Chương 5
Of course.
Never.
I promise.
Tonight they felt dangerous.
“I can promise she won’t be there tonight,” he said.
Evan nodded.
After a moment he asked, “Will Grandpa be mad if I sleep in his room?”
Daniel almost said, You have your own room.
Instead he said, “Ask him.”
Richard returned carrying terrible coffee in a paper cup.
Evan asked.
Richard said, “I snore.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“You fell asleep during Toy Story.”
“I was resting my eyes.”
“You snored.”
“That was the dog.”
“You don’t have a dog.”
Richard looked offended.
Evan made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh.
Daniel turned away.
He pretended to examine the instructions the doctor had left on the counter until the pressure behind his eyes eased.
They returned to the mansion after midnight.
Claire’s car was gone.
Her champagne glass remained on the entry table.
Richard stared at it.
Then he picked it up and carried it to the kitchen.
Daniel watched him rinse it under the faucet.
“You don’t have to do that.”
Richard set the glass upside down on a towel.
“I know.”
The kitchen smelled faintly of lemons from the cleaner the staff used on the counters. A covered tray of hors d’oeuvres from whatever dinner Claire had been preparing still sat in the refrigerator. Richard opened it, saw six immaculate crab tartlets, and closed it again.
“I’m hungry,” Evan said.
Daniel looked at the clock.
“Twelve forty-three.”
“I’m still hungry.”
Richard opened a cabinet.
“Peanut butter?”
“Yes.”
“Jelly?”
“No.”
“You’re a difficult man.”
Evan climbed onto a stool.
Richard made him toast with peanut butter.
Daniel sat across from his son, saying almost nothing.
He watched Evan chew.
Halfway through the second piece, Evan slowed.
“Can I leave some?”
“Of course,” Daniel said.
Evan looked toward the trash.
Richard slid a plate toward him.
“Leave it there.”
“Claire says wasting food is disrespectful.”
Daniel’s eyes closed.
Richard tore the remaining toast in half, ate one piece, and put the other back on Evan’s plate.
“There,” he said. “Now it’s shared food.”
Evan looked suspicious.
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is after midnight.”
That earned another faint smile.
At one fifteen, Evan fell asleep in Richard’s bed between two pillows, one hand still holding the sleeve of Richard’s pajama shirt.
Daniel stood at the doorway.
Richard looked at him.
“What?”
“I should’ve known.”
Richard studied his son.
“Yes.”
Daniel’s face tightened.
Richard continued before shame could become an excuse.
“And I should have.”
Daniel looked up.
“You weren’t here.”
“I live here.”
“She did it while you were gone.”
“Tonight.”
Daniel stared at him.
Richard lowered his voice.
“How many other nights?”
Neither man spoke.
The question remained between them.
Daniel went downstairs.
The foyer had been cleaned except for the backpack.
Someone had placed it on a towel beneath the staircase.
Daniel sat on the bottom step and pulled it toward him.
He emptied it again.
The wet workbook.
The library book.
The lunch container.
A small plastic dinosaur.
Daniel stared at that for several seconds.
Blue body. Yellow spikes.
The dinosaur he had yelled about months earlier.
Evan had apparently found it.
Daniel turned it over in his palm.
There was a black marker line on one foot where Sarah had written E.H. before a preschool field trip.
His first instinct was to cry.
His second was annoyance at himself for having an instinct that seemed so obvious.
He put the dinosaur down.
Then he reached for the interior pocket where the note had been.
His fingers found something else.
A crumpled tissue.
Two coins.
A folded square of notebook paper.
Daniel opened it.
This was Evan’s handwriting.
The letters leaned at different angles.
Rules at Grandpa’s House.
1. Knock.
2. No running on stairs.
3. Ask before snacks.
4. Don’t touch Claire’s things.
5. Don’t bother Dad when door shut.
6. Say sorry fast.
7. Don’t talk about Mom at dinner if Claire has people.
Daniel stopped breathing.
Number seven had been written darker than the others, as if Evan had traced it twice.
He heard footsteps behind him.
Richard had come down in a robe.
“What is it?”
Daniel handed him the paper.
Richard read it.
He sat beside his son.
For a while they simply occupied the staircase together.
The last time they had sat there, Sarah had been alive. Thanksgiving. Too many people. Daniel had hidden with Richard during an argument about whether the turkey was done.
Richard had complained about Claire inviting twenty-eight guests.
Daniel had told him he secretly liked it.
Richard had said, “I secretly like eight of them.”
Now he gave the paper back.
“Do you know about number seven?”
Daniel shook his head.
Richard looked toward the dark dining room.
“I might.”
Daniel’s head turned.
“What?”
“A few months ago Claire had the museum donors here. Evan came in during dinner and said something about Sarah.”
“What?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try.”
Richard frowned.
“He asked if the flowers on the table were the kind his mother had at the funeral.”
Daniel stared at him.
Richard rubbed his forehead.
“Claire took him into the hall.”
“And?”
“I kept talking to the guests.”
Daniel stood.
“What did she say to him?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t ask?”
“No.”
Daniel laughed once.
It was ugly and exhausted.
“Fantastic.”
Richard’s eyes hardened.
“Be angry.”
“I am.”
“Then point it somewhere useful.”
Daniel looked at his father.
“You love telling people what’s useful.”
“And you love avoiding things until somebody else names them.”
The words landed exactly where Richard meant them to.
Daniel stepped back.
For a moment they were no longer two men trying to understand a frightened child. They were father and son again, rehearsing an argument older than Evan.
Richard regretted it as soon as he said it.
Daniel made it worse.
“You married her.”
Richard’s face went still.
“Yes.”
“You gave her control of this house.”
May you like
“Yes.”
“You let her decide what was appropriate, what was polite, what was embarrassing.”
