here? Leah, this is a grown-up’s house.”
“I am very grown up,” I tell her, and climb out of the car. Before I even have my keys out, Henry has opened the door. He stands in the doorway. His face is cast in darkness and the hallway light glows around his silhouette, and I think of a story he told me once:
Henry accidentally set the neighbor’s barn on fire when he was twelve, a campfire experiment gone wrong. He ran home to hide before anyone found out it was him, but of course when he got there his father was already standing in the warm square of the doorway. Henry said that was the most scared he’d ever been. Hank took him back next door and made him watch the barn burn while the firemen tried to put out the blaze. Hank explained that they were too late; the barn was ruined and would need to be rebuilt. Henry rebuilt that barn all summer. Hank taught him how. It was so much work, Henry said. It was so difficult to raise a thing from the ground like that. I remember all the details Henry told me because whenever he mentions how strict his father was, I think about how he was so, so lucky.
My own parents used to catch me coming in late. I’d take my sneakers off outside the apartment, lift the doorknob as I pushed, thinking maybe I could make it past them if only I could keep walking on the balls of my feet. Mostly they caught me. My father still up and working on briefs with a red pen, sipping a tumbler of club soda for his stomach. Wearing a set of actual pajamas, light blue linen with dark blue piping. His longish black hair, gray at the temples, swept back. His papers propped on his belly like that’s what he had it for. He’d look over his enormous tortoiseshell glasses and say something vaguely interested-sounding like, Late night? I’d kiss his forehead, hope he didn’t smell the night’s trespasses on me, and jaunt off to bed. In the morning it would be my mother’s turn. I’d sit on a high stool at the bar in the kitchen eating too much organic cereal from a bowl that was meant for soup while my mother used the kitchen mirror to do her makeup. Your father says you had a late night, she’d say to herself in the mirror as she clipped on large gold-knot earrings. She had short auburn hair feathered around her face and always smelled of mature perfumes that came in frosted glass bottles. She’d pick up her matching necklace, hand it to me, and turn around. I’d do her clasp for her, and as I did it I’d say, Yes, I did, and that would be the end of it. I love my parents, I do, but I always felt it was as if the three of us were members of the same exclusive club that just so happened to have its headquarters in our penthouse. It was an old and dignified bond that brought us together in our blood, but like all those old clubs, we’d been at it so long we’d lost our sense of what we were there to do.
“Where the hell were you?” Henry says now, and I am delighted he is angry. That he cares I was gone. I have burned a barn and he will be strict with me! I throw my arms around him.
“You are mad!” I say. I kiss his cheek. “I was at the bar with a friend,” I tell Henry. “I forgot to call. I’m sorry.”
Quinn waves. “I’m the friend,” she tells Henry. She rubs her hands on her jeans, as if to clean them, and sticks out her right for him to shake. “Quinn Winters. I work for your sister.”
He shakes her hand. We all stand there for a minute, not sure what to do next. “Well, I’ll be going, then,” Quinn says. I wave awkwardly as she gets back into her car. Her tires spin out and fling bits of clamshell as she accelerates out of the driveway.
Once we are inside, Henry says, “That girl has eyes like a rabbit.”
“I know,” I say. “And that girl gets along with your sister.”
“Listen,” Henry says. “I’m not saying you can’t do what you want but do you think you might call me next time you go off the grid?”
“So you can worry about me?” I say.
“So
“I am very grown up,” I tell her, and climb out of the car. Before I even have my keys out, Henry has opened the door. He stands in the doorway. His face is cast in darkness and the hallway light glows around his silhouette, and I think of a story he told me once:
Henry accidentally set the neighbor’s barn on fire when he was twelve, a campfire experiment gone wrong. He ran home to hide before anyone found out it was him, but of course when he got there his father was already standing in the warm square of the doorway. Henry said that was the most scared he’d ever been. Hank took him back next door and made him watch the barn burn while the firemen tried to put out the blaze. Hank explained that they were too late; the barn was ruined and would need to be rebuilt. Henry rebuilt that barn all summer. Hank taught him how. It was so much work, Henry said. It was so difficult to raise a thing from the ground like that. I remember all the details Henry told me because whenever he mentions how strict his father was, I think about how he was so, so lucky.
My own parents used to catch me coming in late. I’d take my sneakers off outside the apartment, lift the doorknob as I pushed, thinking maybe I could make it past them if only I could keep walking on the balls of my feet. Mostly they caught me. My father still up and working on briefs with a red pen, sipping a tumbler of club soda for his stomach. Wearing a set of actual pajamas, light blue linen with dark blue piping. His longish black hair, gray at the temples, swept back. His papers propped on his belly like that’s what he had it for. He’d look over his enormous tortoiseshell glasses and say something vaguely interested-sounding like, Late night? I’d kiss his forehead, hope he didn’t smell the night’s trespasses on me, and jaunt off to bed. In the morning it would be my mother’s turn. I’d sit on a high stool at the bar in the kitchen eating too much organic cereal from a bowl that was meant for soup while my mother used the kitchen mirror to do her makeup. Your father says you had a late night, she’d say to herself in the mirror as she clipped on large gold-knot earrings. She had short auburn hair feathered around her face and always smelled of mature perfumes that came in frosted glass bottles. She’d pick up her matching necklace, hand it to me, and turn around. I’d do her clasp for her, and as I did it I’d say, Yes, I did, and that would be the end of it. I love my parents, I do, but I always felt it was as if the three of us were members of the same exclusive club that just so happened to have its headquarters in our penthouse. It was an old and dignified bond that brought us together in our blood, but like all those old clubs, we’d been at it so long we’d lost our sense of what we were there to do.
“Where the hell were you?” Henry says now, and I am delighted he is angry. That he cares I was gone. I have burned a barn and he will be strict with me! I throw my arms around him.
“You are mad!” I say. I kiss his cheek. “I was at the bar with a friend,” I tell Henry. “I forgot to call. I’m sorry.”
Quinn waves. “I’m the friend,” she tells Henry. She rubs her hands on her jeans, as if to clean them, and sticks out her right for him to shake. “Quinn Winters. I work for your sister.”
He shakes her hand. We all stand there for a minute, not sure what to do next. “Well, I’ll be going, then,” Quinn says. I wave awkwardly as she gets back into her car. Her tires spin out and fling bits of clamshell as she accelerates out of the driveway.
Once we are inside, Henry says, “That girl has eyes like a rabbit.”
“I know,” I say. “And that girl gets along with your sister.”
“Listen,” Henry says. “I’m not saying you can’t do what you want but do you think you might call me next time you go off the grid?”
“So you can worry about me?” I say.
“So
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