Dear Eva,

I’d say the only things that happened to me that truly mattered, happened behind that shed. The field of rye was back there, hidden behind that shed and those sycamore trees which marked the property line between our land and yours. It was your rye field of course, but it was behind our shed. Ain’t that something? I’ve a feeling if you were still here you’d say that was a metaphor, though for what I can’t say. Them sycamores diseased now, I tell you that already? It’s a parasite apparently, turned all the leaves black. Started about a year ago, just after you left. Maybe that’s a metaphor too. 

Anyway, I was talking about the shed. Did you know it was your father who built it? Mama just said that to me the other day. I guess I’d never thought about how it got there. Of course she hadn’t built the thing herself, but I guess I thought it had always been there, as much a part of the land as them sycamores or your rye. But no, your father built it, as a thanks to my mother for saving Ebby from that coyote. I don’t think that’s really why he built it, and if you were still here, I think you’d agree with me, but that’s what Mama said, so… 

I think that’s a swell way to say I love you, don’t you? Building a shed. Ain’t that something?

I do get so sidetracked in these letters. You must hate reading them. This typewriter’s been out of correction tape for a while now, I’m lucky Mama still buys ribbon. Even if I could edit what I say, I don’t know if I would. I want these words to paint you something about what I am now. And I reckon that painting ought to include my mistakes, my wanderings. I just do hope it is not such a pain for you to read that you give up trying. 

The shed is blue now, Mama had me paint it last week. She knew how sad I was after you went to college, and for the first month or so I think she tried to let me be sad, let me lie around the house and such. But eventually, I think she had enough of me just laying there, and wanted me to do something, anything, and so she started giving me all these chores, and last week she said it was finally time to repaint the shed. She let me pick the color too, so I picked out a blue just like that dress you always wore. Do you still have that dress? If you left it behind I’d sure love to have it. Not to wear it of course, just to have. Maybe I’d hang it on my wall, so when people come over I can say I knew you, and just to prove it, here’s her dress. Did you really like that dress? Sometimes I think you just wore it all the time because you like dresses and that was the only one you owned. Do you even like blue? I’d sure feel stupid about painting a shed blue if you didn’t. But if you do like it, maybe you could swing by sometime to see the shed and say hello. I know you are very busy, but still.

I am not sad now, I don’t want you to worry. I do miss you of course, but I am no longer depressed, perhaps I never was. Maybe I just never lost nobody before. And really, you ain’t gone, just not here. 

I’ve got to stop qualifying myself and just get on with it. See how I used qualifying? Got that word from your last story. Can’t say I really understood it, but Mama said you wrote that story special for The New Yorker, and apparently, the whole point of a New Yorker story is that you don’t understand it. I did like it though, even if I still don’t really know what happened. Plus it gave me some new words like qualifying and belligerent, though I haven’t found a use for that one yet.

Here is where this letter should have started. I’ll try again:

I’d say the only things that happened to me that truly mattered, happened behind that shed. “Truly mattered” is a funny thing. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, ever since Trombone died. Mama took us to the hospital to see him pass. I guess I was born in a hospital, but other than that I don’t think I’ve ever been in one. That is a lucky thing. I now know that I hate hospitals and don’t ever want to go back. Trombone was really skinny and sick-looking, and Mama said that after seeing him like that she felt happy he was dying. That seem to be one of those things that don’t make sense to me until I tell you about it, and you explain it to me. I don’t think she was really happy about him dying and all, but I also don't know why she’d say something like that. 

Anyway, as he was dying, Trombone told me that he’d been thinking about it, and he’d decided that the only thing that “truly mattered” was that song he wrote for us after the rye field burned down. He said that fire was the only important thing that had ever happened to him, and that writing his song was the only important thing he’d ever done. I don’t know if that’s really true, but hearing him say this right before he died did get me thinking: What are the really important things that have happened to me? What are the really important things that I have done? I don’t think I will know for sure until I am skinny and sick and laying in a hospital bed like Trombone was. But still, I like to wonder. 

I would say that there have been three, maybe four, really important things that I have done or have happened to me in my entire life. How something becomes important or “truly matters” is not yet clear to me. I believe it is something I will figure out as I write this letter, and as soon as I figure it out, I will let you know. Another thing I am not really sure about is the difference between the things we do, and the things that happen to us. I guess what I’m confused about is whether there is really any difference at all. Of course we can choose what gets done, but that choice alone doesn’t mean it will happen. Like when I tried to put out the fire in your rye field and you stopped me and said there’s no use and hugged me tight and smelled so good. I was trying to stop the fire, that’s what I was doing. But the fire still happened. I guess that’s why I’m confused. Maybe everything we do is just us trying to do something, and really, no matter what we try, the same thing will always happen. I reckon this be another one of those things that don’t make sense to me until I tell you about it and you explain it to me, so I’ll just stop here and move on.

Before I tell you about these things, I should tell you that I am not sure about these being the only things that truly matter. Trombone was eighty-two when he died and to him only one thing that happened, one thing that he did, truly mattered. I am not even fifteen yet, and it does seem silly to think that already three or maybe even four really important things have happened. Maybe when I am older I will read this letter back and feel stupid for thinking this stuff important. But for now, this is how I feel, this is all I know. 

Here, I guess, is where this letter actually starts. Ain’t that something?

I’d say the only things that happened to me that truly mattered, happened behind that shed. This was the spot where we killed Ebby. The place where you let me touch you beneath your dress. Where the fire started. And the last thing might be when Trombone played his song for us later that night, although that was on your steps, of course. Maybe that was just another part of the fire, but to me it feels different. 

