them, and Peter’s car, a sable black Cadillac DeVille, was in the driveway.
—
The disappointment lasted only a moment. It was replaced by incredulity. What else did he possibly think she could have been calling for? She was not his daughter. She had not been calling him for
money
—nor was she calling because she was inebriated, alone, momentarily sloppy hearted…
He looked out at the Cadillac again. Now that Emily was at college, Peter Phane was lights out by nine. It was well past midnight now. The windows had the cold, empty light of a refrigerator opened at 2:00 a.m.
Emily knew that Howie liked to fish.
He went upstairs. He tucked in his shirt, combed his grey hair back; he brushed his teeth, shaved, and put on his good shoes. He brushed his teeth again. Then he took off his good shoes and put on his sneakers. This could be an emergency.
And, well, sure she knew that he fished. They had lived next door to each other for twenty years.
Downstairs, back in the kitchen, the so-called screen saver had snapped on. It bubbled. Cartoon fish. Shortly after Harriet’s birth, Howie had stopped killing them. Fish. If he could help it, and he mostly could, he’d chuck them back into the lake, only once in a while making a trophy of one, like the twenty-four-pound muskellunge pike he caught seven years ago ice fishing on Lake Champlain. He rarely thought of fish as something that could also be food.
Howie walked down his driveway. Reaching Route 29, he turned left. Then another left up the Phanes’ driveway. Do this proper. No sudden movements. His hands were in his pockets. This, he realized, probably made him look shifty. He removed his hands from his pockets. He wished he had brought his book because nobody would be afraid of someone walking up a driveway with a book. Howie wanted the house to know that he was approaching it with only helpful, neighborly intentions. He’d briefly considered driving over.
Howie had never stood on the Phanes’ front porch before. It was his house, but wrong—and yellow.
Howie knocked on the door.
He could hear the TV.
Knock, knock.
He could hear a ringing telephone. Fine. Howie found the doorbell. Fool thing, he thought. It ding-donged joyfully.
He did not expect an answer. If he had, would he have even come over? Probably he would not have.
He stepped off the porch and approached the living room window, standing among waist-high shrubs. The mulch felt queasy underfoot. Howie saw Peter Phane on a rug, TV light flickering over him. He was not wearing trousers. His eyes were open.
Howie found himself trying to open the front door.
Locked.
He hurried around the back, on the grass now. The back door was unlocked.
The kitchen was a crime-scene reenactment of his own kitchen. Dishes everywhere; a broken glass on the table. Flies and candy wrappings and slices of bread hardened into mossy stone; unopened mail, opened mail, and sticky dried beige stains on the linoleum. Lots of newspapers from New York City. The refrigerator was open.
Then down a hallway decorated with framed photographs.Howie had the same hallway, of course, but his was barren but for the twenty-four-pound muskellunge pike on the wall across from the bathroom door, so whenever you exited the downstairs bathroom:
remarkably big fish
. (“Dad, whoa, that is the single weirdest place to put a fish. Is that even a fish? You’re so awesome. You’re art. What is
wrong
with you?”)
What was wrong here?
The living room was humid and bad. Howie smelled something chalky, rotten, medicinal. His feet crunched through a spill of unexpectedly cheerful breakfast cereal—Peter Phane ate Lucky Charms?
Froot Loops?
Pills, too. There were bloody tissues, a splayed
Sports Illustrated
magazine, orange peels. The TV applauded. Two black women began to sing. The phone began ringing. It was there next to the TV. The black women on the TV seemed annoyed by this. Peter was too, each ring registering on his face like a
—
The disappointment lasted only a moment. It was replaced by incredulity. What else did he possibly think she could have been calling for? She was not his daughter. She had not been calling him for
money
—nor was she calling because she was inebriated, alone, momentarily sloppy hearted…
He looked out at the Cadillac again. Now that Emily was at college, Peter Phane was lights out by nine. It was well past midnight now. The windows had the cold, empty light of a refrigerator opened at 2:00 a.m.
Emily knew that Howie liked to fish.
He went upstairs. He tucked in his shirt, combed his grey hair back; he brushed his teeth, shaved, and put on his good shoes. He brushed his teeth again. Then he took off his good shoes and put on his sneakers. This could be an emergency.
And, well, sure she knew that he fished. They had lived next door to each other for twenty years.
Downstairs, back in the kitchen, the so-called screen saver had snapped on. It bubbled. Cartoon fish. Shortly after Harriet’s birth, Howie had stopped killing them. Fish. If he could help it, and he mostly could, he’d chuck them back into the lake, only once in a while making a trophy of one, like the twenty-four-pound muskellunge pike he caught seven years ago ice fishing on Lake Champlain. He rarely thought of fish as something that could also be food.
Howie walked down his driveway. Reaching Route 29, he turned left. Then another left up the Phanes’ driveway. Do this proper. No sudden movements. His hands were in his pockets. This, he realized, probably made him look shifty. He removed his hands from his pockets. He wished he had brought his book because nobody would be afraid of someone walking up a driveway with a book. Howie wanted the house to know that he was approaching it with only helpful, neighborly intentions. He’d briefly considered driving over.
Howie had never stood on the Phanes’ front porch before. It was his house, but wrong—and yellow.
Howie knocked on the door.
He could hear the TV.
Knock, knock.
He could hear a ringing telephone. Fine. Howie found the doorbell. Fool thing, he thought. It ding-donged joyfully.
He did not expect an answer. If he had, would he have even come over? Probably he would not have.
He stepped off the porch and approached the living room window, standing among waist-high shrubs. The mulch felt queasy underfoot. Howie saw Peter Phane on a rug, TV light flickering over him. He was not wearing trousers. His eyes were open.
Howie found himself trying to open the front door.
Locked.
He hurried around the back, on the grass now. The back door was unlocked.
The kitchen was a crime-scene reenactment of his own kitchen. Dishes everywhere; a broken glass on the table. Flies and candy wrappings and slices of bread hardened into mossy stone; unopened mail, opened mail, and sticky dried beige stains on the linoleum. Lots of newspapers from New York City. The refrigerator was open.
Then down a hallway decorated with framed photographs.Howie had the same hallway, of course, but his was barren but for the twenty-four-pound muskellunge pike on the wall across from the bathroom door, so whenever you exited the downstairs bathroom:
remarkably big fish
. (“Dad, whoa, that is the single weirdest place to put a fish. Is that even a fish? You’re so awesome. You’re art. What is
wrong
with you?”)
What was wrong here?
The living room was humid and bad. Howie smelled something chalky, rotten, medicinal. His feet crunched through a spill of unexpectedly cheerful breakfast cereal—Peter Phane ate Lucky Charms?
Froot Loops?
Pills, too. There were bloody tissues, a splayed
Sports Illustrated
magazine, orange peels. The TV applauded. Two black women began to sing. The phone began ringing. It was there next to the TV. The black women on the TV seemed annoyed by this. Peter was too, each ring registering on his face like a
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