said, “I’ll make a deal with you. After the New Year, if the world doesn’t end, Case and Miriam need to leave. His ankle will be better. If you get them out, I promise Doug’s book will be done and he’ll be at the college by next fall. If they stay . . . I don’t know.”
“I can work on Bruce, but I don’t see how you can guarantee anything about poor Doug.”
“I’ve always been lucky.”
18
A ll the cars were gone, and Doug let himself into the big house through the garage with the emergency key.
As often as he’d been on the ground floor, he hadn’t ventured upstairs since the days when he was dating Zee and she’d bring him home for Thanksgiving and set him up in a guest room with a set of fluffy towels. He dragged his hand up the railing. This must be what people meant by patina , this buttery softness. The house seemed as much alive on the inside as on the leafy outside—the way the wood of the door frames contracted in winter and expanded in summer, the way the glass on these staircase windows was thicker at the bottom than the top, from the slow, liquid pull of a century.
Hidalgo hadn’t met him at the door, and Doug assumed the beast was in his crate. There were clicks, though, and creaks, all around him in the hall, and he reminded himself about houses settling. He tried to recall which was the door to the attic stairs. It must be this one, at the north end: next to a closet, but not a closet, the brass keyhole made for one of those toothy old keys with a loop handle. He tried the elliptical little knob, but it just clinked tightly back and forth. He knelt, his eye to the inch of gap at the bottom of the door. It wasn’t dark—he remembered the dormers running along both the back and front of the house—but all he could see was tan. The riser of the bottom step.
Something crackled behind him. Doug’s back had been turned on the hallway for a long time, as if he’d never watched a spy movie in his life. He rose and turned, certain he’d see an angry Bruce or a frightened Sofia. But there was just afternoon light from a high window, magnifying a million specks of floating dust. Now that he’d become aware of his back, of the fact that he couldn’t turn his head like an owl, he was uncomfortable whichever way he faced. He wanted to flatten himself against a wall. Instead he walked calmly down the stairs and out the garage door.
19
A fter one more Long Island iced tea, Zee left her car at the club and Gracie drove her home, a Bobby Darin CD playing and the windows down.
“Aren’t we living it up?” Gracie said.
Sofia was unloading the dry cleaning from her van. Miriam, barefoot, sat on the bench by the coach house with a book in her lap. And, bizarrely, Doug was emerging from the big house’s garage, staring at everyone. As Gracie got out, Miriam rose and hopped across the hot gravel. They formed a little group of four on the driveway, which Zee watched from the car for a long, blurry second. Something was off. The pieces of the world were not where she’d left them.
Her mother waved her out of the car, and by the time Zee stuck her head into the heat Sofia was backing toward the big house. “You see! I get, I get!” Zee wanted to form a question, but she couldn’t decide which one, and her lips were asleep.
“Thought I heard Hidalgo freaking out in there,” Doug was saying, and “wanted to be sure he was okay,” but Gracie wasn’t listening.
Sofia returned, butter-yellow fabric in her plump arms.
“This is the one? I find it on the floor of the flower bedroom, behind the bed. This is whose?”
Zee blinked at the thing. It was her cotillion dress, shoulder pads and ruched waist, but wadded and wrinkled.
“I haven’t seen that in nineteen years,” Zee managed to say. And yet she felt she somehow had—but no, it was just that they’d talked about it so recently.
Gracie clapped her hands, as if chunks weren’t falling out of the universe and onto guest
“I can work on Bruce, but I don’t see how you can guarantee anything about poor Doug.”
“I’ve always been lucky.”
18
A ll the cars were gone, and Doug let himself into the big house through the garage with the emergency key.
As often as he’d been on the ground floor, he hadn’t ventured upstairs since the days when he was dating Zee and she’d bring him home for Thanksgiving and set him up in a guest room with a set of fluffy towels. He dragged his hand up the railing. This must be what people meant by patina , this buttery softness. The house seemed as much alive on the inside as on the leafy outside—the way the wood of the door frames contracted in winter and expanded in summer, the way the glass on these staircase windows was thicker at the bottom than the top, from the slow, liquid pull of a century.
Hidalgo hadn’t met him at the door, and Doug assumed the beast was in his crate. There were clicks, though, and creaks, all around him in the hall, and he reminded himself about houses settling. He tried to recall which was the door to the attic stairs. It must be this one, at the north end: next to a closet, but not a closet, the brass keyhole made for one of those toothy old keys with a loop handle. He tried the elliptical little knob, but it just clinked tightly back and forth. He knelt, his eye to the inch of gap at the bottom of the door. It wasn’t dark—he remembered the dormers running along both the back and front of the house—but all he could see was tan. The riser of the bottom step.
Something crackled behind him. Doug’s back had been turned on the hallway for a long time, as if he’d never watched a spy movie in his life. He rose and turned, certain he’d see an angry Bruce or a frightened Sofia. But there was just afternoon light from a high window, magnifying a million specks of floating dust. Now that he’d become aware of his back, of the fact that he couldn’t turn his head like an owl, he was uncomfortable whichever way he faced. He wanted to flatten himself against a wall. Instead he walked calmly down the stairs and out the garage door.
19
A fter one more Long Island iced tea, Zee left her car at the club and Gracie drove her home, a Bobby Darin CD playing and the windows down.
“Aren’t we living it up?” Gracie said.
Sofia was unloading the dry cleaning from her van. Miriam, barefoot, sat on the bench by the coach house with a book in her lap. And, bizarrely, Doug was emerging from the big house’s garage, staring at everyone. As Gracie got out, Miriam rose and hopped across the hot gravel. They formed a little group of four on the driveway, which Zee watched from the car for a long, blurry second. Something was off. The pieces of the world were not where she’d left them.
Her mother waved her out of the car, and by the time Zee stuck her head into the heat Sofia was backing toward the big house. “You see! I get, I get!” Zee wanted to form a question, but she couldn’t decide which one, and her lips were asleep.
“Thought I heard Hidalgo freaking out in there,” Doug was saying, and “wanted to be sure he was okay,” but Gracie wasn’t listening.
Sofia returned, butter-yellow fabric in her plump arms.
“This is the one? I find it on the floor of the flower bedroom, behind the bed. This is whose?”
Zee blinked at the thing. It was her cotillion dress, shoulder pads and ruched waist, but wadded and wrinkled.
“I haven’t seen that in nineteen years,” Zee managed to say. And yet she felt she somehow had—but no, it was just that they’d talked about it so recently.
Gracie clapped her hands, as if chunks weren’t falling out of the universe and onto guest
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