Why do these things truly matter? I guess it’s because, without these things, I think I would have turned into someone else. I’m not sure I’d even be writing this letter. These things that happened, these things that we did, they have made me what I am. 

For example, killing Ebby. You know this story of course, you were right there beside me, but I am going to tell you anyway because I want you to see what I saw, and maybe, if I succeed, if I can tell a story as well as you do, you will be able to understand who I am. Maybe it’s mean to think you don’t already know me, but how could you, when I am not yet sure I even know myself. I’d say that’s what this letter is, a way for me to know myself. Maybe when it’s over I won’t even send it to you. Maybe I will just keep it in a drawer and read it every time I am not sure who I am. Like I said, this letter is a painting. Or maybe it’s one of them New Yorker stories. Maybe it’s not supposed to make sense. 

Ok, here’s the story:

We killed Ebby, and he was a good dog, and we didn’t mean to kill him of course, we thought he couldn’t die, or at least, that’s what you said would happen. You told me that Ebby was a good dog, and that Mama was a good woman, and the only reason that coyote didn’t kill Ebby and Mama when she went out there waving her broom in the middle of the night was because they was truly good, and God never lets anything good die. And we was just testing this theory of course, that’s why we brought Ebby behind the shed. I suppose I thought when I brought the knife down on his back that it would just bounce off or maybe snap in half, but it went right through, like a string through cheese, and I remember being surprised at how easy it was, how no scary music started playing. Everything was quiet, even Ebby. He wasn’t crying or whining, he just kept wagging his tail. I wish you hadn’t told your father that it was you who was holding the knife. Maybe then I could’ve been the one who got sent away for a summer, gotten to see some place other than Georgia. 

You came back that fall so much taller. Your hair was short and your voice was quieter, and I remember that’s when you started whispering to me, always leaning over my shoulder and breathing hot on my neck. Anything you said to me, even if it wasn’t a secret, was a whisper, and it felt real nice having you step so close and put your mouth right next to my ear. 

That was also the time when your father brought home the typewriter and you started leaving me after lunch to go sit in your room and type for the rest of the day, so then all we had was mornings. I always knew you were a good writer of course, your stories made me laugh so hard, and that one with the goldfish made me cry. I would get so excited each time you would come to my door with a new one, but I also just liked spending time doing nothing with you, I guess. Running around in the rye field, climbing trees, watching clouds. Once you started typing all afternoon, you started wishing you was typing all day, and I remember looking at your face when we was playing Tag or Huckle-scrape and you just looked so bored and I remember wishing there was some way I could make you happy.

And so that's what I told you that day behind the shed when we was throwing rocks at squirrels and whistling to Elvis on your radio. And you said nothing for a while and just looked down at the ground, and I was worried I made you sad or something, but then you looked up at me with this big smile. You leaned in real close and whispered that you’d seen your father do something for Mama one night in your living room when you was supposed to be in bed, and it made Mama real excited, and how that was something we could do too, if I wanted. And I said sure, and you took my hand and pushed it underneath your skirt up against your privates, and then you just held it there and looked at me for a long time. My privates got all warm, and I wondered if you felt like this too. You said I should try tapping, that it looked like your father was tapping and pushing, like an elevator button, you said. And so I tapped and pushed and you giggled a little but nothing really happened. I asked if it felt good, if you was happy, and you said no, and so I took my hand away and we went back to throwing rocks and whistling. 

But then, the next day, you asked if we could try the tapping again, and I said sure, and so we went behind the shed and laid down in your rye. You told me not to tap so fast and push so hard, and so I went slower and softer, and when I asked you how that felt you just nodded and said don’t stop. I tried moving my fingers in a circle and you seemed to really like that, so I kept at it until you started shaking. I asked if I should stop and you said no. I was so scared, I’d never seen nobody shake like that before, but you grabbed my hand and kept it pushed against you, so I kept going. You stopped shaking after a while, and you got all smiley and kissed my cheek which I loved. You said thank you and that you was very happy, and I said good, and then we just laid there in the rye and stared at the clouds. You told me not to tell anybody about this, that it was a secret, and I said sure. I always loved it when you gave me secrets. I’ve never told one to nobody, even now. And I never will, I promise. 

That became our routine for a couple of months, laying down in the rye field before you went back to your house to keep writing. Those were the best days of my life, I think. You were always so happy to see me every morning, and every time I made you shake you’d give me a kiss on the cheek and sometimes, afterwards when I was waiting for the warmness in my privates to go away, we’d hold hands and just lie there. I thought life would go on like that forever. But then Trombone found us in the ryefield. This was after you’d finished shaking, and we was just lying there holding hands. Trombone came by with his wheelbarrow and didn’t yell at us or nothing, he just snickered and called us lovebirds, which made me laugh. But you didn’t laugh, you got all red faced and said that the secret was gone, and then you got up real fast and ran away. The next day you said you didn’t want to lie down in the rye field no more. 

After that day you started getting bored again every time we was playing, and you started leaving earlier and earlier to go back to your typewriter. I remember that Tuesday when we only got to play Huckle-scrape for ten minutes before you wanted to go back home and start writing. I got real mad at you, and I guess I spoke a lot louder than I should’ve. I told you that if you didn’t want to play with me you didn’t have to, and so you stopped coming over and knocking on my door, and the only times I got to see you was through your window. 

That next summer was when Papa came home and realized Mama was in love with your father. He tried to get me to pack a suitcase and come live with him in Arkansas. He was belligerent! There! Was that right? 

