camaraderie was Pete’s therapy, his attempt to make sense of such a devastating loss. She wondered if Pete and his friends actually discussed James at all, if they ever even spoke about the accident directly or uttered his name. Either way, she knew it undoubtedly comforted Pete to sit, in communion with a beer, next to his longtime friends Michael, Chris, Thomas, or Billy. She could imagine her husband tamping down his grief, perhaps letting it defuse little by little as he listened to comments about a score or a play, cheered his beloved White Sox, and motioned to the bartender for another round for his pals. Those men had loved James too, she knew.
And yet as she sat down to eat with Sarah and Ryan, making an excuse for Pete, she couldn’t help nursing the old grudge. Pete was cheating her and the kids with his absences. She had hoped that at the very least James’s death might cinch them tighter as a family, draw them closer. If anything, Pete needed to redouble his efforts as a father instead of burying his head in a beer with the boys. How would they begin to rebuild their broken family if he didn’t show up?
After reading to Sarah, she entered Ryan’s room to kiss him good night. Lowering the shade, she looked out the window, half-hoping to see Pete’s headlights sweeping the lawn as they turned up the driveway. Maura was transfixed for a moment by the base of the giant maple tree in the center of the front lawn. The long fingers of yellow light spilling out from the front room windows and onto the grass touched the skirt of the trunk on one side; the other half was shrouded in inky darkness. James had loved to climb that tree, and he’d tried to convince Pete to build a fort there.
“Forts are for backyards, buddy,” Pete would routinely answer. “And we don’t have a really good tree back there.” How much of that was true? Maura wondered ruefully, and how much of it was laziness on Pete’s part? Maura’s eyes scanned the lawn again from Ryan’s window, and she gazed out onto the street where the lamplight pooled in a neat elliptical shape. The soft whir of the air-conditioning kicked on, and the blast from the vent furled the curtain slightly.
There it was again. Out of the corner of her eyes. A movement, almost as if a figure were down there. Was someone under the tree? Suddenly she wished Pete were home. It was Friday night in the dead of summer. Maybe the neighborhood kids were getting into some mischief now that school had been out for a while. The thought made her uneasy, and Maura leaned over and kissed Ryan one last time as she pulled her thin bathrobe around her, repositioning and tightening the belt. She padded swiftly down the stairs and into the family room at the front of the house, moving over to the plate glass window and adjusting the curtain on the side. It was unmistakable now, the faint outline of someone lying under the maple. A tiny speck of orange glowed and then moved in an arc. Someone was smoking a cigarette on her front yard.
The unexpectedness, the pluck of it, banished her fear for a moment. Maura yanked open the heavier oak door and felt a rush of humid air whoosh through the screen door, as if the house had inhaled. The brightness of the interior lights made it difficult for her to distinguish shapes instantly, and as her pupils adjusted, she saw a blur of movement on the side of the tree. The figure had bolted upright and was running down the driveway and into the street with long, measured strides. It was definitely a boy, a teenager from the lankiness of his legs, and as the shape got smaller, disappearing and then reappearing at intervals under each streetlight, she thought she could make out longish dirty blond hair and a faded red T-shirt.
Maura was frozen for a moment on the front porch, her heart thumping wildly, and then gradually settling. It had all happened so fast that even as she closed and then locked the door behind her she was already beginning to
And yet as she sat down to eat with Sarah and Ryan, making an excuse for Pete, she couldn’t help nursing the old grudge. Pete was cheating her and the kids with his absences. She had hoped that at the very least James’s death might cinch them tighter as a family, draw them closer. If anything, Pete needed to redouble his efforts as a father instead of burying his head in a beer with the boys. How would they begin to rebuild their broken family if he didn’t show up?
After reading to Sarah, she entered Ryan’s room to kiss him good night. Lowering the shade, she looked out the window, half-hoping to see Pete’s headlights sweeping the lawn as they turned up the driveway. Maura was transfixed for a moment by the base of the giant maple tree in the center of the front lawn. The long fingers of yellow light spilling out from the front room windows and onto the grass touched the skirt of the trunk on one side; the other half was shrouded in inky darkness. James had loved to climb that tree, and he’d tried to convince Pete to build a fort there.
“Forts are for backyards, buddy,” Pete would routinely answer. “And we don’t have a really good tree back there.” How much of that was true? Maura wondered ruefully, and how much of it was laziness on Pete’s part? Maura’s eyes scanned the lawn again from Ryan’s window, and she gazed out onto the street where the lamplight pooled in a neat elliptical shape. The soft whir of the air-conditioning kicked on, and the blast from the vent furled the curtain slightly.
There it was again. Out of the corner of her eyes. A movement, almost as if a figure were down there. Was someone under the tree? Suddenly she wished Pete were home. It was Friday night in the dead of summer. Maybe the neighborhood kids were getting into some mischief now that school had been out for a while. The thought made her uneasy, and Maura leaned over and kissed Ryan one last time as she pulled her thin bathrobe around her, repositioning and tightening the belt. She padded swiftly down the stairs and into the family room at the front of the house, moving over to the plate glass window and adjusting the curtain on the side. It was unmistakable now, the faint outline of someone lying under the maple. A tiny speck of orange glowed and then moved in an arc. Someone was smoking a cigarette on her front yard.
The unexpectedness, the pluck of it, banished her fear for a moment. Maura yanked open the heavier oak door and felt a rush of humid air whoosh through the screen door, as if the house had inhaled. The brightness of the interior lights made it difficult for her to distinguish shapes instantly, and as her pupils adjusted, she saw a blur of movement on the side of the tree. The figure had bolted upright and was running down the driveway and into the street with long, measured strides. It was definitely a boy, a teenager from the lankiness of his legs, and as the shape got smaller, disappearing and then reappearing at intervals under each streetlight, she thought she could make out longish dirty blond hair and a faded red T-shirt.
Maura was frozen for a moment on the front porch, her heart thumping wildly, and then gradually settling. It had all happened so fast that even as she closed and then locked the door behind her she was already beginning to
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