those woods?
She is crying again. Where do all these tears come from? “Who is it?” she whispers.
“Who is who?”
“The person,” she begins. The words fill her with fear. “The person you say—”
That I killed.
But they are only saying this.
It isn’t true.
It cannot be true.
To take another human’s life is the most dreadful act a person can commit.
She is not that person.
“The person you say was killed,” she manages. “Who is it?”
“Derry Romaine.”
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
The day is summer slow. Swimming, eating, texting, napping.
Henry, Hayden and Geoffrey show up at the same time. Miranda slides into the river with them and they play water volleyball with an invisible net. Geoffrey has excellent aim and can always send the ball straight to Henry or Hayden. Geoffrey is at ease in the water, as if he’d be a better otter than teenager.
When Geoffrey gets out, he is wrinkly and pruny. He ties an old towel around his waist and climbs the stairs. He does not have the fine muscular shape of Jason Firenza or Derry Romaine. He is just big.
“Bye, Geoffrey!” the little boys chorus.
“Bye, Geoffrey,” calls Miranda. “Thanks for playing.” Perhaps this bit of neighborly courtesy will make up for her rudeness on the riding mower.
“Any time,” he calls, not turning around.
—
Miranda and her parents eat supper on the porch. The sun sets very slowly, as if it is enjoying itself. The dusk is soft and friendly. Bats come out. They swoop so fast she can hardly follow the movement. She’s glad the bats eat so many bugs and gladder that she is not outside on the grass with them.
Around nine o’clock she takes a long shower, shampooing and conditioning. One delightful thing about a shabby old cottage is that it has shabby old plumbing and therefore big fat pipes with no water-saving devices: the pressure of the heavy flow is practically a massage.
She towels dry, but in the humidity, remains damp.
They do not have air conditioning here.
In their regular house in West Hartford, they set the temperature at 74 for the entire hot-weather season and would never dream of trying to sleep at night except in air conditioning. But at the cottage, they pretend there is a steady breeze off the river that will cool them.
We just need ceiling fans to keep comfortable,
they claim.
Often, this works.
More often, they swelter.
Her father always says he will put in air conditioning when he can afford it, and his daughters always laugh. He can afford anything. He just likes the cottage this way.
Miranda picks out shortie pajamas. She doesn’t blow her hair dry. It will air-dry during the night. Now. Decisions. Should she watch baseball with her father in the living room? Curl up on the king-sized bed with her mother, who watches exclusively house and garden shows? Sit on the porch, watching her own favorites on her iPad?
She is shocked to find herself suddenly close to sobbing. Will this be her life? Sharing screens with her mother and father? She wants friends. Well, she has friends, lots of friends, but they’re busy and they’re in West Hartford.
The awful stab of loneliness won’t diminish.
She is standing in the tiny unlit hall between her room and Lander’s.
Both are corner rooms. Miranda’s two windows open onto the screened porch on one side and the Nevilles’ house on the other. Lander’s two windows face the Nevilles and the front yard. Through the open window Miranda hears Barrel snuffling and pacing in his run.
She thinks of Lander’s crush on Jason Firenza. Does Lander suffer from stabs of loneliness? Are the crowds in which she travels also lonely? Does everyone feel this way now and then?
She stares through Lander’s room and out Lander’s open front window. Towering trees in full leaf make the front yard utterly dark. Out her own window, the river glitters in the starlight.
A car inches down their driveway.
It must be Jason Firenza bringing Lander home and if so,
She is crying again. Where do all these tears come from? “Who is it?” she whispers.
“Who is who?”
“The person,” she begins. The words fill her with fear. “The person you say—”
That I killed.
But they are only saying this.
It isn’t true.
It cannot be true.
To take another human’s life is the most dreadful act a person can commit.
She is not that person.
“The person you say was killed,” she manages. “Who is it?”
“Derry Romaine.”
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
The day is summer slow. Swimming, eating, texting, napping.
Henry, Hayden and Geoffrey show up at the same time. Miranda slides into the river with them and they play water volleyball with an invisible net. Geoffrey has excellent aim and can always send the ball straight to Henry or Hayden. Geoffrey is at ease in the water, as if he’d be a better otter than teenager.
When Geoffrey gets out, he is wrinkly and pruny. He ties an old towel around his waist and climbs the stairs. He does not have the fine muscular shape of Jason Firenza or Derry Romaine. He is just big.
“Bye, Geoffrey!” the little boys chorus.
“Bye, Geoffrey,” calls Miranda. “Thanks for playing.” Perhaps this bit of neighborly courtesy will make up for her rudeness on the riding mower.
“Any time,” he calls, not turning around.
—
Miranda and her parents eat supper on the porch. The sun sets very slowly, as if it is enjoying itself. The dusk is soft and friendly. Bats come out. They swoop so fast she can hardly follow the movement. She’s glad the bats eat so many bugs and gladder that she is not outside on the grass with them.
Around nine o’clock she takes a long shower, shampooing and conditioning. One delightful thing about a shabby old cottage is that it has shabby old plumbing and therefore big fat pipes with no water-saving devices: the pressure of the heavy flow is practically a massage.
She towels dry, but in the humidity, remains damp.
They do not have air conditioning here.
In their regular house in West Hartford, they set the temperature at 74 for the entire hot-weather season and would never dream of trying to sleep at night except in air conditioning. But at the cottage, they pretend there is a steady breeze off the river that will cool them.
We just need ceiling fans to keep comfortable,
they claim.
Often, this works.
More often, they swelter.
Her father always says he will put in air conditioning when he can afford it, and his daughters always laugh. He can afford anything. He just likes the cottage this way.
Miranda picks out shortie pajamas. She doesn’t blow her hair dry. It will air-dry during the night. Now. Decisions. Should she watch baseball with her father in the living room? Curl up on the king-sized bed with her mother, who watches exclusively house and garden shows? Sit on the porch, watching her own favorites on her iPad?
She is shocked to find herself suddenly close to sobbing. Will this be her life? Sharing screens with her mother and father? She wants friends. Well, she has friends, lots of friends, but they’re busy and they’re in West Hartford.
The awful stab of loneliness won’t diminish.
She is standing in the tiny unlit hall between her room and Lander’s.
Both are corner rooms. Miranda’s two windows open onto the screened porch on one side and the Nevilles’ house on the other. Lander’s two windows face the Nevilles and the front yard. Through the open window Miranda hears Barrel snuffling and pacing in his run.
She thinks of Lander’s crush on Jason Firenza. Does Lander suffer from stabs of loneliness? Are the crowds in which she travels also lonely? Does everyone feel this way now and then?
She stares through Lander’s room and out Lander’s open front window. Towering trees in full leaf make the front yard utterly dark. Out her own window, the river glitters in the starlight.
A car inches down their driveway.
It must be Jason Firenza bringing Lander home and if so,
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