Mama wouldn’t let him take me and so he slapped her down on to the carpet and grabbed hold of my arm real tight. But then, Mama brought the gun out from the closet and told him he had to leave and he got real quiet and said he was sorry, and she said GO, and then he left. 

Then the fire started. Mama says that he started it, and I know you think so too, but I saw him drive away real fast out the window, and Papa didn’t smoke, so he never had no matches. I don’t know how the fire started, maybe it was him. But I’ve been thinking about that theory you had about Ebby and how maybe you was wrong but you was close. Maybe God does care about good things, and he kills them so that they can come to heaven and be with him. Maybe God looked down on your rye and thought about how fine it looked, and decided He wanted to burn it so He could have it for Himself. 

The fire started behind the shed, and at first it was real small. I didn’t even realize it was a fire, I thought maybe it was just the sun but real close. But then the fire was everywhere, all the rye was burning and the shed started smoking too. I remember watching Mama and Trombone and your father running around throwing buckets of water, trying to keep our houses from burning. I remember bringing the big pot out from the kitchen and trying to dump it until you ran towards me and pulled me away from the flames, saying its no use, its no use. The fire died down eventually, once it reached the edges of the rye. The back of the shed was charred, the white paint turned black. 

After the sun set we all just sat on your steps and listened to Mama cry. She kept saying that she was never leaving Georgia, that God was trying to test her with this fire, see if she would run away just like Papa had, but she wouldn’t, she would stay here for the rest of her life. I was real sad when she said this because I hate Georgia, and I can’t go nowhere without Mama, of course. I don’t know what will happen when she dies, I try not to think about that. After an hour or so, I remember Trombone sprang right up, went inside your house, and came back with his big horn. I asked him what he was holding and he said, a trumpet, and we all laughed and laughed. That was maybe the only time we laughed that day. Trombone played his song and Mama asked him who wrote it, and he said he did, he wrote it, just now, and we all grinned at each other, and then we went to bed. 

The next day was when you told me about your scholarship, how they’s was gonna let you go to college in New York. A week later was the last time I saw you. You wrote down your new address and told me to write you letters. Then you gave me this typewriter, said your college was gonna give you a new one. I said thank you, and you kissed me on my cheek, and I made myself wait to cry till you was gone. 

This is where my story ends, I think. I promise this letter will be over soon too. I miss you Eva, I wish you were still here. I guess God must know how good you are, and that’s why He took you away from me. I’m pretty sure that I’m not good, or at least, God must hate me, because I’m still here, and I think I’m gonna be stuck here for the rest of my life. I want to play with Ebby in the rye God stole from us, and I want you to be there too, and I want to hold your hand and hear you whistle. 

I’m reading it back now, my story, aloud, and I’m imagining that I’m you, reading it to me. I’m happy that all the things in my life that truly mattered had something to do with you. Maybe that’s why they mattered.

Sincerely yours,

Adam.

First pitch: Ball. Close enough to smell the leather. Somewhere his father is singing chin music. Somewhere his father is leaning against the chain-link fence that separates the fields from the bleachers. A paper-bagged can in his left hand. Singing chin music. Somewhere.

Second pitch: Strike. Somewhere, no, not somewhere. In an Illinois graveyard his father is rolling, rolling over again. The jaw of his decomposing skull still chattering. Still shouting. What are you doing Schwartz? What are you looking at?

Third pitch: Foul ball. Strike two. Bones crack the wooden lid of his father’s coffin. Fingers reach toward the surface, perhaps even breaking through. 

Fourth pitch: Ball. 

Fifth pitch: Ball.

Sixth pitch: Ball. Walk. The hand relinquishes. His father’s bones return to the coffin. Silently, they go to sleep.

…

He first hears the song when he’s thirteen. He thinks his mother wrote it. She sings it in the kitchen as he stands beside her stirring tomato sauce. They are alone in their house, his father off in that ethereal place that seems more like a transcendental state than a location: out. In three days his father will crack his head open on an icy set of concrete steps, and all the horse’s men will not be able to put him back together again. In his absence, his father will always seem present. Even now, he is watching his son stir the tomato sauce, watching his wife as she sings. The song goes:

They're gonna find intelligent life up there on the moon

And The Canterbury Tales will shoot up to the top of the best-seller list

And stay there

For twenty-seven weeks

And the Chicago Cubs will beat every team in the league

And the Tampa Bay Bucs will make it all the way through January

And I will love you again

I will love you like I used to

I will love you again

I will love you like I used to…

For the rest of his life he will wonder who she was singing to. 

…

His time in the major leagues is over. He is a father now himself. His son has signed up for a talent show. He sits with his wife through about an hour of dance routines, piano performances, and magic tricks until Eddy Jr. walks on stage. The instrumental track plays and his son begins to sing. His voice is on pitch but his legs are shaking and his breath is strained. As he continues to sing, the shaking fades, and his voice becomes more confident. In the audience, Eddy’s wife holds up her phone and smiles. 

He sounds really good, she whispers. 

Yeah, he whispers back. 

Junior is singing a They Might Be Giants song called “Doctor Worm” that Eddy has never heard before. The song begins:

They call me Dr. Worm

Good morning, how are you? I'm Dr. Worm

I'm interested in things

I'm not a real doctor

But I am a real worm

I am an actual worm

I live like a worm

I like to play the drums

I think I'm getting good

But I can handle criticism

I'll show you what I know

And you can tell me if you think

I'm getting better on the drums

As the song continues Eddy starts crying. He keeps crying through the applause his son receives, the rest of the talent show too. He cries the whole ride home. His wife keeps looking at him as she drives. 

