Read Online Antonia Lively Breaks the Silence by David Samuel Levinson - Free Book Online

imagined herself at the party; because they were neighbors, she’d been invited. It wasn’t her normal kind of thing, yet it was a party, and it was still fairly early and she didn’t have to be at work tomorrow until eleven. She checked her face, brushed her hair, then grabbed a bottle of wine. Sliding into her flats, she opened the door on Henry, who was making his way up the porch. For an uncomfortable moment, she was unsure of what to do, and she paused just as he paused, a questioning look on his face. “Three years and I still can’t find my way around,” he said.
    Then he was through the door and in the house. His eyes were red, his cheeks glistening, and she wondered if he’d been crying. She didn’t notice the book he was holding until he handed it to her—an advance copy of his forthcoming essay collection, Words Travel Fast. Though she’d had hours to ready herself for this moment, she realized nothing could have prepared her for how she now felt—excited, angry, nervous, disgusted—at having him in the house.
    After thanking him for the book, she said, “Let me show you the cottage,” and quickly headed for the back door and the deck beyond. At the top of the stairs leading down into the backyard, Catherine slowed as Henry drew up beside her, and for one single second she imagined pushing him down the steps.
    â€œIs it always so loud?” he asked, descending the stairs.
    â€œOh, that,” she said, following. “The girls are usually very quiet.”
    â€œAre you sure you’re up for this?” he asked. “You seem . . . distracted.”
    â€œI’m not,” she said, but of course she was, because she kept expecting him to mention Wyatt, to say something, anything, about him. He didn’t. Instead, he pushed through the gate, the bell tinkling as he went, and she followed again until they were standing at the cottage door. Opening it, Henry entered and took careful steps across the floor, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking. As she switched on the track lighting, he inspected the space, studying the walls. Then he climbed the ladder into the sleeping loft.
    Stooping, he stared out the small window, and said, “I can see straight into your neighbor’s house,” then climbed back down.
    Catherine took her place at the study door while Henry perused the bathroom, flushed the toilet, and fiddled with the faucets. Though it hardly mattered to her what he thought about the cottage, she still hoped she’d closed the bathroom window; during summer, the feral cats used the area outside as their litter box, and the air became acrid with the stench of urine.
    When he returned, he said, “Excellent water pressure,” as if he were ticking things off a list.
    â€œWe had the plumbing completely redone,” she said. Turning, she gingerly twisted the knob and walked into the study. In the dim light, everything was just as Wyatt had left it: his slip-covered Olivetti typewriter was still on the cherrywood desk, which sat under the southernmost window; the overcrowded bookshelves leaned against the easternmost wall; a beaten-up filing cabinet, which held his dot-matrix printer, next to the desk. A club chair took up one corner, while the fern she and Wyatt had bought together took up another. Brown and brittle now, it reminded her of time and how quickly it was passing.
    â€œI haven’t seen one of these in ages,” he said, lifting the typewriter’s cover, his eyes as wide and innocent as the boy, she thought, he’d once been. She saw this boy in him, and wondered fleetingly if this boy had ever sensed the kind of man he would become.
    For a moment, she wanted to shout, Don’t you touch it, but instead she stood there, wincing as he struck the keys.
    She realized too late the horrified look on her face, because he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
    â€œNo need to