“At least then it would make sense to read out loud.”
“It’s a way for two people to read the same book at the same time,” Aunt Daphne said. “Or three people, for that matter.”
But as soon as we began to read, he went upstairs to listen to his Victrola.
I liked the tandem journey through a book. It was different from co-witnessing a real event, even if that real event was a performancelike the concerts and plays she took me to. Reading aloud to each other was like collaborating on some endlessly evolving secret. By tacit understanding, we never talked about the books we read, as if we did not want to know if or how our impressions of them differed. I liked the idea, even if it was just illusory, that for a while each day my mind mirrored hers.
“I want you to understand something,” she said one evening, after we had finished reading. “Just because something happened to your parents doesn’t mean that it will happen to you. You are not the sum of your parents. You are you. Devlin. Do you understand?”
I nodded. I was relieved, grateful to her for having said it, for having guessed not only that I needed reassurance that I would not end up like my parents, but that I lived in such dread of the possibility that I could not bring myself to speak to her about it. That she had sounded, just faintly, as if it were herself as much as me that she was trying to convince didn’t matter. She, too, needed reassurance, could not help having doubts, however transient they might be.
• C HAPTER F IVE •
T HE WINTER I TURNED SEVENTEEN , U NCLE E DWARD SUGGESTED to Aunt Daphne that I go to his surgery for a check-up. He said that he thought I was not looking my usual self, and that, although it was probably nothing, it was best not to take any chances.
I went the next day after school, glancing at the shingle that no longer bore my father’s name, or Father Stead’s, only Uncle Edward’s. Inside, I glanced at the door across from Uncle Edward’s. It remained unchanged. “Dr. Francis Stead.” Uncle Edward no longer even pretended to be looking for another partner.
There were several patients ahead of me in his waiting room, but when the patient he was with came out, he called me in.
“Sit down, Devlin,” he said, motioning to the chair opposite his at the desk.
“You think there might be something wrong with me?” I said.
He shook his head.
“This is the best place for us to meet,” he said. “The safest place.” For a few seconds, his elbows on the desk, his fingertips touching so that his fingers formed a cage, he was silent, as though he was deliberating, trying to foresee what my reaction would be to what he was about to say. He sat back in his chair and turned it so that he faced away from me.
“I have had a letter,” he said. “A letter from Dr. Frederick Cook, the man whose account of your father’s disappearance was published in all the papers. Do you remember?”
I nodded.
“The letter is for you. He did not send it directly to you because he did not want Daphne to see it. I have, at Dr. Cook’s suggestion, not read it, but I believe that it contains … no falsehoods. I have decided that I will speak about this matter to no one but you. I believe that once you have read the letter, you too will see the wisdom of discretion.”
My heart was pounding. I had never been spoken to like this before by any adult, let alone by Uncle Edward.
“Why does he want me to keep it secret from Aunt Daphne?” I said. “Does she know him—”
“You need not read it at all. You don’t have to. I can simply burn it if you like.” He looked briefly at the fireplace.
“I’m not promising to be discreet before I read it,” I said. Discreet. I had never used the word before, never spoken so formally to anyone. It seemed impossible, under the circumstances, not to imitate the way he spoke.
He shrugged. “Even if you did promise, you could change your mind. I’m simply acting here as a
“It’s a way for two people to read the same book at the same time,” Aunt Daphne said. “Or three people, for that matter.”
But as soon as we began to read, he went upstairs to listen to his Victrola.
I liked the tandem journey through a book. It was different from co-witnessing a real event, even if that real event was a performancelike the concerts and plays she took me to. Reading aloud to each other was like collaborating on some endlessly evolving secret. By tacit understanding, we never talked about the books we read, as if we did not want to know if or how our impressions of them differed. I liked the idea, even if it was just illusory, that for a while each day my mind mirrored hers.
“I want you to understand something,” she said one evening, after we had finished reading. “Just because something happened to your parents doesn’t mean that it will happen to you. You are not the sum of your parents. You are you. Devlin. Do you understand?”
I nodded. I was relieved, grateful to her for having said it, for having guessed not only that I needed reassurance that I would not end up like my parents, but that I lived in such dread of the possibility that I could not bring myself to speak to her about it. That she had sounded, just faintly, as if it were herself as much as me that she was trying to convince didn’t matter. She, too, needed reassurance, could not help having doubts, however transient they might be.
• C HAPTER F IVE •
T HE WINTER I TURNED SEVENTEEN , U NCLE E DWARD SUGGESTED to Aunt Daphne that I go to his surgery for a check-up. He said that he thought I was not looking my usual self, and that, although it was probably nothing, it was best not to take any chances.
I went the next day after school, glancing at the shingle that no longer bore my father’s name, or Father Stead’s, only Uncle Edward’s. Inside, I glanced at the door across from Uncle Edward’s. It remained unchanged. “Dr. Francis Stead.” Uncle Edward no longer even pretended to be looking for another partner.
There were several patients ahead of me in his waiting room, but when the patient he was with came out, he called me in.
“Sit down, Devlin,” he said, motioning to the chair opposite his at the desk.
“You think there might be something wrong with me?” I said.
He shook his head.
“This is the best place for us to meet,” he said. “The safest place.” For a few seconds, his elbows on the desk, his fingertips touching so that his fingers formed a cage, he was silent, as though he was deliberating, trying to foresee what my reaction would be to what he was about to say. He sat back in his chair and turned it so that he faced away from me.
“I have had a letter,” he said. “A letter from Dr. Frederick Cook, the man whose account of your father’s disappearance was published in all the papers. Do you remember?”
I nodded.
“The letter is for you. He did not send it directly to you because he did not want Daphne to see it. I have, at Dr. Cook’s suggestion, not read it, but I believe that it contains … no falsehoods. I have decided that I will speak about this matter to no one but you. I believe that once you have read the letter, you too will see the wisdom of discretion.”
My heart was pounding. I had never been spoken to like this before by any adult, let alone by Uncle Edward.
“Why does he want me to keep it secret from Aunt Daphne?” I said. “Does she know him—”
“You need not read it at all. You don’t have to. I can simply burn it if you like.” He looked briefly at the fireplace.
“I’m not promising to be discreet before I read it,” I said. Discreet. I had never used the word before, never spoken so formally to anyone. It seemed impossible, under the circumstances, not to imitate the way he spoke.
He shrugged. “Even if you did promise, you could change your mind. I’m simply acting here as a
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