Eddy, you need to pull yourself together, she says. 

I know, I know, he says. Eddy Jr. sits quietly in the back seat, looking at his shoes. 

I’m sorry, his son says. I’m sorry you didn’t like it dad. I… I thought you would think it was funny… I… I’m sorry. In the passenger seat, his father is blowing his nose on the cuff of his sweater. 

Didn’t like it?! He chokes. I loved it, Eddy. I loved it so much.

Eddy Jr. nods, still looking at his feet. 

Pull yourself together, his wife says. 

I know, I know, he says.

…

Eddy Jr. is back from college. His parents are standing in the living room folding his laundry while he visits a friend's house and gets drunk enough to wrap his car around a tree.

As they fold their son’s clothes one final time, Eddy watches his wife and wonders whether or not she is listening to him. 

Are you listening to me? he asks. 

Yes, she answers. 

Do you think the words that I say matter? he asks her. He is not accusing her of anything, he is just asking. 

Yes.

Do you… he begins. Do you think… I mean how often does a person really say something that’s important? Like how often does a person’s words actually matter?

She folds three pairs of her son’s underwear before answering his question with a question. 

Do you think this matters? she asks him. This conversation, these words. Do you think they matter?

The rest of the clothes are folded before he can think of a response. 

I’m going to bed, he says.

…

Those folded clothes become a part of the house; a seat taken up on their couch. 

His clothes are still in the living room, his wife says one night at dinner, about two weeks after the funeral. They are sitting at their table eating gas station ramen, drinking gin from paper cups. He doesn’t know whether her saying this means he should move them. 

She says the same thing the next night at dinner, and the night after that. In the morning that follows Eddy will fill a garbage bag with the clothes. Will donate that bag to Goodwill. 

His wife will say nothing when she comes home to find him asleep on the couch, sitting where his son’s folded clothes once sat. But that night at dinner, she will tell him, the clothes are gone. And he will nod. And she will shake her head, look down at her plate, and not know what to say.  

The next morning his wife will leave, and he won’t see her again for years. 

…

Are you Eddy Schwartz?

He is sitting in a subway car headed towards Chinatown when a man across from him asks, are you Eddy Schwartz?

No.

Huh, the man says. You really look like him. You a baseball fan?

Sure, he says. 

Who do you think’s got the series?

Cubs.

Good luck with that.

…

So, Ellen told me you used to play for the Cubs, Gerrard says. Gerrard is his wife’s boyfriend. They live together in an apartment that’s half the size of Eddy’s house in Chicago, yet double the cost. Gerrard is a distinguished professor of Anthropology at Columbia. Their apartment is decorated with antique vases, African headdresses, and hand sewn rugs from fallen civilizations.

She looks healthy, his wife. Like years have gone away rather than passed. She is writing again, another novel. Eddy is trying to be happy for her. She asks what he has been up to, how he has spent these years alone, and he doesn’t have much to say. Since his son’s death, Eddy has been a leaf floating down a stream, entirely subject to the current beneath him. He does what feels easiest to do, and when in doubt, does what others tell him to do. This was why he came to New York; because Ellen wanted him to meet Gerrard. Eddy can tell Gerrard is in love with his wife. And while he at first rejects this notion, it doesn’t take long to see that she loves him too. And he tries to be happy for her. 

Just for a couple years, Eddy says. They are tucked into a corner of the apartment, at a circular table covered with cuisines, each dish a spectrum of color and vegetables, no meat or grain in sight. Eddy sits across from a window quietly munching kale, the window’s view holding a majority of his attention. 

Still, Gerrard says, his eyes pulsing as if he is trying to reanimate the dead with his charisma. Wow.

Thanks, Eddy says.

What position did you play?

Outfield.

What number were you?

23.

Eddy Schwartz, #23, Gerrard says in the mock voice of a sportscaster. You got a baseball card?

Umm… yes.

Can I see it?

I… I don’t have it with me.

He doesn’t even own one, Ellen interjects. She has been quiet for most of this dinner, content to sit back and watch the two men converse. 

You didn’t buy your own baseball card? Gerrard asks.

I… no, Eddy says.

Gerrard nods to himself, and a silence takes over the table. Their eyes play hot-potato, not wanting to make contact with one another for too long. 

So, who do you think is gonna win the world series? Gerrard asks.

Cubs.

He always says that, Ellen says. 

Ha! Gerrard says. Well, I don’t know much about baseball so I’ll take your word for it.

Their pitcher’s alright this year, Eddy begins, his voice trailing off. Gerrard nods, pushing a full fork of vegetables into his mouth and loudly chewing. After he swallows, he begins to beat his fist against the table in a slow constant rhythm, merrily singing:

And the Chicago Cubs will beat every team in the league. And the Tampa Bay Bucs will make it all the way through January. And I will love you again. I will love you-

How do you know that song? Eddy asks. His voice is louder than he intended.

I… It’s Mountain Goats, Gerrard says, his eyes flashing toward Ellen.

What? Eddy asks. 

Cubs in Five… by The Mountain Goats. 

Oh… I… Eddy starts. I thought… I’m sorry. 

It’s alright, it’s no biggie, Gerrard says. You know ‘em?

Guess not. 

You should check ‘em out. What kind of music do you listen to?

They Might be Giants.

Really? Gerrard says, his voice taking on a new tone. 

Yeah.

