Read Online The Explanation for Everything by Lauren Grodstein - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Grodstein
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long? Whereâs Mommy?â
Rona Katz looked at him, and her face seemed to turn gray. She returned to the deck of cards, began straightening them.
âRachel,â he said. âI love you very much.â
Rona bent her head at his kitchen table.
âYour mother is not coming home,â he said. The story of the rest of his life.
A ND Y SAT AT this new kitchen table, this new house, and tried to draft his statement to the parole board. Oliver McGee had been sentenced to eight to twelve years; he would have gotten more except that Lou hadnât yet clicked on her seat belt. Otherwise he might have gotten twenty.
As it was, this was Oliverâs third arrest for drunk driving (and after the trial everyone told Andyâand what was he supposed to do with this information, exactly?âeveryone told him it had just been a matter of time). Only eight to twelve and already it had been six and already he was up for parole for the third time. As he had the first two times, Andy spent hours drafting the right kinds of words to the parole board, not hysterical, not vindictive, but rather the calmly plaintive words of a man who had lost his beloved wife to Oliver McGeeâs driving and couldnât bear the thought of the same thing happening to anyone else.
Heâd expected these statements would get easier to write, but in fact this time it was harder. Heâd already used his best material the first two times. This current iteration was taking him hours; the simplicity of his object kept slipping away from him. Frustratingly, these were hours he should have spent preparing his tests, or reading his journals, or even sleeping. He would have been sleeping, maybe, if it werenât for the recent spate of troubling dreams. But instead, it was midnight, and here he was, the letter, the purposeful nature of the letter, slipping away again and again in a steaming pile of words. And tomorrow it would be five thirty, and here heâd be again.
Oliver McGee had been his neighbor in the Quail Run apartment complex. Nineteen, living with his mother and grandmother in one of the end-unit town houses, supposedly finishing high school but Andy saw him all the time on weekday mornings, sprawled out on one of the benches by the swimming pool, snoring a drunken snore. Complaints were made to management but what could they do? They ushered him off the benches. They let him get drunk, quietly, inside his own town house. His mom and grandma both worked but the television was on all day, every day; Andy heard it as he walked to his apartment. Sometimes, at night, Oliver would speed out of the parking lot, flying over speed bumps like Evel Knievel.
âThat kidâs going to kill himself one day,â Andy said, watching Oliver from his kitchen window, spinning out into the night.
âIf heâs lucky,â Lou said. âIf heâs not heâll kill somebody else.â
During the trial, the mother and the grandmother were heartbroken not only for Andy and the girls but also, of course, for Oliver, who in the way of these things had once been a pretty nice kid. He used to like to skateboard, evidently. He used to be a pretty good artist. The character witnesses included his former high school art teacher but even the teacher had to admit that Oliverâs performance started to suffer once he began drinking vodka out of Poland Spring bottles in class.
After the accident, Andy decided to turn his research away from degenerative disease and instead toward the mechanisms of alcoholism. He applied for and received a new postdoc with a biologist who was decoding brain waves in rats. Every day, at the lab, he would scrutinize the electroencephelograms of rats who had been dosed with varying amounts of ethanol, rats with different levels of different neuropeptides coursing through their brains. The goal of the research was to measure the way the different genetic makeups protected rats against intoxication.
Rona Katz looked at him, and her face seemed to turn gray. She returned to the deck of cards, began straightening them.
âRachel,â he said. âI love you very much.â
Rona bent her head at his kitchen table.
âYour mother is not coming home,â he said. The story of the rest of his life.
A ND Y SAT AT this new kitchen table, this new house, and tried to draft his statement to the parole board. Oliver McGee had been sentenced to eight to twelve years; he would have gotten more except that Lou hadnât yet clicked on her seat belt. Otherwise he might have gotten twenty.
As it was, this was Oliverâs third arrest for drunk driving (and after the trial everyone told Andyâand what was he supposed to do with this information, exactly?âeveryone told him it had just been a matter of time). Only eight to twelve and already it had been six and already he was up for parole for the third time. As he had the first two times, Andy spent hours drafting the right kinds of words to the parole board, not hysterical, not vindictive, but rather the calmly plaintive words of a man who had lost his beloved wife to Oliver McGeeâs driving and couldnât bear the thought of the same thing happening to anyone else.
Heâd expected these statements would get easier to write, but in fact this time it was harder. Heâd already used his best material the first two times. This current iteration was taking him hours; the simplicity of his object kept slipping away from him. Frustratingly, these were hours he should have spent preparing his tests, or reading his journals, or even sleeping. He would have been sleeping, maybe, if it werenât for the recent spate of troubling dreams. But instead, it was midnight, and here he was, the letter, the purposeful nature of the letter, slipping away again and again in a steaming pile of words. And tomorrow it would be five thirty, and here heâd be again.
Oliver McGee had been his neighbor in the Quail Run apartment complex. Nineteen, living with his mother and grandmother in one of the end-unit town houses, supposedly finishing high school but Andy saw him all the time on weekday mornings, sprawled out on one of the benches by the swimming pool, snoring a drunken snore. Complaints were made to management but what could they do? They ushered him off the benches. They let him get drunk, quietly, inside his own town house. His mom and grandma both worked but the television was on all day, every day; Andy heard it as he walked to his apartment. Sometimes, at night, Oliver would speed out of the parking lot, flying over speed bumps like Evel Knievel.
âThat kidâs going to kill himself one day,â Andy said, watching Oliver from his kitchen window, spinning out into the night.
âIf heâs lucky,â Lou said. âIf heâs not heâll kill somebody else.â
During the trial, the mother and the grandmother were heartbroken not only for Andy and the girls but also, of course, for Oliver, who in the way of these things had once been a pretty nice kid. He used to like to skateboard, evidently. He used to be a pretty good artist. The character witnesses included his former high school art teacher but even the teacher had to admit that Oliverâs performance started to suffer once he began drinking vodka out of Poland Spring bottles in class.
After the accident, Andy decided to turn his research away from degenerative disease and instead toward the mechanisms of alcoholism. He applied for and received a new postdoc with a biologist who was decoding brain waves in rats. Every day, at the lab, he would scrutinize the electroencephelograms of rats who had been dosed with varying amounts of ethanol, rats with different levels of different neuropeptides coursing through their brains. The goal of the research was to measure the way the different genetic makeups protected rats against intoxication.
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