had offered to walk with him. He hoped she would start chattering, as she often did when she was in a good mood. Nick desperately needed something to distract him from worrying about his dad.
Sure enough, Marta launched into a speech about her English essay. Jane Austen was the topic, and although Nick couldn't have been less interested, he let himself be dragged along in conversation. His imagination was much better off in the British countryside than in the Anbar province of Iraq.
To reach the convenience store, Nick and Marta had to cross Green Heron Parkway, a four-lane street that connected to the interstate. The road had been open only a few months, but already it was one of the busiest in the county.
Finally the light turned red and the traffic came to a stop. Nick was halfway across the intersection when he spotted a blue Prius like the one Mrs. Starch drove. It was three or four cars back in line, and Nick shielded his eyes from the sun so that he might see the driver. The glare was blinding.
"Are you crazy?" Marta shouted back at him. "You're gonna get flattened like a pancake."
Nick hurried across the road. The light turned green and the traffic began to roll.
As the Prius motored away, Nick caught a glimpse of the driver-definitely not a woman. Nick couldn't see the guy's face, but he had wide shoulders and a dark knit hat tugged down over his ears.
Wrong car, Nick thought.
Then he noticed Marta standing on the curb, watching the blue Prius as it disappeared down the highway. "Weird," she said. "He had the same kind of license plate as you-know-who."
"Seriously?" Nick hadn't noticed.
"Everybody wants to save the poor ol' manatees," Marta remarked.
"I guess," said Nick, pondering the coincidence.
When they reached the store, he realized that he had only fifty-five cents in his pocket, which pretty much blew his cover story about going shopping for his mom.
If Marta figured it out, she never let on. She loaned him a couple of bucks to buy a half-gallon of milk.
Nick walked her back to her block, and then he headed home. Turning the corner of his street, he was surprised to see his mother's car in the driveway. She never got off work early, except for the time that she'd gotten sick after eating a bad burrito in the jail cafeteria.
Opening the front door, Nick called out, "Hey, Mom?"
She wasn't in the living room, or the kitchen. He put the milk in the refrigerator and went down the hall to his parents' bedroom. The door was closed.
"Mom?" He knocked lightly. "Mom, it's me."
"Come on in."
She was sitting on the edge of the bed next to a wad of crumpled tissues. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she was sniffling.
Nick felt his knees turn to rubber. "Oh no!" he said. "He's not dead, honey. But he's hurt."
"How bad?" Nick rasped.
His mother reached out and pulled him close. "He's on his way home."
"How bad?" Nick asked again, with a tremble.
His mother kissed his forehead and dabbed the tears on his cheeks.
She said, "He's coming home. That's all that matters."
SEVEN
Millicent Winship was seventy-seven years old, ninety-two pounds, ridiculously rich, and as tough as a garfish. Her only daughter, Whitney, had shamed the family by abandoning her husband and son and moving to Paris, where she had opened a cheese shop. Mrs. Winship didn't care much for the fellow Whitney had married, but she felt very bad that he'd been left alone to raise her only grandchild-a burly and rebellious boy named Duane, after his father.
So Mrs. Winship had decided that the least she could do was provide her grandson with the best possible education. Because of his poor grades and occasional behavior problems, the Truman School wasn't exactly eager to have young Duane Jr. as a student. Mrs. Winship solved that problem by sending an extremely large check.
It wasn't often that she got to see Duane Jr. because she divided her time among five different homes in five different states-California, New
Sure enough, Marta launched into a speech about her English essay. Jane Austen was the topic, and although Nick couldn't have been less interested, he let himself be dragged along in conversation. His imagination was much better off in the British countryside than in the Anbar province of Iraq.
To reach the convenience store, Nick and Marta had to cross Green Heron Parkway, a four-lane street that connected to the interstate. The road had been open only a few months, but already it was one of the busiest in the county.
Finally the light turned red and the traffic came to a stop. Nick was halfway across the intersection when he spotted a blue Prius like the one Mrs. Starch drove. It was three or four cars back in line, and Nick shielded his eyes from the sun so that he might see the driver. The glare was blinding.
"Are you crazy?" Marta shouted back at him. "You're gonna get flattened like a pancake."
Nick hurried across the road. The light turned green and the traffic began to roll.
As the Prius motored away, Nick caught a glimpse of the driver-definitely not a woman. Nick couldn't see the guy's face, but he had wide shoulders and a dark knit hat tugged down over his ears.
Wrong car, Nick thought.
Then he noticed Marta standing on the curb, watching the blue Prius as it disappeared down the highway. "Weird," she said. "He had the same kind of license plate as you-know-who."
"Seriously?" Nick hadn't noticed.
"Everybody wants to save the poor ol' manatees," Marta remarked.
"I guess," said Nick, pondering the coincidence.
When they reached the store, he realized that he had only fifty-five cents in his pocket, which pretty much blew his cover story about going shopping for his mom.
If Marta figured it out, she never let on. She loaned him a couple of bucks to buy a half-gallon of milk.
Nick walked her back to her block, and then he headed home. Turning the corner of his street, he was surprised to see his mother's car in the driveway. She never got off work early, except for the time that she'd gotten sick after eating a bad burrito in the jail cafeteria.
Opening the front door, Nick called out, "Hey, Mom?"
She wasn't in the living room, or the kitchen. He put the milk in the refrigerator and went down the hall to his parents' bedroom. The door was closed.
"Mom?" He knocked lightly. "Mom, it's me."
"Come on in."
She was sitting on the edge of the bed next to a wad of crumpled tissues. Her eyes were bloodshot, and she was sniffling.
Nick felt his knees turn to rubber. "Oh no!" he said. "He's not dead, honey. But he's hurt."
"How bad?" Nick rasped.
His mother reached out and pulled him close. "He's on his way home."
"How bad?" Nick asked again, with a tremble.
His mother kissed his forehead and dabbed the tears on his cheeks.
She said, "He's coming home. That's all that matters."
SEVEN
Millicent Winship was seventy-seven years old, ninety-two pounds, ridiculously rich, and as tough as a garfish. Her only daughter, Whitney, had shamed the family by abandoning her husband and son and moving to Paris, where she had opened a cheese shop. Mrs. Winship didn't care much for the fellow Whitney had married, but she felt very bad that he'd been left alone to raise her only grandchild-a burly and rebellious boy named Duane, after his father.
So Mrs. Winship had decided that the least she could do was provide her grandson with the best possible education. Because of his poor grades and occasional behavior problems, the Truman School wasn't exactly eager to have young Duane Jr. as a student. Mrs. Winship solved that problem by sending an extremely large check.
It wasn't often that she got to see Duane Jr. because she divided her time among five different homes in five different states-California, New
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