The… the band who made the Mickey Mouse theme?

They’ve made other songs, Eddy explains. 

Sure but… I don’t know, I’ve always thought of that stuff as chin music.

What?

Chin music, Gerrard says. You know, idle chatter. Meaningless words. Chin music. 

Oh.

I think Eddy was just confused because chin music is also a baseball term, Ellen explains. 

Is that so? Gerrard asks. 

It’s when a pitch goes really close to your face, she continues. Eddy saw a lot of chin music, because of his height and the way he stood. His strike zone was so low that he usually got walked. But that also meant the ball nearly hit ‘em in the face every game. 

Wow, Gerrard says. Ain’t that something… 

Ok well, so what if it’s meaningless? Eddy asks, having not really listened to what Ellen was saying. They Might Be Giants… It’s just for fun. Like, not everything has to be meaningful. I like it. So what?

That’s… Gerrard starts, again off put by Eddy’s tone. That’s a good point.

You know, when Junior was ten, Ellen starts, was he ten or eleven when he did the talent show?

Ten, Eddy answers. 

When Junior was ten he did a cover of a They Might Be Giants song. Which one was it?

Doctor Worm. 

Yes, Doctor Worm. He was so great… Eddie was so proud he started crying, really crying and Junior got nervous, she says, laughing. He thought his dad didn’t like it, but he was crying because he loved it!

Well, it can be tough when it seems your father doesn’t appreciate you, Gerrard says. 

You think I didn’t appreciate him? Eddy asks. 

I, no, of course not, Gerrard says, quickly recovering. What I mean is… When it seems like that. My father… It’s just that story reminds me of my father. 

Oh, Eddy says. I’m sorry.

Ah, it’s alright, Gerrard says, opening his hand and then closing it. Who would we be now if not for our fathers, right? he asks. For better or for worse.

Hearing this, Eddy can’t help but laugh. Ellen and Gerrard say nothing, and just stare at him skeptically. 

What is it? Gerrard finally asks, his voice showing its first signs of frustration.

Nothing, it's just… Eddy starts, laughing at Gerard and his wife and the table and the window. He shakes his head and looks down at his plate. It’s just… chin music.

…

His laughter carries him out the door. Gerrard and Ellen exhale as he leaves. His wife does not hug him, does not arrange to do this again. Outside the wind is calm but the city is vibrating; the raucous fades to spring drums as he descends.

The subway roars into the fourteenth street station. Eddy Schwartz steps up to the yellow line. A bend grows in his knees; his nose pushes out, hanging over the gap between the train and the platform.

There is so much wind. He can smell the leather. He can hear his father singing.

Sheryl got on the train with a Philip Roth novel, and much to her delight, it was the Philip Roth novel and not the train that brought her back to Pittsburgh. She arrived just after sunset, the city damp from a day of persistent pattering now passed. The yawning sky was kept from its slumber by gleaming lampposts and taxi headlights. Every bulb in the city was each their own little sun; they made the nights more like days and the days more like heaven, Sheryl thought. God, it was good to be home. 

Pat was waiting with the car outside the station, one hand in his pocket the other holding a canary yellow umbrella. The umbrella was closed, and Sheryl wondered if Pat was just leaning on it absent-mindedly or if this wasn’t a cane of sorts. Pat would be too embarrassed to have an actual cane, and even if he weren’t ashamed of aging, the standard wooden shepherd’s crook would not suit him. If anything could serve as an adequate crutch to such a brilliant man as Pat, surely it was this outrageously yellow umbrella, and Sheryl gave herself a moment to smile over the thought that this was not an umbrella, nor a cane, but a kindred spirit, a friend whom Pat now brought along with him everywhere he went. But as she got closer to the car, Sheryl saw that this was indeed a cane, and that Pat was much older than she remembered. There were new lines pressed into his cheeks and a tremor in his pocketed hand. Sheryl gave herself a moment to frown over this as well. This was perhaps the most valuable skill she had learned in New York: how to allow for moments, both those spent smiling and frowning. 

“Mrs. Aiguilles, welcome back,” Pat said, kissing Sheryl on the cheek, his lips like penny loafer leather. 

“Pat, do you know who Philip Roth is?” Sheryl asked.

“He owns the diner on 24th street.”

“No, not him, the writer.”

“Oh,” Pat said. “No.”

“Well he’s marvellous. I just read Letting Go, the whole thing, on the train. I don’t think I’ve ever done that in my life, read an entire book in one sitting, have you?”

“Certainly not, ma’am.”

“I’d like you to go down to the bookstore tomorrow and get me everything you can find by him, alright?”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

“As for tonight, drop me off at point park fountain. I bought a marijuana cigarette from one of those young men standing outside Penn station and as soon as I got it I knew I wanted to take it to the fountain. Do you smoke pot, Pat?”

“No, ma’am, not anymore.”  

“I think I ought to start,” Sheryl said, opening the back door of the car.

“Your mother is here,” Pat said. He was trying to remain plaintive, but there was an unmistakable hint of fear in his voice. “She’s been here for almost a week, ever since we got your note. She’s staying in the guest room.”

“I see,” Sheryll said, looking down at the concrete. There was a blotch of dried mud on her left boot, and she used her right heel to scrape it away. The worry in Pat’s voice had infected her sense of wonder, and suddenly Sheryl felt very tired and confused. If someone had asked her about the book she read on the train, or even just what it was called or who wrote it, she could not have answered. She brought two fingers to the base of her forehead and traced her eyebrows, inhaling sharply through her nose. 

