and for all. He would put it on his mental to-do list, at the top.
When they crested the hill outside of town where Chaptmans was set up on a small parklike verge near where the woods thickened toward Tomahawk, he was astounded: Cars were lined up for half a mile on both sides of the highway. There were two news trucks with Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 65
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their portable satellite dishes like upturned hockey masks. Lindsay had to brake for people crossing the road purposefully, hurriedly, as if to an auction or a concert, an event where being first in was of the essence.
Gordon made a pillow of his folded arms against the dash and hid his face.
“What?” Lindsay cried, reaching for his hand. “Are you feeling sick?” He shook his head, not trusting his voice. “Are you surprised . . . didn’t you think so many people loved her?”
No, he thought, squeezing her hand, her good reliable hand, as he would later that night hold her cool naked waist in his two hands, feel her tiny breasts with their startling large nipples like echinacea flowers crushed against his chest, unable in his grief and gratitude to even regret starting up again what he knew he should not start up again . . .
no, he thought. I just didn’t think it would ever get this far.
That it would get this far so fast, so fast that he could not stop tumbling long enough to find a place to stand and make an analysis, dreads and doubts breaking free like pebbles from a fragile rock face.
After this night, he wouldn’t be able to rely on his sister to fill in his gaps. He’d have to return all his life’s ignored phone calls, or he would be alone. Alone with his parents and Keefer, in a life he had never planned.
He would grow up perforce. He would never be able to entertain an offer from Tortoise Tours for a sabbatical year, or even a summer. Not until he was old. He would never hang out with his students, still able to whip the Frisbee farther, still able to do more pull-ups on the door frame. He’d have things to do, even more and more urgent things than he’d had before. He’d have to rush home from school, the way Chris Ebbets and Mary Hermanson and every other . . . parent he knew did.
He would never be free again. It was monstrously selfish, but he had imagined that he would get back to his old ways after Georgia’s death. He had longed for those ways.
But he would not get his life back. It had not been on suspension. It had been over the day his sister became ill.
Worse, more wrenching, he would not have wanted it back if he could have claimed it.
Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 66
66
JACQUELYN MITCHARD
It had been a stupid life. A life he’d treasured mostly in the retelling.
His audience was gone. His audience was mortally distracted.
He might be happy again; he might feel joy when Keefer learned to walk. He might fall in love. He would certainly fall in love. But his would never, never again be an unadulterated happiness, a boy’s happiness. It would always be crossed with this.
Gordon had not realized how much he had cherished himself as a person who could sometimes feel truly carefree.
Georgia would have understood this, because though she had never been truly carefree, she had cherished it in him. She had never actually said those words, so with his mind, he made her say them, in her own voice. He could still remember her voice. He could.
I cherished it , she said , in you.
She added, because Georgia would not have left on a sappy note, otherwise I would never have put up with you.
As he and Lindsay got out of the car, a woman swamped him in the vigor of her bruin hug. Delia. He had not recognized her. And her kid, now almost old enough to be one of his students. He was all but overwhelmed by Delia’s hug, the damp mug of her heavy perfume. When Delia released him, the kid put out her hand in a dignified way, “I’m Alex,” she said. “I was in the wedding? I’m sorry
When they crested the hill outside of town where Chaptmans was set up on a small parklike verge near where the woods thickened toward Tomahawk, he was astounded: Cars were lined up for half a mile on both sides of the highway. There were two news trucks with Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 65
A Theory of Relativity
65
their portable satellite dishes like upturned hockey masks. Lindsay had to brake for people crossing the road purposefully, hurriedly, as if to an auction or a concert, an event where being first in was of the essence.
Gordon made a pillow of his folded arms against the dash and hid his face.
“What?” Lindsay cried, reaching for his hand. “Are you feeling sick?” He shook his head, not trusting his voice. “Are you surprised . . . didn’t you think so many people loved her?”
No, he thought, squeezing her hand, her good reliable hand, as he would later that night hold her cool naked waist in his two hands, feel her tiny breasts with their startling large nipples like echinacea flowers crushed against his chest, unable in his grief and gratitude to even regret starting up again what he knew he should not start up again . . .
no, he thought. I just didn’t think it would ever get this far.
That it would get this far so fast, so fast that he could not stop tumbling long enough to find a place to stand and make an analysis, dreads and doubts breaking free like pebbles from a fragile rock face.
After this night, he wouldn’t be able to rely on his sister to fill in his gaps. He’d have to return all his life’s ignored phone calls, or he would be alone. Alone with his parents and Keefer, in a life he had never planned.
He would grow up perforce. He would never be able to entertain an offer from Tortoise Tours for a sabbatical year, or even a summer. Not until he was old. He would never hang out with his students, still able to whip the Frisbee farther, still able to do more pull-ups on the door frame. He’d have things to do, even more and more urgent things than he’d had before. He’d have to rush home from school, the way Chris Ebbets and Mary Hermanson and every other . . . parent he knew did.
He would never be free again. It was monstrously selfish, but he had imagined that he would get back to his old ways after Georgia’s death. He had longed for those ways.
But he would not get his life back. It had not been on suspension. It had been over the day his sister became ill.
Worse, more wrenching, he would not have wanted it back if he could have claimed it.
Theory[001-112] 6/5/01 11:58 AM Page 66
66
JACQUELYN MITCHARD
It had been a stupid life. A life he’d treasured mostly in the retelling.
His audience was gone. His audience was mortally distracted.
He might be happy again; he might feel joy when Keefer learned to walk. He might fall in love. He would certainly fall in love. But his would never, never again be an unadulterated happiness, a boy’s happiness. It would always be crossed with this.
Gordon had not realized how much he had cherished himself as a person who could sometimes feel truly carefree.
Georgia would have understood this, because though she had never been truly carefree, she had cherished it in him. She had never actually said those words, so with his mind, he made her say them, in her own voice. He could still remember her voice. He could.
I cherished it , she said , in you.
She added, because Georgia would not have left on a sappy note, otherwise I would never have put up with you.
As he and Lindsay got out of the car, a woman swamped him in the vigor of her bruin hug. Delia. He had not recognized her. And her kid, now almost old enough to be one of his students. He was all but overwhelmed by Delia’s hug, the damp mug of her heavy perfume. When Delia released him, the kid put out her hand in a dignified way, “I’m Alex,” she said. “I was in the wedding? I’m sorry
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