weed.
She turned just as Ned’s truck appeared in the distance. It was coming from the back of the farm, where the shop was, and heading silently away from her, up the far hill. At the top of it Ned stopped and turned right, moved down the access road that would bring him to the entrance to the stallion division, where he’d speak into a security squawk box and drive through a pair of painted metal gates. Knox watched his pickup get smaller and less distinct. The only word in her mind was: wait. She raised a hand and raked it through her hair before she remembered the fence-black on her fingertips. Friction had a way of turning the paint to a dust so fine it could be inhaled as an irritant; she closed her eyes, trying not to breathe.
B RUCE
B RUCE T AVERT HAD LEARNED early that mothers can leave. In fact, if he’d been asked to identify a major theme in his life—and there was a party game to this effect, he thought—then that particular theme might have been it. Mothers can leave. Can and do.
Two events in his childhood taught him as much. The first occurred when he was eleven, a fifth grader at the Bancroft School in Manhattan.
His best friend, Toby Van Wyck, lived in a suburb just north of the city. Toby commuted in with his father, the two of them rising early, breakfasting together, then taking the thirty-five-minute train ride to Grand Central. On the train, Mr. Van Wyck skimmed the Times and the Journal , while Toby listened to tapes on his Walkman (Squeeze, the Hooters, New Order, old Who) and penned designs and characters onto the outside of his plastic organizer, which he would show to Bruce once he arrived at school, having taken the subway from Forty-second Street to the Upper East Side with his father. Toby’s mother usually drove in to pick him up at the end of the school day, his baby sister strapped intoher car seat in the back. Some days, his mother took the train in, and left Lisa with the au pair.
One day, Toby’s mother didn’t come at all. Bruce stood with Toby in the school lobby, fingering the Hacky Sack that he kept in the pants pocket of his uniform. It had been at least an hour since the headmistress had called Toby’s father at work in an effort to find Mrs. Van Wyck after she saw Toby and Bruce together at the end of pickup, sitting against a wall with their knees drawn up to their chests, their backpacks pressed like carapaces behind them. Bruce’s mother was out front, reading her newspaper in the sun, waiting in case Toby needed to come home with them for the rest of the afternoon. Now, Bruce flipped the sack onto the back of his hand, where it rested.
“Sure you don’t want to play?”
Toby looked at him. Bruce noticed red points on his cheeks that made it look like he had a fever. “Yeah,” Toby said. “Okay.”
They turned to face each other. Bruce dropped the sack onto his right ankle, angling his foot just so for a light, easy catch. He popped it to Toby, who caught it, sailed it into the air, turned a 180, and caught it again on the bottom of his shoe before lofting it back to Bruce. They had been hacking like this for a few minutes when Toby stopped a toss from Bruce with a listless motion and began to dribble the sack on his toe, watching it as it bounced up and down, collapsing flat when it landed and thrusting itself slightly taller, looser, in the moments in between. They could hear the soft thunk of it against Toby’s sneaker in the emptied-out lobby. Toby said, “I think my mom’s with her boyfriend.”
Bruce kept his face still. He knew to do that much. He wished he had the sack himself so he could concentrate on it instead of on Toby’s foot. His heart was beating with sudden excitement and sorrow. Divorced mothers had boyfriends. Toby’s mom was married.
“Dude,” he said finally. “She has a boyfriend?”
“He’s a dick,” Toby said. “My dad’s met him.”
Because breathing seemed like it might hold the power to hurt, to offend, Bruce
She turned just as Ned’s truck appeared in the distance. It was coming from the back of the farm, where the shop was, and heading silently away from her, up the far hill. At the top of it Ned stopped and turned right, moved down the access road that would bring him to the entrance to the stallion division, where he’d speak into a security squawk box and drive through a pair of painted metal gates. Knox watched his pickup get smaller and less distinct. The only word in her mind was: wait. She raised a hand and raked it through her hair before she remembered the fence-black on her fingertips. Friction had a way of turning the paint to a dust so fine it could be inhaled as an irritant; she closed her eyes, trying not to breathe.
B RUCE
B RUCE T AVERT HAD LEARNED early that mothers can leave. In fact, if he’d been asked to identify a major theme in his life—and there was a party game to this effect, he thought—then that particular theme might have been it. Mothers can leave. Can and do.
Two events in his childhood taught him as much. The first occurred when he was eleven, a fifth grader at the Bancroft School in Manhattan.
His best friend, Toby Van Wyck, lived in a suburb just north of the city. Toby commuted in with his father, the two of them rising early, breakfasting together, then taking the thirty-five-minute train ride to Grand Central. On the train, Mr. Van Wyck skimmed the Times and the Journal , while Toby listened to tapes on his Walkman (Squeeze, the Hooters, New Order, old Who) and penned designs and characters onto the outside of his plastic organizer, which he would show to Bruce once he arrived at school, having taken the subway from Forty-second Street to the Upper East Side with his father. Toby’s mother usually drove in to pick him up at the end of the school day, his baby sister strapped intoher car seat in the back. Some days, his mother took the train in, and left Lisa with the au pair.
One day, Toby’s mother didn’t come at all. Bruce stood with Toby in the school lobby, fingering the Hacky Sack that he kept in the pants pocket of his uniform. It had been at least an hour since the headmistress had called Toby’s father at work in an effort to find Mrs. Van Wyck after she saw Toby and Bruce together at the end of pickup, sitting against a wall with their knees drawn up to their chests, their backpacks pressed like carapaces behind them. Bruce’s mother was out front, reading her newspaper in the sun, waiting in case Toby needed to come home with them for the rest of the afternoon. Now, Bruce flipped the sack onto the back of his hand, where it rested.
“Sure you don’t want to play?”
Toby looked at him. Bruce noticed red points on his cheeks that made it look like he had a fever. “Yeah,” Toby said. “Okay.”
They turned to face each other. Bruce dropped the sack onto his right ankle, angling his foot just so for a light, easy catch. He popped it to Toby, who caught it, sailed it into the air, turned a 180, and caught it again on the bottom of his shoe before lofting it back to Bruce. They had been hacking like this for a few minutes when Toby stopped a toss from Bruce with a listless motion and began to dribble the sack on his toe, watching it as it bounced up and down, collapsing flat when it landed and thrusting itself slightly taller, looser, in the moments in between. They could hear the soft thunk of it against Toby’s sneaker in the emptied-out lobby. Toby said, “I think my mom’s with her boyfriend.”
Bruce kept his face still. He knew to do that much. He wished he had the sack himself so he could concentrate on it instead of on Toby’s foot. His heart was beating with sudden excitement and sorrow. Divorced mothers had boyfriends. Toby’s mom was married.
“Dude,” he said finally. “She has a boyfriend?”
“He’s a dick,” Toby said. “My dad’s met him.”
Because breathing seemed like it might hold the power to hurt, to offend, Bruce
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