“Andrew’s home?” she asked. 

“Yes. They’re…” Pat started, offering a smile. “They’re waiting.”

Sheryl nodded, and met Pat’s eyes with her own helpless smile. 

“Alright. No point delaying. I’ll smoke on the way. You don’t mind, do you? I’ll roll the window down.”

“That’s fine, ma’am.”

Sheryl opened the back door and lifted her suitcase onto the seat before getting into the front. Pat was waiting for her in the driver's seat and watched as she buckled. Then, Sheryl reached deep into her wool coat pocket and retrieved a small paper bag along with a book of matches. 

“Perhaps you ought to keep the window up, ma’am?” Pat asked. Sheryl beamed, removing the joint from its wrapping and taking it in her fingers.  

“Pat, you old dog. What would I do without you?”

Pat blushed, nodding as he switched on the car’s ignition. Sheryl placed the joint at the edge of her lips and struck a match.

…

Twenty minutes later, Pat and Sheryl stumbled into the penthouse apartment of Andrew Aiguilles, Pat knocking over a coat rack as they came in, the sight of which sent Sheryl into a fit of laughter. She laughed so hard that she had to grab her stomach and tears welled up at the sides of her eyes. She steadied herself against the door and watched as Pat brought the coat rack back to its feet, her laughter slowly fading as she realized where she was and what was about to occur. 

“Sheryl, is that you?” The voice of her mother never failed to sober her. She exchanged a look with Pat, whose own expression did not inspire much confidence. 

“Yes, I’ll be in in a second,” Sheryl called. She turned and gave Pat a brief but ferocious hug, burying her nose in his licorice scented overcoat. 

“It’ll be alright, Sherry,” Pat said, and they seemed to both know that he was lying. Sheryl thanked him anyway, and watched as he left the foyer and ducked into the kitchen. Then, she took off her coat, placed it atop her luggage, and plodded into the living room. 

The first thing she saw was Clark Gable, who always served as a smoke signal for Sheryl, alerting her that her mother was near. Clark Gable was a fourteen year old obese terrier with sagging ears and three legs, a dog whose every breath was a prayer for his own demise. He sported a thick green diaper, and was covered with spots of grafted fur from his long fight with skin cancer. Her mother had brought the dog home just a week after her father passed, not as a pup, but as an eight-year-old, four-legged grouch who already yelped sporadically with discomfort and preferred to sit by the window undisturbed every hour of the day. Although always the picture of misery, Clark Gable could usually be relied upon to look up with some semblance of a smile if Sheryl pet him at the scruff of his neck. She chose to greet him first, walking to his spot on the edge of the black polyester sofa. 

There were two other couches in the living room, positioned to surround a long chestnut oak coffee table, made from a tree that her father cut down himself. She’d seen the tree when she was twelve; this was back when her father could still walk, and the two had spent a day driving north from their house in Menlo Park to a forest in Oregon. Two weeks later, her father brought her into the garage and showed her a coffee table. It had stayed in the garage for the next decade, until it was transported via freight to Pittsburgh once Andrew and Sheryl were married. Of all the pieces of furniture in the apartment, the table was the only one that belonged to her. 

Encircling the couches was a wall of bookshelves reaching up to a white and gold paneled ceiling. Sheryl had not read any of these books; they were not books meant for reading, they were books meant for keeping on shelves that reach up to a white and gold paneled ceiling. Most of them were in Latin, written by a small collection of dead and forgotten men, and so old they required gloves to be touched. The contents of this room, excluding the lavish furniture and the original Monet above the fireplace, could afford a penthouse apartment of their own. The centerpiece was the fireplace, a custom chimney had been added when Andrew bought the apartment. Tonight, just like every winter night, a large fire was hissing and popping and filling up the room with warmth and a fine smell of smoke. Atop the mantle were several photos from Andrew and Sheryl’s wedding, and a collection of phallically-shaped vases that Andrew had bought in Rome. The Monet was a painting of the Waterloo Bridge and, like everything else in this ghastly and awful living room, emitted a radiant aura of expensiveness, sophistication, and clear superiority. 

Of course, the true centerpiece of the room, the true centerpiece of any room she cared to linger in, was not the Monet, not the fireplace, but Sheryl’s mother, Elizabeth Fields. She was a beautifully compact woman with shoulder length curly hair and a face that rested most comfortably in ennui. While she quite enjoyed hosting, Elizabeth hated being hosted and indeed preferred never to leave her house, let alone the state of California. She wore blue satin pajamas and sat bolt-upright on the couch opposite Clark Gable. She watched her daughter carefully, wanting her to speak first. Eventually, however, it became clear that Sheryl had no intention of turning to face her unprompted, and continued to lightly scratch Clark Gable’s neck. Elizabeth reached for a china cup on the coffee table, and tapped her nails against its rim, the warmth of her tea spreading up the base of her hands. She let out a long, sharp exhale, and put the cup back on the table without taking a sip. 

“Hello, Sheryl.”

“Hello, Mother.” Sheryl kept her back turned and her eyes on Clark Gable’s panting tongue.

“Why were you in New York?”

“I heard that show Little Shop of Horrors is a real treat.”

“Sheryl.” 

“Mother.” She turned and smiled, trying to keep her hands steady. Elizabeth immediately hopped up from her seat and darted around the coffee table, poking two fingers under Sheryl’s chin, forcing her nose up towards the ceiling. 

“Look at me.”

“What?”

“Look down at me, show me your eyes,” she barked. Sheryl obliged, and watched her mother step back, gasping. 

