parked in a garage and strolled along a sidewalk freshly poured that spring, according to a date someone had scrawled when it was wet. Two teenagers approached with their arms flopping around each other’s waist. He crossed the street to avoid them and found himself in front of a multi-level bookstore. Inside, he browsed the tables until he came to one showcasing paperback fiction, finally deciding on a Western-themed novel that had been a finalist for a significant prize.
Having paid, he went down the street to the Starbucks. He’d heard all the arguments against corporate coffee, but was never persuaded to give it up. He felt that Starbucks was good, felt its dominance proved this, and considered himself more honest than the snobs for embracing it. Wiser in many ways, too; you gained back your own perspective when you entered the ubiquitous thing. He ordered a decaf espresso, tipped the bar staff, and found a plush corner chair in which to sit with his book.
He read two chapters straight through, pausing only a few times to contemplate a woman fidgeting with her sandal in the opposite chair, and a man in line who was disappointed to learn he’d ordered a drink that didn’t exist. It was Sunday evening, quiet, when most in the suburbs were at home. He fingered the stone in his pocket and decided he’d come again the next day, and every day that week, until DC felt like any other place, for which he harbored no expectations.
4
E unice was up early Monday, occupying the kitchen. With a damp cloth, she gently cleaned a set of turquoise salt and pepper silos, followed by a set that looked like a peasant boy and girl, and one that resembled two chicken eggs lightly flattened at the base. She’d chosen each set herself, all of them perfect pairs, delightful little objects that felt sturdy in her hand. By the time she opened the dishwasher, she was deep in the domestic zone. There, in the top rack, crouched four of her eleven diamond-cut tumblers—because, she suddenly remembered, she had only eleven of them now. Was that even enough for them all? She counted hurriedly on her hand, beginning with her thumb—Howie, Cassandra, Mary, Elizabeth, Max—then refreshed her fingers and began again—Estella, Eunice. That was it. How could she forget! Kyle. And eventually—ring finger—Vlad. Even so they were only nine, her pinky still drooping on her palm. She stared at it a moment: a shriveled thing with a tattered white cuticle and a tough old nail that was foggy as a horse’s hoof. She closed her fist and hid it behind her then looked back at the glasses in the rack. It may have been the day after the worst day of her life, but she still had a house to keep straight.
Half an hour later, Cassandra paused in front of the round windowon the second-floor landing. A teenage boy was standing on the footpath in the front yard, his head bowed as if in prayer. So the world already knew. Cassandra peered closer. His stance seemed to require a hat, held demurely behind his back. Fragmented by the window’s soldered panes, the image of the boy reminded her of a modern movie set sometime in the iconic past. Who stood that way anymore? Her parents’ house had always attracted the oddest visitors.
Eunice was distributing forks and spoons among the silverware drawer’s dividers when Cassandra entered the kitchen. It was not yet 7:30.
“There’s a boy in the front yard,” Cassandra said, starting the coffeemaker.
“People will be coming by all day.”
“But this early?”
“Death doesn’t keep an ordinary calendar, Cassandra.” Grief axioms never failed Eunice—even when the grief was her own.
The doorbell rang at eight. “That will be the first of the flowers,” Eunice said.
“I’m sure it’s not. We haven’t even ordered them yet.”
“I mean the flowers from other people. Trust me.” Eunice went for the door.
But it was not flowers. It was Dorothy Chamberlain, Eunice’s best friend, and also her most
Having paid, he went down the street to the Starbucks. He’d heard all the arguments against corporate coffee, but was never persuaded to give it up. He felt that Starbucks was good, felt its dominance proved this, and considered himself more honest than the snobs for embracing it. Wiser in many ways, too; you gained back your own perspective when you entered the ubiquitous thing. He ordered a decaf espresso, tipped the bar staff, and found a plush corner chair in which to sit with his book.
He read two chapters straight through, pausing only a few times to contemplate a woman fidgeting with her sandal in the opposite chair, and a man in line who was disappointed to learn he’d ordered a drink that didn’t exist. It was Sunday evening, quiet, when most in the suburbs were at home. He fingered the stone in his pocket and decided he’d come again the next day, and every day that week, until DC felt like any other place, for which he harbored no expectations.
4
E unice was up early Monday, occupying the kitchen. With a damp cloth, she gently cleaned a set of turquoise salt and pepper silos, followed by a set that looked like a peasant boy and girl, and one that resembled two chicken eggs lightly flattened at the base. She’d chosen each set herself, all of them perfect pairs, delightful little objects that felt sturdy in her hand. By the time she opened the dishwasher, she was deep in the domestic zone. There, in the top rack, crouched four of her eleven diamond-cut tumblers—because, she suddenly remembered, she had only eleven of them now. Was that even enough for them all? She counted hurriedly on her hand, beginning with her thumb—Howie, Cassandra, Mary, Elizabeth, Max—then refreshed her fingers and began again—Estella, Eunice. That was it. How could she forget! Kyle. And eventually—ring finger—Vlad. Even so they were only nine, her pinky still drooping on her palm. She stared at it a moment: a shriveled thing with a tattered white cuticle and a tough old nail that was foggy as a horse’s hoof. She closed her fist and hid it behind her then looked back at the glasses in the rack. It may have been the day after the worst day of her life, but she still had a house to keep straight.
Half an hour later, Cassandra paused in front of the round windowon the second-floor landing. A teenage boy was standing on the footpath in the front yard, his head bowed as if in prayer. So the world already knew. Cassandra peered closer. His stance seemed to require a hat, held demurely behind his back. Fragmented by the window’s soldered panes, the image of the boy reminded her of a modern movie set sometime in the iconic past. Who stood that way anymore? Her parents’ house had always attracted the oddest visitors.
Eunice was distributing forks and spoons among the silverware drawer’s dividers when Cassandra entered the kitchen. It was not yet 7:30.
“There’s a boy in the front yard,” Cassandra said, starting the coffeemaker.
“People will be coming by all day.”
“But this early?”
“Death doesn’t keep an ordinary calendar, Cassandra.” Grief axioms never failed Eunice—even when the grief was her own.
The doorbell rang at eight. “That will be the first of the flowers,” Eunice said.
“I’m sure it’s not. We haven’t even ordered them yet.”
“I mean the flowers from other people. Trust me.” Eunice went for the door.
But it was not flowers. It was Dorothy Chamberlain, Eunice’s best friend, and also her most
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