ready to start work on Monday, and all Teddy had
to do was fax over the papers. Had he finally decided to finish work
on the house?
All the messages had been left before the shooting. I was sure that
Martha’s voice belonged to the woman who’d held the gun on me
at the Seward.
I sat for a while drinking beer and turning over the objects on
Teddy’s desk, little more than a temporary workspace a person might
set up in a borrowed room. I hadn’t been here since Jeanie and Teddy
still shared the house. Even though I’d known more or less what to
expect, its emptiness was shocking. When Teddy and Jeanie were together
here there were books and music and art on the walls. I could
see that it would be a real house someday. Now that illusion was gone.
I realized how little of what other people thought of as life my
brother had set aside for himself. Our family had shattered when Teddy
was twenty-two and I was ten. If he’d turned unremittingly to work,
it must have been partly because of his responsibility for me.
It wasn’t just work, however, and it wasn’t my fault. There was a
quality of self-indulgence in his asceticism, a neurotic’s pleasure in
yielding to neurosis, an aversion to feeling at home. The house, which
more than any other place should have been a home, showed how
completely this aversion had thwarted every satisfaction and reward
that work is supposed to bring.
Documents were scattered across the desk, copies of police reports
and transcripts of preliminary hearings, all of them from open cases,
none of which I had yet had the chance to review. The drawers held
the same assortment of alligator clips, burned-out tape recorders, and
half-used tablets that had filled his desk drawers in the city. The rest
of the room was empty except for a couch and an armchair—both
shrouded in plastic—a stepladder and drop cloth, and a roller immobilized
in solidified latex. Two of the walls had been painted, and two
were plain drywall.
I wandered into the kitchen, which wasn’t much more welcoming.
It was finished, at least. On the stove was a pan with scum around the
rim. The cupboards held bottles of tomato sauce and an assortment
of dishes. The freezer was jammed with packets of frozen ravioli and
Costco hamburger patties, with a few ancient-looking bags of vegetables.
In the fridge I found a half-full case of light beer. I threw out
my empty and opened one.
Martha, I wondered. Martha and Chris. I’m here with Chris. Where?
I went back to the master bedroom. Its sliding glass doors gave out
onto the deck. Here, at least, Teddy had made a modest effort, I suppose
because this room and the deck were the only parts of the house that
the girls he brought home had leisure to examine. Or perhaps of all the
rooms, Jeanie had taken the least from this one when she left. On the
deck stood a pair of Adirondack chairs. The slope dropped off steeply,
and the broad lower branches of a young redwood brushed the deck
railing and carpeted the boards with needles. One of the chairs had a
bare space around it, with an ashtray, empty beer cans, and a few crusted
plates, but the rest of the deck and the other chair were covered with
a thin layer of needles. It was clear that Teddy never went to stand by
the railing, never did anything but sit, eat, drink, and smoke his dope.
I stood listening to the night birds’ calls and to the creaking of the
tree trunks all around me. In the forest I saw no lights. A tinge of wood
smoke rose to my nostrils. In that moment I thought I understood
what it was that my brother had loved about this place and, conversely,
why he kept that room at the Seward.
I was startled by a noise from the house behind me, the click of the
front door latch as somebody eased it closed.
I turned back inside and went quickly to the bedside table, expecting
exactly what I found when I opened the drawer: Teddy’s other
gun, the twin of the one in his office, and a pack of condoms. I slid
the drawer closed,
to do was fax over the papers. Had he finally decided to finish work
on the house?
All the messages had been left before the shooting. I was sure that
Martha’s voice belonged to the woman who’d held the gun on me
at the Seward.
I sat for a while drinking beer and turning over the objects on
Teddy’s desk, little more than a temporary workspace a person might
set up in a borrowed room. I hadn’t been here since Jeanie and Teddy
still shared the house. Even though I’d known more or less what to
expect, its emptiness was shocking. When Teddy and Jeanie were together
here there were books and music and art on the walls. I could
see that it would be a real house someday. Now that illusion was gone.
I realized how little of what other people thought of as life my
brother had set aside for himself. Our family had shattered when Teddy
was twenty-two and I was ten. If he’d turned unremittingly to work,
it must have been partly because of his responsibility for me.
It wasn’t just work, however, and it wasn’t my fault. There was a
quality of self-indulgence in his asceticism, a neurotic’s pleasure in
yielding to neurosis, an aversion to feeling at home. The house, which
more than any other place should have been a home, showed how
completely this aversion had thwarted every satisfaction and reward
that work is supposed to bring.
Documents were scattered across the desk, copies of police reports
and transcripts of preliminary hearings, all of them from open cases,
none of which I had yet had the chance to review. The drawers held
the same assortment of alligator clips, burned-out tape recorders, and
half-used tablets that had filled his desk drawers in the city. The rest
of the room was empty except for a couch and an armchair—both
shrouded in plastic—a stepladder and drop cloth, and a roller immobilized
in solidified latex. Two of the walls had been painted, and two
were plain drywall.
I wandered into the kitchen, which wasn’t much more welcoming.
It was finished, at least. On the stove was a pan with scum around the
rim. The cupboards held bottles of tomato sauce and an assortment
of dishes. The freezer was jammed with packets of frozen ravioli and
Costco hamburger patties, with a few ancient-looking bags of vegetables.
In the fridge I found a half-full case of light beer. I threw out
my empty and opened one.
Martha, I wondered. Martha and Chris. I’m here with Chris. Where?
I went back to the master bedroom. Its sliding glass doors gave out
onto the deck. Here, at least, Teddy had made a modest effort, I suppose
because this room and the deck were the only parts of the house that
the girls he brought home had leisure to examine. Or perhaps of all the
rooms, Jeanie had taken the least from this one when she left. On the
deck stood a pair of Adirondack chairs. The slope dropped off steeply,
and the broad lower branches of a young redwood brushed the deck
railing and carpeted the boards with needles. One of the chairs had a
bare space around it, with an ashtray, empty beer cans, and a few crusted
plates, but the rest of the deck and the other chair were covered with
a thin layer of needles. It was clear that Teddy never went to stand by
the railing, never did anything but sit, eat, drink, and smoke his dope.
I stood listening to the night birds’ calls and to the creaking of the
tree trunks all around me. In the forest I saw no lights. A tinge of wood
smoke rose to my nostrils. In that moment I thought I understood
what it was that my brother had loved about this place and, conversely,
why he kept that room at the Seward.
I was startled by a noise from the house behind me, the click of the
front door latch as somebody eased it closed.
I turned back inside and went quickly to the bedside table, expecting
exactly what I found when I opened the drawer: Teddy’s other
gun, the twin of the one in his office, and a pack of condoms. I slid
the drawer closed,
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