through very well. I think I was afraid of you.”
She made a noise.
“No one is afraid of me.”
“That’s not for you to say, Dana.”
We didn’t speak for a long moment. Dana’s hands had appeared over the back of the seat, gripping it, and I could see her jagged, bitten nails, whitened at the tips under the pressure.
“Will you ever tell me the real story?” she said at last.
“I probably will. I will. But you’ll be disappointed, it’s so banal.”
“Nothing about you could be banal to me,” she said fiercely.
“Oh, Dana. I’m just a sorry, confused person. Please.
That’s all I am.
Just… I’m not nice. I lied. I’m sorry. I’m not truthful. I’ve messed up my life.” I started to cry, loud, embarrassing gulping sounds for a minute, and then I got control and was able to breathe, to weep normally.
“I’m sorry,” Dana whispered.
“I’m sorry. I’m too devouring. I eat people. Duncan said it, and it’s true. I know it’s true.”
“No, it’s what’s wonderful about you, Dana, how much you want.
How much you give. But it’s a kind of high standard. For a person like me.”
“I feel I’ve ruined everything.”
I shook my head. I fished in my bag for a tissue and blew my nose.
“Can you forgive me?” She was still stretching toward me over the seat.
“Oh, Dana, stop.” She bit her lip.
“Please, ” I said.
She shook her head.
“No, I mean it. I need you to say you forgive me.”
“Only if you turn around and stop looking at me. I look terrible.”
She spun around in the front seat and we sat for a minute or two, both facing forward, as though we were traveling somewhere. I blew my nose again.
Finally I said, “Someone should tell Larry we’re ready to behave better now.”
“Hah!” she cried in surprised delight, and then giggled.
“Yeah, that it’s safe to come out.”
“Oh, Larry,” I pretended to call, keeping my voice soft.
“Oh, Larrreee, you can come out now.”
“We’ve put away our hormones,” Dana called.
I looked over at the house. Lights everywhere, as usual.
“Let’s go find him,” I said.
“Let’s get him,” she said.
“He should be ashamed, the scaredy-cat.”
We got out of the car, slamming the doors. Halfway to the kitchen door, I remembered he’d wanted us to lock the car. Which seemed, when we tried it, first the hardest and then the funniest thing in the world to do. We were convulsed with the laughter of relief, at those buttons that kept popping up, at the endless slamming of the doors, like the sound track of a kind of vehicular farce.
There was no one in the kitchen or the living room as we crashed through the house. We found him upstairs in his bed, bare-chested, reading. He didn’t look up when we came in. I sat at the foot of his bed and Dana nestled next to him and rested her chin on his muscled shoulder. He put his book down finally, and we talked in whispers until three or so, the house ticking silently around us, the sleepers dozing through our laughter.
IN MID-SEPTEMBER, THE PACE OF THINGS SHIFTED. FIRST
Duncan and Dana, then Larry, started school again. Duncan’s gtnur students drifted back from vacation and camp, and we all began taking messages for him from the mothers trying to arrange his time at their convenience. The house emptied in the daytime except for me and John, and the oddly timed visits home of Eli.
It was hard for me. The summer had been better because of everyone’s loose schedule. There was always company—someone to suggest a trip to the beach, or a bike ride, or an afternoon movie. Now I was alone most days, and the time stretched out painfully. I stayed up later, slept later. I tried to discipline myself to read in structured and yet arbitrary ways. All of George Meredith. All of Wallace Stevens.
didn’t want to think of Ted or of my mother, both of whom I felt I’d betwayed. I’d written each of them once. A postcard to Ted, saying just that I was safe, that I
She made a noise.
“No one is afraid of me.”
“That’s not for you to say, Dana.”
We didn’t speak for a long moment. Dana’s hands had appeared over the back of the seat, gripping it, and I could see her jagged, bitten nails, whitened at the tips under the pressure.
“Will you ever tell me the real story?” she said at last.
“I probably will. I will. But you’ll be disappointed, it’s so banal.”
“Nothing about you could be banal to me,” she said fiercely.
“Oh, Dana. I’m just a sorry, confused person. Please.
That’s all I am.
Just… I’m not nice. I lied. I’m sorry. I’m not truthful. I’ve messed up my life.” I started to cry, loud, embarrassing gulping sounds for a minute, and then I got control and was able to breathe, to weep normally.
“I’m sorry,” Dana whispered.
“I’m sorry. I’m too devouring. I eat people. Duncan said it, and it’s true. I know it’s true.”
“No, it’s what’s wonderful about you, Dana, how much you want.
How much you give. But it’s a kind of high standard. For a person like me.”
“I feel I’ve ruined everything.”
I shook my head. I fished in my bag for a tissue and blew my nose.
“Can you forgive me?” She was still stretching toward me over the seat.
“Oh, Dana, stop.” She bit her lip.
“Please, ” I said.
She shook her head.
“No, I mean it. I need you to say you forgive me.”
“Only if you turn around and stop looking at me. I look terrible.”
She spun around in the front seat and we sat for a minute or two, both facing forward, as though we were traveling somewhere. I blew my nose again.
Finally I said, “Someone should tell Larry we’re ready to behave better now.”
“Hah!” she cried in surprised delight, and then giggled.
“Yeah, that it’s safe to come out.”
“Oh, Larry,” I pretended to call, keeping my voice soft.
“Oh, Larrreee, you can come out now.”
“We’ve put away our hormones,” Dana called.
I looked over at the house. Lights everywhere, as usual.
“Let’s go find him,” I said.
“Let’s get him,” she said.
“He should be ashamed, the scaredy-cat.”
We got out of the car, slamming the doors. Halfway to the kitchen door, I remembered he’d wanted us to lock the car. Which seemed, when we tried it, first the hardest and then the funniest thing in the world to do. We were convulsed with the laughter of relief, at those buttons that kept popping up, at the endless slamming of the doors, like the sound track of a kind of vehicular farce.
There was no one in the kitchen or the living room as we crashed through the house. We found him upstairs in his bed, bare-chested, reading. He didn’t look up when we came in. I sat at the foot of his bed and Dana nestled next to him and rested her chin on his muscled shoulder. He put his book down finally, and we talked in whispers until three or so, the house ticking silently around us, the sleepers dozing through our laughter.
IN MID-SEPTEMBER, THE PACE OF THINGS SHIFTED. FIRST
Duncan and Dana, then Larry, started school again. Duncan’s gtnur students drifted back from vacation and camp, and we all began taking messages for him from the mothers trying to arrange his time at their convenience. The house emptied in the daytime except for me and John, and the oddly timed visits home of Eli.
It was hard for me. The summer had been better because of everyone’s loose schedule. There was always company—someone to suggest a trip to the beach, or a bike ride, or an afternoon movie. Now I was alone most days, and the time stretched out painfully. I stayed up later, slept later. I tried to discipline myself to read in structured and yet arbitrary ways. All of George Meredith. All of Wallace Stevens.
didn’t want to think of Ted or of my mother, both of whom I felt I’d betwayed. I’d written each of them once. A postcard to Ted, saying just that I was safe, that I
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