the girls wore that year. She’d gripped the eraser in her hand the whole time. Her mother had wrapped her arm around her while they huddled together before they took the photographs, and she remembered being surprised that her mother was nervous. Joan smelled liked she did on holidays, as if she’d worn perfume for the occasion, even though you wouldn’t be able to smell her in a photograph. Later, Joan said, “A whole lot of fuss. That was a whole lot of fuss, right?” She’d laughed nervously while preparing supper, a flush in her cheeks. George had thrived in the spotlight. “Your mother is a bit shy about these things,” he’d explained to Sadie, pouring Joan a glass of wine. “I’m just not meant for the spotlight,” she’d agreed. “But you’re a natural,” she’d teased, and kissed him on the cheek.
“What should we do?” Jimmy’s voice brought Sadie back to the moment.
She looked at the reporters, and realized she’d rather have the house be engulfed in flames than have to go through the scrum of strangers. A skinny guy with a goatee emerged from a purple pup tent in the ditch and started fiddling with his camera.
Jimmy leaned his head out the window.
“ MOVE !”
He laid on the horn again and Sadie hunched down in her seat, lifting her arm to press the remote that allowed the gate to open. She half expected the reporters to run in with the car, but they didn’t. She saw her mother’s face peek through the living room curtains and felt relieved at the familiar sight, at knowing Joan was there to protect her, as she had throughout her life.
FOUR
ANDREW SAT, HEAD in hands, on his childhood bed in the late morning. He pressed his fingers into his cheekbones, massaging the points where he could feel a sinus headache about to bloom. His whole system felt off. He was very tired but couldn’t imagine ever sleeping again. Andrew Woodbury the teenager would have relished the opportunity to lounge in bed, but adult Andrew was a regimented machine. His work, exercise, and even social schedule were precise and unwavering. He woke at 5:30 a.m., an hour before his partner Jared, and was at Cyclefit by 6:00. He went to bed by 11:00 p.m. on weekdays. Tuesdays usually began with a breakfast meeting with Olivia, one of the senior partners. He’d sent a hurried late night text to explain his absence, then stayed up most of the night researching his father’s charges and checking on his mother, whom he’d given a Xanax before bed. When he’d gone to check on her, she was sitting up in bed, arms clutching a pillow to her chest, staring at nothing. He handed her the pill and she’d sighed before putting it into her mouth for a dry swallow and a sotto thanks.
He made the bed, pulling the antique farmer’s quilt tight over his pillows, making sure each corner was even and symmetrical. Several of the quilted squares had faded so much that they were ripping along the seams. He selected several safety pins from the night table drawer and placed them around in all the spots that were starting to unravel. He pulled on a pair of boxers and grabbed his old drama club T-shirt from the closet. It was from a senior year production of Fiddler on the Roof . His mother had replaced his adolescent posters with framed antique oil paintings, portraits of British Woodburys through the ages that Joan found ugly and wished to hide away in a room largely unseen by guests. The room smelled of dust. Everything needed a wipe-down, a shake-out. He punched down the throw pillows then opened the window, propping it up with a leather-bound Bible.
He unpacked his luggage and tried to smooth out a plain white button-down shirt that he could wear to the arraignment hearing the next day. His mother had kept some of his old clothes, relics of another moment in fashion that was almost back in style, hanging in the closet. He lit a clove candle on the dresser top out of habit, running a finger over the film of dust coating the top of
“What should we do?” Jimmy’s voice brought Sadie back to the moment.
She looked at the reporters, and realized she’d rather have the house be engulfed in flames than have to go through the scrum of strangers. A skinny guy with a goatee emerged from a purple pup tent in the ditch and started fiddling with his camera.
Jimmy leaned his head out the window.
“ MOVE !”
He laid on the horn again and Sadie hunched down in her seat, lifting her arm to press the remote that allowed the gate to open. She half expected the reporters to run in with the car, but they didn’t. She saw her mother’s face peek through the living room curtains and felt relieved at the familiar sight, at knowing Joan was there to protect her, as she had throughout her life.
FOUR
ANDREW SAT, HEAD in hands, on his childhood bed in the late morning. He pressed his fingers into his cheekbones, massaging the points where he could feel a sinus headache about to bloom. His whole system felt off. He was very tired but couldn’t imagine ever sleeping again. Andrew Woodbury the teenager would have relished the opportunity to lounge in bed, but adult Andrew was a regimented machine. His work, exercise, and even social schedule were precise and unwavering. He woke at 5:30 a.m., an hour before his partner Jared, and was at Cyclefit by 6:00. He went to bed by 11:00 p.m. on weekdays. Tuesdays usually began with a breakfast meeting with Olivia, one of the senior partners. He’d sent a hurried late night text to explain his absence, then stayed up most of the night researching his father’s charges and checking on his mother, whom he’d given a Xanax before bed. When he’d gone to check on her, she was sitting up in bed, arms clutching a pillow to her chest, staring at nothing. He handed her the pill and she’d sighed before putting it into her mouth for a dry swallow and a sotto thanks.
He made the bed, pulling the antique farmer’s quilt tight over his pillows, making sure each corner was even and symmetrical. Several of the quilted squares had faded so much that they were ripping along the seams. He selected several safety pins from the night table drawer and placed them around in all the spots that were starting to unravel. He pulled on a pair of boxers and grabbed his old drama club T-shirt from the closet. It was from a senior year production of Fiddler on the Roof . His mother had replaced his adolescent posters with framed antique oil paintings, portraits of British Woodburys through the ages that Joan found ugly and wished to hide away in a room largely unseen by guests. The room smelled of dust. Everything needed a wipe-down, a shake-out. He punched down the throw pillows then opened the window, propping it up with a leather-bound Bible.
He unpacked his luggage and tried to smooth out a plain white button-down shirt that he could wear to the arraignment hearing the next day. His mother had kept some of his old clothes, relics of another moment in fashion that was almost back in style, hanging in the closet. He lit a clove candle on the dresser top out of habit, running a finger over the film of dust coating the top of
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