shaded sidewalk led through the village, past boutiques and real estate offices, the post office and a coffee shop. Beyond them were the tracks of the Long Island Railroad. She turned south, walked two long blocks, swung left at a little park and followed this street home.
When she had been young enough to need after-school sitters, Genevieve had not come home to an empty house. Now each time she unlocked the door and reset the alarm, she felt a pang. She acclimated herself to the emptiness and then walked silently into the back half of the house, where there was light. Genevieve loved sunlight. In school, she always wanted a desk by the window. She was vague about her future and could not visualize her life beyond the first week of college, but she knew she wanted sunlight. Texas, maybe. Southern California. Spain.
The Candlers lived in a town of spacious homes, many of them true mansions, and all with generous yards, but their own house was small and cramped, with a living room/kitchentaking up the entire back half, a master bedroom and bath the front left quarter and the garage the front right quarter.
In the large living room/kitchen, the Candlers lived like pioneers in a one-room log cabin, except that their one room had every conceivable electronic delight. If her parents were home and awake, they were here. In this room was life: magazines and mail, microwave and gas fireplace, books and television, movies and radio, sound system and computer. The appliances hummed, waiting for human attention.
Me too, thought Genevieve.
Their backyard was so small it didn’t even have a tree, but their neighbors’ big yards were filled with massive maples. With no fences, it felt and looked as if the Candlers had a big yard too. The setting sun gleamed through half-bare branches.
She had turned her cell phone off when she arrived at the pool, because when her phone rang, she absolutely could not stand letting it ring. If she vaulted out of the pool to snatch it up, GeeGee was disapproving.
Now she powered it on, watching a photograph appear on the little screen: an above-the-shoulders picture of herself, GeeGee and her parents at their anniversary party last year. Her parents had a good marriage. Maybe a great one. They loved each other’s company. Of all the events to which her father received tickets, dances were their favorites. Often the dance floor would clear while people stepped back to admire Ned and Allegra. Her mother loved to talk about these wonderful nights, when she and her handsome husband were the envy of every couple.
On Genevieve’s cell phone were messages from both parents.
Her mother’s voice was deep, as if she were a heavy smoker, when in fact Mom had literally never touched a cigarette. “I’m afraid of them,” she had told Genevieve once. “It looks like such fun waving them around and watching the smoke waft. If I so much as hold an unlit cigarette between my fingers, I’ll be hooked and spend my life rushing outdoors in all weather to suck on one.”
Genevieve’s eyes filled with tears. Yes, she wished her parents were different. Yes, she wished they had more time for her. But she loved them. If only they loved her back.
“Vivi,” said her mother’s voice, “it’s about four. I have a staff meeting I can’t skip. I won’t be home until nine. Ten if I miss my train. There’s plenty to eat in the fridge. I can’t take a call during the meeting, but text so I know you got home all right. Love you.”
Then Dad’s voice, higher than Mom’s. He was a tenor, and used to sing in a concert choir but missed too many rehearsals what with all his engagements, and had to drop out. “Vivi. Building committee is tonight. I’ll be home maybe ten o’clock. I’m not far, fifteen minutes if you need me. See you.”
They do love me, she told herself. They do worry. They just trust me to lead my life while they lead theirs. I’ve never said to them, “I hate all this independence. Come
When she had been young enough to need after-school sitters, Genevieve had not come home to an empty house. Now each time she unlocked the door and reset the alarm, she felt a pang. She acclimated herself to the emptiness and then walked silently into the back half of the house, where there was light. Genevieve loved sunlight. In school, she always wanted a desk by the window. She was vague about her future and could not visualize her life beyond the first week of college, but she knew she wanted sunlight. Texas, maybe. Southern California. Spain.
The Candlers lived in a town of spacious homes, many of them true mansions, and all with generous yards, but their own house was small and cramped, with a living room/kitchentaking up the entire back half, a master bedroom and bath the front left quarter and the garage the front right quarter.
In the large living room/kitchen, the Candlers lived like pioneers in a one-room log cabin, except that their one room had every conceivable electronic delight. If her parents were home and awake, they were here. In this room was life: magazines and mail, microwave and gas fireplace, books and television, movies and radio, sound system and computer. The appliances hummed, waiting for human attention.
Me too, thought Genevieve.
Their backyard was so small it didn’t even have a tree, but their neighbors’ big yards were filled with massive maples. With no fences, it felt and looked as if the Candlers had a big yard too. The setting sun gleamed through half-bare branches.
She had turned her cell phone off when she arrived at the pool, because when her phone rang, she absolutely could not stand letting it ring. If she vaulted out of the pool to snatch it up, GeeGee was disapproving.
Now she powered it on, watching a photograph appear on the little screen: an above-the-shoulders picture of herself, GeeGee and her parents at their anniversary party last year. Her parents had a good marriage. Maybe a great one. They loved each other’s company. Of all the events to which her father received tickets, dances were their favorites. Often the dance floor would clear while people stepped back to admire Ned and Allegra. Her mother loved to talk about these wonderful nights, when she and her handsome husband were the envy of every couple.
On Genevieve’s cell phone were messages from both parents.
Her mother’s voice was deep, as if she were a heavy smoker, when in fact Mom had literally never touched a cigarette. “I’m afraid of them,” she had told Genevieve once. “It looks like such fun waving them around and watching the smoke waft. If I so much as hold an unlit cigarette between my fingers, I’ll be hooked and spend my life rushing outdoors in all weather to suck on one.”
Genevieve’s eyes filled with tears. Yes, she wished her parents were different. Yes, she wished they had more time for her. But she loved them. If only they loved her back.
“Vivi,” said her mother’s voice, “it’s about four. I have a staff meeting I can’t skip. I won’t be home until nine. Ten if I miss my train. There’s plenty to eat in the fridge. I can’t take a call during the meeting, but text so I know you got home all right. Love you.”
Then Dad’s voice, higher than Mom’s. He was a tenor, and used to sing in a concert choir but missed too many rehearsals what with all his engagements, and had to drop out. “Vivi. Building committee is tonight. I’ll be home maybe ten o’clock. I’m not far, fifteen minutes if you need me. See you.”
They do love me, she told herself. They do worry. They just trust me to lead my life while they lead theirs. I’ve never said to them, “I hate all this independence. Come
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