turned to Jack. “Dad, it’s what, the second, third, time I’ve told you to get dressed, and you’re still in your bathrobe? I laid out clothes.”
“What does it matter?” the girl said. “It’s not like...” Her voice broke off, and she shrugged.
“It matters,” the woman said. “It matters that your grandfather gets dressed every day. It matters that you don’t talk in front of him as if he isn’t here.”
The girl shook her head. “He ruins everything. You know he does, and you’re just pretending not.”
“That’s enough, Paige.” The woman angled the tube of lipstick and went back to work on her mouth. She paused and looked over at Jack. “Dad, please , get dressed.”
“If my father were here, he’d just leave all over again,” the girl said.
The woman snapped the compact closed. She was pretty, but had sad eyes. Jack suddenly remembered her name and who she was.
There was a short blast of a horn. “The bus, Paige,” Anne said. The girl grabbed her bookbag and slammed out of the house without a goodbye.
“I’ll find him,” Jack said.
“Who?”
“The one the girl was talking about.” Jack waited, and the name bumped into view. “Raymond.”
“Oh Dad,” Anne said. “We’ve been over this. It’s been over three years. He’s not coming back.”
“He needs to do the right thing,” Jack said. In Trouble . That’s how Jack thought of it and then immediately felt ashamed because there was something fundamentally dishonest about the phrase. It was the equivalent of saying passed instead of died .
In Trouble . That’s what they called it when Jack was younger. You got a girl in trouble.
Anne walked over and took Jack by the arm and led him through the living room and down a hall. They stopped and turned into a bedroom.
“Claude Rains,” Jack said, pointing at the clothes on the bed. Anne looked over, puzzled.
A set of clothes was laid out on top of the covers. Jack said it looked as if the Invisible Man were taking a nap.
“Please,” Anne said, handing Jack the pants. Then she left, closing the door behind her. After a while, he heard the doorbell and then Anne talking to someone named Mrs. Wood.
Jack unbelted the bathrobe and started to get dressed.
It struck Jack that he lived in a house full of women’s voices.
He got his pants on and his shirt buttoned halfway and then sat on the edge of the bed and hunted down his shoes. He looked out the bedroom window. It overflowed with pale morning light. He picked up his left shoe. He looked at the closed door and listened to the faint voices of the women drifting down the hall.
At that moment, Jack Carson understood what was happening to him. Even if, right then, he could not name the condition, he recognized what it felt like.
It felt like each moment of what he’d once been able to call his life were being reshuffled over and over like a deck of cards.
It was like standing in front of a door, then bending over the lock with a fat wad of keys and trying one by one to fit them and having to start over again and again because all the keys were the same size and shape and color.
It was like a magician who’d lost control of his magic, who knew the moves for each trick but had lost the ability to manipulate the outcome anymore, the tricks tricking him now.
It was like standing behind the wheel of a boat, far out at sea and waiting, against the immensity of the horizon, for the anchor you’d dropped to catch, but knowing through your fingertips on the wheel that it hadn’t, that in the depths below the hull, the anchor drifted and dragged, unable to find purchase.
And it was like standing in the kitchen before an open cabinet, and the item he needed was on the uppermost shelf, and as he stretched for it, his fingertips brushed against but could not grasp what he needed, and he ended up pushing it further back each time he tried, until finally it was out of reach, his fingers grabbing air.
Jack got up from the
“What does it matter?” the girl said. “It’s not like...” Her voice broke off, and she shrugged.
“It matters,” the woman said. “It matters that your grandfather gets dressed every day. It matters that you don’t talk in front of him as if he isn’t here.”
The girl shook her head. “He ruins everything. You know he does, and you’re just pretending not.”
“That’s enough, Paige.” The woman angled the tube of lipstick and went back to work on her mouth. She paused and looked over at Jack. “Dad, please , get dressed.”
“If my father were here, he’d just leave all over again,” the girl said.
The woman snapped the compact closed. She was pretty, but had sad eyes. Jack suddenly remembered her name and who she was.
There was a short blast of a horn. “The bus, Paige,” Anne said. The girl grabbed her bookbag and slammed out of the house without a goodbye.
“I’ll find him,” Jack said.
“Who?”
“The one the girl was talking about.” Jack waited, and the name bumped into view. “Raymond.”
“Oh Dad,” Anne said. “We’ve been over this. It’s been over three years. He’s not coming back.”
“He needs to do the right thing,” Jack said. In Trouble . That’s how Jack thought of it and then immediately felt ashamed because there was something fundamentally dishonest about the phrase. It was the equivalent of saying passed instead of died .
In Trouble . That’s what they called it when Jack was younger. You got a girl in trouble.
Anne walked over and took Jack by the arm and led him through the living room and down a hall. They stopped and turned into a bedroom.
“Claude Rains,” Jack said, pointing at the clothes on the bed. Anne looked over, puzzled.
A set of clothes was laid out on top of the covers. Jack said it looked as if the Invisible Man were taking a nap.
“Please,” Anne said, handing Jack the pants. Then she left, closing the door behind her. After a while, he heard the doorbell and then Anne talking to someone named Mrs. Wood.
Jack unbelted the bathrobe and started to get dressed.
It struck Jack that he lived in a house full of women’s voices.
He got his pants on and his shirt buttoned halfway and then sat on the edge of the bed and hunted down his shoes. He looked out the bedroom window. It overflowed with pale morning light. He picked up his left shoe. He looked at the closed door and listened to the faint voices of the women drifting down the hall.
At that moment, Jack Carson understood what was happening to him. Even if, right then, he could not name the condition, he recognized what it felt like.
It felt like each moment of what he’d once been able to call his life were being reshuffled over and over like a deck of cards.
It was like standing in front of a door, then bending over the lock with a fat wad of keys and trying one by one to fit them and having to start over again and again because all the keys were the same size and shape and color.
It was like a magician who’d lost control of his magic, who knew the moves for each trick but had lost the ability to manipulate the outcome anymore, the tricks tricking him now.
It was like standing behind the wheel of a boat, far out at sea and waiting, against the immensity of the horizon, for the anchor you’d dropped to catch, but knowing through your fingertips on the wheel that it hadn’t, that in the depths below the hull, the anchor drifted and dragged, unable to find purchase.
And it was like standing in the kitchen before an open cabinet, and the item he needed was on the uppermost shelf, and as he stretched for it, his fingertips brushed against but could not grasp what he needed, and he ended up pushing it further back each time he tried, until finally it was out of reach, his fingers grabbing air.
Jack got up from the
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