Trompe l'Oeil by Nancy Reisman

settled as he quickly traveled along the South Shore. Until the last several miles he moved unimpeded up the highway and found reprieve in the solitude of the car, the blue air of half-sleeping towns dotted with floating colored orbs of traffic signals, convenience store signs glowing. On the radio, news from Washington, or New York; news from abroad, read without fanfare by an anchor whose steady baritone pitch knita surface of reason over the chaos; or a string quartet, a duet for piano and violin, a bit of Paganini. Sweet coffee from the donut shop. A purposefulness would take hold as Blue Rock dropped away, and the highways extended north, and Boston’s southern industrial flank rose into view, on better days the light still peach-inflected, momentarily lending the steel containers, the rusting ship hulls, the smoke-blackened warehouses and dull russet boxcars a candied gloss. And then Boston’s downtown appeared, awake, and he left the highway and crossed onto the busy surface streets with their close press of cars, the rush of pedestrians in good overcoats and fine shoes, the women wearing lipstick and colorful scarves. His office waited—quiet, uncluttered—reports and notes neatly stacked, computer on, his calendar open. More coffee. The usual half hour of reading before phone calls and meetings began. The day’s obligations streamed forward, and though they would become layered and chaotic there was still a logic, an underlying structure they did not lose. In this space he could think. In this space there was no feeling of diminishment (headhunters often contacted him; bonuses often appeared), no sea sounds, no wash of darkness.
    And as the day unfurled, there would be other moments: camaraderie with his secretary Maureen, camaraderie with Parker, the senior VP, a brief smooth plane of tasks, the pleasure at the deal completed, the pleasures of passing conversations with Janelle, a brainy, athletic girl in legal, and Margaret, the dark-eyed HR rep he’d sometimes take to lunch.
    Only a few blocks to the athletic club: Mondays and Wednesdays at six he’d work out, avoiding rush hour. Occasionally he took late meetings, or a drink with Parker beforeheading home. He did not hurry. As he left the city, he’d again listen to the radio, passing walls of city lights, which faded as he approached the shore towns, his discomfort gathering in dense nightfall.
    He pulled up to the house and ascended the outdoor stairs to the deck. There was always the wind and the wash of the sea, and now infrequent stars. Opening the door was like opening a jack-in-the-box, all the energy of the house springing out in his direction. His thoughts seemed to scramble then, in the presence of his family—sparked by the near surprise that he had a family—his clear work mind now obscured. The little girls, if they were awake, called to him, running, and Katy, so quick to take offense, offered her skittish Hi , Theo—grounded for curfew infractions—barely nodded, Nora kissed James hello. It all seemed to happen at once, the wave of greetings, followed by baths and bedtime stories, and he’d promised Katy something—civics? Math? A report on district elections?
    When had he begun to find himself aghast, stunned by the instant erasure of solitude? There had been a tipping point, now submerged. He knew only that while he was in Boston, his family seemed remote, as if they lived not an hour’s drive from work but a day’s; or as if they lived in the Blue Rock of another decade; as if in his evening commute he traversed both time and space.
    A now-chronic disturbance: when he spoke with Nora, he could not name it, substituting the commute . And perhaps, yes. Perhaps if he were traveling home to Wellesley after all (his cousin Patrick lived in Wellesley; cousin Patrick seemed content), or simply to Brookline, the moment of arrival wouldalso transform. The family had lived in Blue Rock since