“My god, Sheryl. Are you high?”

Sheryl exhaled, trying her best not to smile. 

“Yes, mother.”

“My god,” Elizabeth said in a stage whisper. She pivoted and walked back to her couch, clicking her tongue as she went. She sat down with a harumph and looked up at Sheryl, her furrowed eyebrows crackling. “To think you would come here high, for this, it’s… it’s… unthinkable.”

“And what exactly is this, mother?”

“Sheryl, you know exactly what this is.”

Sheryl nodded, looking at her feet. She made her way over to the third, unoccupied couch and sat on the cushion furthest from her mother. 

“Patrick, darling,” Elizabeth called into the kitchen, “could you bring Sheryl a glass of water?”

“Certainly, ma’am,” he answered. Then, Elizabeth’s head swiveled, with the grace of an owl’s, back towards Sheryl, and her stage whisper resumed. “Sheryl, I am very concerned about your life choices as of late.”

“I see we’re just getting right into it then.”

“I see no point delaying. You have disappeared to New York for two years without a word of explanation to your husband. You come back with a week’s worth of notice, nothing but a post card and some cryptic nonsense about ‘a thousand fragile and improvable things’–”

“Unprovable, mother, it's a Mary Oliver poem, called ‘Coming Home.’”

“You show up here,” her mother steamed on, “blasted out of your mind, without any care for make up or what you’re wearing, looking as if you haven’t eaten in weeks-”

“Oh mother, you know how I love it when you comment on my weight.”

“-and like you haven’t slept in days. Sheryl, it seems to me as though you have an utter disregard for your own marital, physical, spiritual and intellectual health."

“For your information, mother, I read an entire Phillip Roth novel on the train today. 600 pages in one sitting. I never even got up to use the bathroom. Come to think of it, I haven’t used the bathroom all day. I don’t even have to go right now!”

“Sheryl, I can’t understand a word you’re saying, you sound absolutely insane.”

Pat entered with the water, his head bowed towards the carpet. The yellow umbrella made a soft drumbeat with every other step, and Sheryl could see an avalanche of coughing was currently being held back behind his tightly closed lips. As he handed her the glass, Pat offered a small nod of encouragement and Sheryl smiled her thanks. Then, he turned slowly, making eye contact with Elizabeth for only a moment before leaving the room. She watched him wide eyed as he went and snapped her head towards Sheryl. 

“My god, is he high too?”

“No, mother, of course not.”

Elizabeth grimaced and looked off into the bookshelves. 

“God, Sheryl, you’re such a horrible influence on people. Patrick, smoking marijuana, only you could…” her voice trailed off, her eyes moving to Clark Gable, watching him yawn. “And Andrew, with his drinking.”

“I didn’t introduce Andrew to drinking, mother. He was in a fraternity, I’m pretty sure he was aware of the concept.”

“After the baby, I mean. Andrew wasn’t the drinking type but you started after it and he followed.”

Sheryl let out a long sigh and looked down at her skirt, straightening it over her knees. It was clear to her now that this was just going to be one of those vicious bloodspitting fights with her mother and there was nothing she could do to stop it, she could only wait and watch it come at her over the horizon.

“It?” Sheryl asked. 

“Him, I mean. The baby.”

“His name was Michael. I don’t understand why you always refer to him as the baby.”

Elizabeth’s face showed its first sign of new emotion. 

“I… Sheryl, I only meant to… I thought saying his name would upset you. I don’t want to upset you.”

Sheryl nodded, but did not look up. She took a short sip followed by several long sips of water, having realized the cotton-dryness of her mouth. Elizabeth got up and moved to sit on the same couch as her, placing an awkward hand on the edge of Sheryl’s knee. Her fingers looked and felt like crumpled newspaper fed onto the wire frame of a very convincing sculpture of a hand. Sheryl met her mother’s eyes, and did her best not to look away from their absolute grayness.

“Why did you go to New York? I appreciate you telling me beforehand, and while it certainly wasn’t fair to expect me to keep it a secret from Andrew, at least I knew you weren’t missing. But he’s got questions, questions I don’t have the answer to, questions I shouldn’t have to answer. You have a responsibility here, Sheryl, you have a very sick man upstairs who you’ve utterly abandoned, and you need to tell me why you were in New York.”

Sheryl bit her bottom lip and traced her thumb along the length of her index finger. She had always known the answer to this question, but this was her first attempt at articulating it.

“I… I wanted to see how long I could live there without actually having a place to stay.”

Elizabeth closed her eyes and shook her head slightly, a low humming in her lips as if following along to some distant radio. She scooted away from Sheryl, only to scoot back towards her, knocking hips and shoulders. 

“Sheryl,” she began, her eyes still closed, “there is grief and there is mania.” Her eyes opened, and were filled with the wild excitement of diagnosis. “This is a manic episode.”

“Mother, I feel perfectly calm-”

“No, darling, you’re not. You’re flying without wings and this, here, is the crash. You’re just lucky I’m here,” Elizabeth said, feeling rather lucky to be there herself.  “The crash is scary, yes, it’s sudden and awful, but it's the most important part. It is only once we’ve completely destroyed ourselves that we can rebuild. Only once we stop writhing, lie completely still, that we can be extracted from the brambles and thorns we’ve entangled ourselves in. Andrew’s crashed, darling, and now it's your turn.”

“Andrew hasn’t crashed.”

“Of course he has. Why wouldn’t he, what with your disappearing act.”

“He didn’t come looking for me.”

“You wanted him to look?”

