it was back to that photograph.
She almost wished that it had remained taped to the drawer, or wedged in the back of the drawer, so that she would never have had to deal with the fallout of its discovery.
But it did exist.
And the carefully constructed history of her life was now upended.
While it had been painful to think that her existence only occurred because of a fleeting affair with an almost nameless man, it was a history that she had inured herself to long ago. That history had become comfortable over the years, like an old pair of shoes or a well-worn shirt. The people who knew her best, her closest friends, knew that she had a gap in her genealogy—and they loved her in spite of it.
Perhaps their love was tinted with sympathy. Hazel suspected that of some of them, but sympathy was okay.
Now her version of the past, and of herself, had suddenly been irrevocably altered, changed in a twinkling, in the blink of an eye, and she was unsure of what direction to proceed.
Do I get angry with my mother?
She shook her head.
A little late for that now .
But I am no longer a foundling…but I guess I never really was. A foundling, I mean .
She sipped at her coffee again.
The fog was slowly burning off.
I wonder who he was .
And then it hit her.
Is he still alive?
Was I born when they were together?
Did he ever see me?
Was he my father?
I suspect he was .
He could still be alive, couldn’t he?
And at that, she sat up straight. She pushed the hair off her forehead and stood up, put her hat back on. Stepping outside, she wondered what route would get her home in the least amount of time.
Chapter Ten
W ILSON MADE his way downstairs, holding on to the banister as he did.
How long have I been holding on to this just to make it downstairs without falling and breaking a hip?
Thurman had been up, Wilson surmised, ever since the garbage truck rattled down the street at 4:30 in the morning, crashing down the empty bins with an echoed din. But to Wilson’s surprise, Thurman left the truck and driver alone, or rather, unbarked at. From the bay window at the front of the house, Thurman had a commanding view of the sidewalk and street. Wilson watched him sit there, observing traffic, wiggling and growling if a pedestrian walked past—especially a pedestrian with a dog in tow.
But no barks.
Must have been well trained before…before he came here .
Thurman wiggled at the bottom of the steps, not at the very bottom, but a few feet away, as if intentionally leaving room for Wilson to get on solid, level ground first.
When that happened, only then did Thurman rush over and rub his head against Wilson’s thigh. Wilson accepted the gesture begrudgingly, unwilling to tell him to cease and desist, although he was certain Thurman would stop it if bidden, but the dog also seemed to view this greeting as one of the most important rituals of the day. Only food seemed a bit higher in the dog’s hierarchy of important events.
Wilson leaned over and stroked the dog’s forehead.
“You want out, right?”
Thurman growled, Yes .
When Wilson’s hand was on the doorknob, he added, as he had done every day now, “No swimming.”
Thurman, on cue, looked back over his shoulder with a disappointed look, and growled in reply, Okay .
Then Wilson went back into the kitchen.
By the time his coffee was ready, Thurman would be standing by the back door, staring in, as if he had been locked out for hours instead of a moment, overjoyed when he saw Wilson return, with cup in hand.
Thurman bounded inside, growling Breakfast as he rushed past.
While Wilson sat in his recliner with his coffee and the local news on the TV, he could hear Thurman’s rustling crunch-chew-rustle-swallow routine with the fresh bowl of Friskies laid out next to the pantry door.
As Thurman ate, Wilson wondered if all of this—Thurman talking, him talking to Thurman, all of this—was simply a precursor, as it were, to some serious malady, some
She almost wished that it had remained taped to the drawer, or wedged in the back of the drawer, so that she would never have had to deal with the fallout of its discovery.
But it did exist.
And the carefully constructed history of her life was now upended.
While it had been painful to think that her existence only occurred because of a fleeting affair with an almost nameless man, it was a history that she had inured herself to long ago. That history had become comfortable over the years, like an old pair of shoes or a well-worn shirt. The people who knew her best, her closest friends, knew that she had a gap in her genealogy—and they loved her in spite of it.
Perhaps their love was tinted with sympathy. Hazel suspected that of some of them, but sympathy was okay.
Now her version of the past, and of herself, had suddenly been irrevocably altered, changed in a twinkling, in the blink of an eye, and she was unsure of what direction to proceed.
Do I get angry with my mother?
She shook her head.
A little late for that now .
But I am no longer a foundling…but I guess I never really was. A foundling, I mean .
She sipped at her coffee again.
The fog was slowly burning off.
I wonder who he was .
And then it hit her.
Is he still alive?
Was I born when they were together?
Did he ever see me?
Was he my father?
I suspect he was .
He could still be alive, couldn’t he?
And at that, she sat up straight. She pushed the hair off her forehead and stood up, put her hat back on. Stepping outside, she wondered what route would get her home in the least amount of time.
Chapter Ten
W ILSON MADE his way downstairs, holding on to the banister as he did.
How long have I been holding on to this just to make it downstairs without falling and breaking a hip?
Thurman had been up, Wilson surmised, ever since the garbage truck rattled down the street at 4:30 in the morning, crashing down the empty bins with an echoed din. But to Wilson’s surprise, Thurman left the truck and driver alone, or rather, unbarked at. From the bay window at the front of the house, Thurman had a commanding view of the sidewalk and street. Wilson watched him sit there, observing traffic, wiggling and growling if a pedestrian walked past—especially a pedestrian with a dog in tow.
But no barks.
Must have been well trained before…before he came here .
Thurman wiggled at the bottom of the steps, not at the very bottom, but a few feet away, as if intentionally leaving room for Wilson to get on solid, level ground first.
When that happened, only then did Thurman rush over and rub his head against Wilson’s thigh. Wilson accepted the gesture begrudgingly, unwilling to tell him to cease and desist, although he was certain Thurman would stop it if bidden, but the dog also seemed to view this greeting as one of the most important rituals of the day. Only food seemed a bit higher in the dog’s hierarchy of important events.
Wilson leaned over and stroked the dog’s forehead.
“You want out, right?”
Thurman growled, Yes .
When Wilson’s hand was on the doorknob, he added, as he had done every day now, “No swimming.”
Thurman, on cue, looked back over his shoulder with a disappointed look, and growled in reply, Okay .
Then Wilson went back into the kitchen.
By the time his coffee was ready, Thurman would be standing by the back door, staring in, as if he had been locked out for hours instead of a moment, overjoyed when he saw Wilson return, with cup in hand.
Thurman bounded inside, growling Breakfast as he rushed past.
While Wilson sat in his recliner with his coffee and the local news on the TV, he could hear Thurman’s rustling crunch-chew-rustle-swallow routine with the fresh bowl of Friskies laid out next to the pantry door.
As Thurman ate, Wilson wondered if all of this—Thurman talking, him talking to Thurman, all of this—was simply a precursor, as it were, to some serious malady, some
Similar Books
