his thin figure entered the doorway, Palmer braced himself.
“You warthog-vagina-puke-sucking-dick-cheese-licker.”
“I’m really sorry, Shawn.”
“You missed it on purpose, ” Shawn said, voice cracking. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He really didn’t. He didn’t know anything. He was thirteen.
Shawn gave a small whimper. Palmer remembers it striking him as pathetic. Then he drew his hand back and slapped Palmer’s face.
Palmer was stronger than Shawn. The boys had been ignoring this fact for a while now, but that evening, he showed it. Shawn’s face was a question. Palmer answered with a strike. Shawn looked at him, surprised, and Palmer hit him again. Something in
Shawn’s face bent. The nose? There was blood. They rolled over and their limbs tangled. Shawn, looking as if he were going to spit in Palmer’s face, hesitated and quickly pressed his lips on him instead. The taste was metallic.
Could this be, could this—
“Oh, my God,” Shawn suddenly cried, wriggling away. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh, Jesus.”
“Sorry, I—”
“Someone was in the window.”
“What?”
“Someone’s watching in the window.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. I looked up and he went away.”
“Is he still there?”
“Shit shit shit shit shit — ”
“Did he see us?”
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit.” Shawn gathered his things.
“Come on, dude. Seriously, did you see who it was?”
But Shawn just left. Palmer waited a few minutes, then slowly ventured outside. He didn’t see anyone. The only thing to do,
it seemed, was run. Palmer didn’t know how long it took him to get home, or what time it was, or even the day. That became clear only later.
It was Monday, April 8, 1985.
Palmer snuck in the back door and put his clothes in a bag. They were smeared with mud and a bit of blood. He would wash them after everyone went to bed. When he came downstairs, his mother was reading the paper, her tan legs crossed.
“Palmer! I was worried you’d been abducted, but I figured they’d smell your sweaty clothes and bring you back.” She looked up at him. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” Palmer looked around. Something was off. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s not with you?” she asked, confused. Even as she spoke, everything fell away. “When it got dark, I left a message with his service for him to go get you. I’m surprised you missed him, actually. He’s probably over there looking for you right now.”
After dinner, Palmer went to his room. He waited for a moment, then flipped the light switch. Two ups and a down. But there wasn’t an answer. There would never be an answer.
So this is it. The thing Palmer knows, the thing he won’t tell. It had to have been his father’s face in the window. Buzz must have witnessed the desires of his thirteen-year-old son and—disgusted? shocked?—left. Palmer often pictures the scene.
His father jogging away from the field house, in his Volvo speeding away, turning right on Broad Street toward the Boat Club,
most likely failing to signal. Perhaps there was a screech. The only thing he can’t imagine is the face of the driver. No expression, no details. Those features, forever lost.
10
What Hannah Finds
T HE MORNING AFTER dinner at Palmer’s, Hannah wakes to the loud knocking of DeWitt’s voice from somewhere downstairs, followed by the light buzzing of her mother’s reply. The morning sun streams determinedly through the opening in the curtains. She turns and puts the pillow over her head. A few minutes of unsuccessful dozing later, she lets her hand wander between her thighs.
She pictures Jon. How he loves, as he calls it, “the morning connection,” reaching for Hannah while they’re still half asleep.
Those are her favorite mornings, when she finds she’s having sex with her husband before even waking up. Those are the safe mornings, no room for the dark moments between nightmare and consciousness, or the keen sense of loneliness
“You warthog-vagina-puke-sucking-dick-cheese-licker.”
“I’m really sorry, Shawn.”
“You missed it on purpose, ” Shawn said, voice cracking. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
He really didn’t. He didn’t know anything. He was thirteen.
Shawn gave a small whimper. Palmer remembers it striking him as pathetic. Then he drew his hand back and slapped Palmer’s face.
Palmer was stronger than Shawn. The boys had been ignoring this fact for a while now, but that evening, he showed it. Shawn’s face was a question. Palmer answered with a strike. Shawn looked at him, surprised, and Palmer hit him again. Something in
Shawn’s face bent. The nose? There was blood. They rolled over and their limbs tangled. Shawn, looking as if he were going to spit in Palmer’s face, hesitated and quickly pressed his lips on him instead. The taste was metallic.
Could this be, could this—
“Oh, my God,” Shawn suddenly cried, wriggling away. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Oh, Jesus.”
“Sorry, I—”
“Someone was in the window.”
“What?”
“Someone’s watching in the window.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know. I looked up and he went away.”
“Is he still there?”
“Shit shit shit shit shit — ”
“Did he see us?”
“Oh shit oh shit oh shit.” Shawn gathered his things.
“Come on, dude. Seriously, did you see who it was?”
But Shawn just left. Palmer waited a few minutes, then slowly ventured outside. He didn’t see anyone. The only thing to do,
it seemed, was run. Palmer didn’t know how long it took him to get home, or what time it was, or even the day. That became clear only later.
It was Monday, April 8, 1985.
Palmer snuck in the back door and put his clothes in a bag. They were smeared with mud and a bit of blood. He would wash them after everyone went to bed. When he came downstairs, his mother was reading the paper, her tan legs crossed.
“Palmer! I was worried you’d been abducted, but I figured they’d smell your sweaty clothes and bring you back.” She looked up at him. “What happened?”
“Nothing.” Palmer looked around. Something was off. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s not with you?” she asked, confused. Even as she spoke, everything fell away. “When it got dark, I left a message with his service for him to go get you. I’m surprised you missed him, actually. He’s probably over there looking for you right now.”
After dinner, Palmer went to his room. He waited for a moment, then flipped the light switch. Two ups and a down. But there wasn’t an answer. There would never be an answer.
So this is it. The thing Palmer knows, the thing he won’t tell. It had to have been his father’s face in the window. Buzz must have witnessed the desires of his thirteen-year-old son and—disgusted? shocked?—left. Palmer often pictures the scene.
His father jogging away from the field house, in his Volvo speeding away, turning right on Broad Street toward the Boat Club,
most likely failing to signal. Perhaps there was a screech. The only thing he can’t imagine is the face of the driver. No expression, no details. Those features, forever lost.
10
What Hannah Finds
T HE MORNING AFTER dinner at Palmer’s, Hannah wakes to the loud knocking of DeWitt’s voice from somewhere downstairs, followed by the light buzzing of her mother’s reply. The morning sun streams determinedly through the opening in the curtains. She turns and puts the pillow over her head. A few minutes of unsuccessful dozing later, she lets her hand wander between her thighs.
She pictures Jon. How he loves, as he calls it, “the morning connection,” reaching for Hannah while they’re still half asleep.
Those are her favorite mornings, when she finds she’s having sex with her husband before even waking up. Those are the safe mornings, no room for the dark moments between nightmare and consciousness, or the keen sense of loneliness
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