left—you’ll find all his clothes at one end of the closet.”
“This won’t take too long,” the man says, and something in the kind tone of his voice reaches my knees. I go into the kitchen, where I will find something to do. I can’t watch them.
We’d gotten
ham and cheese subs for lunch. While we sat on the empty living-room
floor and watched the moving men carry his desk upstairs, David put his
Coke bottle up to mine for a toast. “I love this house,” he said. “We’re
never moving.”
I organize pots and pans, wipe out cupboards, line up spice bottles. When I hear the man call out, “All set!” I come into the living room.
“All set,” he says, again, quietly. Beside him, his son frankly stares at me, three fingers on his hip, football-player style.
“So, if you could just sign here.”
“Oh, sure.” I take the man’s ballpoint pen—it’s greasy—and start to sign my name. And then I drop the pen onto the clipboard and put my hands to my face.
“Oh, boy,” the man says. And then, “I’m awful sorry, Miss.”
I stop crying, pick up the pen, sign my name. Say thank you. Watch them drive away. Go upstairs and regard the empty room.
David, we can’t do it in
here!
Shhhhh! Take off your clothes, we’ll be so
quiet
we
won’t hear us
.
I sit in the middle of the floor and rock like an autistic. There is comfort in it. In the corner, I see a paper clip, and I pick it up and hold it. Then I put it in my pocket. And then I go to the bedroom, look in the closet. Yup. They got it all.
I sit on the edge of the bed, stare at the wall. Then I take the paper clip out of my pocket and put it in the top drawer of the nightstand.
Now. Now I’ll call Karen Wheeler to tell her it’s safe for Travis to come home, and that he can bring Ben, too, if he wants. And I know what Karen will say. She’ll say Oh, well, why doesn’t Travis just stay here for a while? Because she won’t want Ben here. Because what if it’s contagious?
Ben answers the phone when I call. “Hey, Ben,” I say. “It’s Travis’s mom. I just wanted to tell you that Travis can come home anytime. And you can come, too, if you want. Stay for dinner?”
“Oh, okay. Hold on a second.” He puts the phone down and I hear him say, “Hey, T. Want to go over to your house? Your mom says it’s okay.”
Silence. And then Ben comes back to the phone. “He says we’ll just stay here. Okay?”
“. . . Sure. Can I speak to him, though?”
Another moment, and then Ben comes back to the phone again. “Mrs. Morrow?”
“Yes?”
“He’s doing something now. He’ll says he’ll see you later.”
“Oh. All right. Thank you, Ben.”
“It’s just . . . We’re playing this computer game. He’s at the hard part.”
He’s a sweet kid, Ben. He forgives me.
W HEN T RAVIS COMES home, he asks if the study is completely empty. “Yes,” I say. “Would you like to see it?”
“Why would I want to see an empty room?”
But after we’ve gone to bed, I hear his door open and I know exactly where he’s going. And I know he needs to be alone, going there. My body lies in bed while my mind stands beside him, apologizing, apologizing, apologizing.
8
M ARIE IS THE FIRST TO ARRIVE , READY TO HELP HER MOTHER move in. It is Saturday morning, a crisp and clear late October day, the sky a rare dark blue. When I went out for the paper, I stood shivering in the driveway for a while, looking up appreciatively until I felt dizzy. Then I came back inside to make banana bread. It’s almost a reflex—every time I feel happy, I need to make something to eat. Also every time I feel sad.
So there is the rich smell of banana bread in the air now, as well as freshly brewed coffee; and Marie sniffs deeply as she takes off her coat. “Smells good!” she tells me. Then, looking around, “Say, this is a nice house! Maybe I’ll move in, too. You know, leave the old man. He probably wouldn’t notice anyway.”
Really?
I almost ask. I show
“This won’t take too long,” the man says, and something in the kind tone of his voice reaches my knees. I go into the kitchen, where I will find something to do. I can’t watch them.
We’d gotten
ham and cheese subs for lunch. While we sat on the empty living-room
floor and watched the moving men carry his desk upstairs, David put his
Coke bottle up to mine for a toast. “I love this house,” he said. “We’re
never moving.”
I organize pots and pans, wipe out cupboards, line up spice bottles. When I hear the man call out, “All set!” I come into the living room.
“All set,” he says, again, quietly. Beside him, his son frankly stares at me, three fingers on his hip, football-player style.
“So, if you could just sign here.”
“Oh, sure.” I take the man’s ballpoint pen—it’s greasy—and start to sign my name. And then I drop the pen onto the clipboard and put my hands to my face.
“Oh, boy,” the man says. And then, “I’m awful sorry, Miss.”
I stop crying, pick up the pen, sign my name. Say thank you. Watch them drive away. Go upstairs and regard the empty room.
David, we can’t do it in
here!
Shhhhh! Take off your clothes, we’ll be so
quiet
we
won’t hear us
.
I sit in the middle of the floor and rock like an autistic. There is comfort in it. In the corner, I see a paper clip, and I pick it up and hold it. Then I put it in my pocket. And then I go to the bedroom, look in the closet. Yup. They got it all.
I sit on the edge of the bed, stare at the wall. Then I take the paper clip out of my pocket and put it in the top drawer of the nightstand.
Now. Now I’ll call Karen Wheeler to tell her it’s safe for Travis to come home, and that he can bring Ben, too, if he wants. And I know what Karen will say. She’ll say Oh, well, why doesn’t Travis just stay here for a while? Because she won’t want Ben here. Because what if it’s contagious?
Ben answers the phone when I call. “Hey, Ben,” I say. “It’s Travis’s mom. I just wanted to tell you that Travis can come home anytime. And you can come, too, if you want. Stay for dinner?”
“Oh, okay. Hold on a second.” He puts the phone down and I hear him say, “Hey, T. Want to go over to your house? Your mom says it’s okay.”
Silence. And then Ben comes back to the phone. “He says we’ll just stay here. Okay?”
“. . . Sure. Can I speak to him, though?”
Another moment, and then Ben comes back to the phone again. “Mrs. Morrow?”
“Yes?”
“He’s doing something now. He’ll says he’ll see you later.”
“Oh. All right. Thank you, Ben.”
“It’s just . . . We’re playing this computer game. He’s at the hard part.”
He’s a sweet kid, Ben. He forgives me.
W HEN T RAVIS COMES home, he asks if the study is completely empty. “Yes,” I say. “Would you like to see it?”
“Why would I want to see an empty room?”
But after we’ve gone to bed, I hear his door open and I know exactly where he’s going. And I know he needs to be alone, going there. My body lies in bed while my mind stands beside him, apologizing, apologizing, apologizing.
8
M ARIE IS THE FIRST TO ARRIVE , READY TO HELP HER MOTHER move in. It is Saturday morning, a crisp and clear late October day, the sky a rare dark blue. When I went out for the paper, I stood shivering in the driveway for a while, looking up appreciatively until I felt dizzy. Then I came back inside to make banana bread. It’s almost a reflex—every time I feel happy, I need to make something to eat. Also every time I feel sad.
So there is the rich smell of banana bread in the air now, as well as freshly brewed coffee; and Marie sniffs deeply as she takes off her coat. “Smells good!” she tells me. Then, looking around, “Say, this is a nice house! Maybe I’ll move in, too. You know, leave the old man. He probably wouldn’t notice anyway.”
Really?
I almost ask. I show
Similar Books
