced-in backyard. The front porch is neatly crowded with bicycles and tricycles, baseball bats and hockey sticks. Evidence of boys can also be found in the wash on the line: T-shirts in varying sizes, jeans, and hockey shirts or bathing suits depending on the season. In the middle of the wash I sometimes see a bra or a slip or a pretty nightgown. When we drive by in the winter, we occasionally see the mother struggling with large, unwieldy frozen sheets. They look like cardboard and blow with the wind. I always wave at the woman, who smiles and waves back. Sometimes in the summers I have an urge to stop my bike and say hello and enter that house and meet the boys and see the chaos I imagine there.
My father pulls the truck into our driveway. “You bought spaghetti?” he asks.
“And Ragú sauce,” I say.
He parks in his usual spot beside the barn. He turns off the engine. “That okay for supper?”
“It’s fine.”
“I bought Breyers,” he says.
“I saw.”
“Butter pecan. Your favorite.”
“Dad?” I say.
“What?”
“How did the baby get named Doris?”
My father reaches for his cigarettes, a nervous gesture, but then he decides against it with me in the truck. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe it was the name of one of the nurses.”
“It sounds like the name of a hurricane.”
“They probably have a system,” he says.
“You think they get that many babies?”
“I don’t think so. I hope not.”
“It’s an old-fashioned name,” I say. I am leaning against my door. My father has his hand on his door handle, as if he were anxious to get out of the truck.
“It’s a strange name to give a baby these days,” he concedes.
“What will happen to her?” I ask. “Did Dr. Gibson tell you?”
“She’ll go into social services,” my father says. He puts his hand on the door handle and opens the door a crack.
“She’ll get a new mother and
After Croydon Realty, there are four miles of nothing—just woods with a stream that parallels the road. My father slows as he passes Mercy, the first set of buildings after the gap, the hospital housed in what was once a brick, four-story hotel, converted in the 1930s. Though it has since sprouted modern wings, the words
De Wolfe Hotel
1898
are still inscribed over the front door of the original building.
“Dad, let’s stop,” I say. “I want to see her.”
My father stares at the hospital. I know that he would like to see the baby, too. But after a few seconds, he shakes his head. “Too much red tape,” he says, accelerating.
Beyond the hospital is a strip mall into which my father turns. He stops in front of a sign that reads
Liquor Outlet, Butson’s Market, Family Dollar, Frank Renata D.D.S.
Milk, I think. Cheerios. Coffee. Chicken with Stars. American cheese. Hamburger meat. Maybe some Ring Dings.
With a week’s worth of groceries, my father makes the reverse trip—past the hospital, through the gap, then the Realtor, the three stately homes, and Remy’s and Sweetser’s right across the street from each other. Our own road is six miles out of town. Along the way we pass houses with front porches filled with couches and plastic toys and empty propane tanks. One of these houses is a small white clapboard cottage with a tiny fenced-in backyard. The front porch is neatly crowded with bicycles and tricycles, baseball bats and hockey sticks. Evidence of boys can also be found in the wash on the line: T-shirts in varying sizes, jeans, and hockey shirts or bathing suits depending on the season. In the middle of the wash I sometimes see a bra or a slip or a pretty nightgown. When we drive by in the winter, we occasionally see the mother struggling with large, unwieldy frozen sheets. They look like cardboard and blow with the wind. I always wave at the woman, who smiles and waves back. Sometimes in the summers I have an urge to stop my bike and say hello and enter that house and meet the boys and see the chaos I imagine there.
My father pulls the truck into our driveway. “You bought spaghetti?” he asks.
“And Ragú sauce,” I say.
He parks in his usual spot beside the barn. He turns off the engine. “That okay for supper?”
“It’s fine.”
“I bought Breyers,” he says.
“I saw.”
“Butter pecan. Your favorite.”
“Dad?” I say.
“What?”
“How did the baby get named Doris?”
My father reaches for his cigarettes, a nervous gesture, but then he decides against it with me in the truck. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe it was the name of one of the nurses.”
“It sounds like the name of a hurricane.”
“They probably have a system,” he says.
“You think they get that many babies?”
“I don’t think so. I hope not.”
“It’s an old-fashioned name,” I say. I am leaning against my door. My father has his hand on his door handle, as if he were anxious to get out of the truck.
“It’s a strange name to give a baby these days,” he concedes.
“What will happen to her?” I ask. “Did Dr. Gibson tell you?”
“She’ll go into social services,” my father says. He puts his hand on the door handle and opens the door a crack.
“She’ll get a new mother and
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