Sheryl started to answer but then stopped, her attention moving back to the flatness of her skirt. 

“How could he have come for you, Sheryl?” Elizabeth asked. “Even if you wanted to be found, how could you expect him, with everything he’s been through, to have the strength for that.”

“He’s fine.”

“Sheryl.”

“Everything he’s been through? He’s fine. He’s moping. He only had him for five days.”

“But he expected a lifetime. And that went away. Surely you understand how slashing the future cuts away the present.”

“But the past is ever more real than the future,” Sheryl said, looking up at the Monet. “When… When I was pregnant it never felt strange. It was like he’d always been there. Like his conception wasn’t a creation but a realization. And…” Sheryl stopped and waited for her voice to steady. “Andrew lost something he wanted, I lost something I had, there’s a difference, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Don’t you think I’m precisely the person who could understand such a thing?” Elizabeth asked.

“No, mother, I don’t think you are. I think if Andrew was your son, maybe you’d get what I’m saying, but me, no, I’m just something you’ve been left with.”

“I don’t know why my care for Andrew has always bothered you, but it in no way supersedes our love. I am only here out of necessity.”

“No, you’re here because you’re a sponge that feeds off of negativity, and this apartment filled with ghosts is like an all-you-can-eat buffet. You have no problem with Andrew’s grief, I don’t see why you have any problem with mine.”

“Because, Sheryl, there’s a difference between grief and sleeping with every man in New York City!”

“It wasn’t about sex!” Sheryl said, standing up and starting for the fireplace. She picked up a short and stubby log and inspected it for a moment before hurling it into the fire. There was a small explosion of sparks and ash, followed by the sound of wood popping, the fire absorbing its new organ. “I just wanted to see if there was any goodness left in this world. If people had any sense of charity.”

“Did you find it?” Elizabeth asked quietly, her gaze fixed on Clark Gable, his back paw making a slow course for his left ear. 

“Yes, actually I did.”

“And I’m sure your being a young and nubile woman had nothing to do with it.”

“It didn’t!” Sheryl turned back towards her mother, her hands flailing at her sides. “There was kindness, real, unprompted kindness. And yes, I fucked some of them, but that doesn’t change what I found.”

“Well, so long as you found it.”

“Who are you to lecture me on grief, anyway. Dad’s dead one week and you bring home some geriatric dog just so you can have another thing to take care of. And now, I-don’t-know-how-many surgeries and thousands of dollars later, you’re still dragging him through life just because you’re too scared to let him die.”

“For your information, Dr. Grindowitz believes Clark is in perfectly fine health and expects him to live for at least another six months!”

Then, Elizabeth startled at something; it was as if the totality of everything that had been said thus far were suddenly compiled and launched towards her like a dictionary to the face. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her tiny frame shook as if fighting against the entry of a spirit. Sheryl walked slowly back to the couch, sitting beside her mother and placing an arm around her neck. Elizabeth turned in and allowed herself to be held by the one she used to hold, and for several minutes the two of them stayed very still and did not say a word. 

Elizabeth was the first to stir, reaching for her cup. She took a long sip of tea, replaced the cup on its coaster, and inhaled softly. Meeting her mother’s eyes, Sheryl found them recalibrated, and was disappointed to find that this moment of tenderness had been catalogued away or perhaps even deleted altogether. 

“What are you going to tell Andrew?” Elizabeth asked.

Sheryl wished for some recalibration of her own, and her eyes searched the living room for a tissue she knew she would not find. She wiped her nose on the knuckle of her thumb and looked towards the fire. She noticed a pair of black leather gloves, Andrew’s, had been hung to warm above the mantle place. That the gloves had been worn in the first place surprised Sheryl; she didn’t think he ever left the house. Where had he gone? Sheryl imagined her husband collecting the gloves from their hook, taking a moment to revel in their warmth. 

“The truth, mother. Just what I told you.”

“You’ve told me the truth?”

“You don’t believe me?”

Elizabeth inhaled, sipping the air. 

“Why are you here, Sheryl? I believe what you said about New York, but if that’s true, why leave?” She scooched towards her again and resumed her whisper. “Are you into something Sheryl, is that it? Are you running from something? Someone?”

“No, no mother, it’s nothing like that.”

“What is it then, what changed? Certainly not your hatred for Andrew.”

“I don’t hate Andrew, mother.”

“Sure you do, you hate everything. You hate Andrew, you hate me, and now you hate New York, right? That’s why you left?”

“I left New York because I was in love with it,” Sheryl said. “I came back because I love Pittsburgh and I love Andrew too and I want to feel this love one last time before leaving them both. And then, I’ll go someplace else, and I’ll fall in love with that city and those people, and then I’ll leave them too. I’ll go across the whole country, loving everything and keeping nothing.”

“And what will that make you? The emptiest girl in America.”

“Not emptiest, freest. True freedom is loving something without the need for profit. There are good things in this world, intrinsically good things, and their value exists without our having to benefit from it. But people don’t do that, they don’t let things be; everything that’s wonderful, they’ve got to hold onto it, take it back home, squeeze it for everything it's worth. They rip out the plant but they don’t want the roots. And so, everyone must be liquid, and everything must be expendable; we must all always be unattached. For nothing is really lost if it was never had, and so there’s no point having, there’s no point.” Sheryl was smiling now, elated, this too having been something she’d always understood but never articulated. 

“And you plan to give this little speech of yours to Andrew?” 

Sheryl started but could only raise a mumble, her new-found elation punctured.

“Since clearly this is your new philosophy I won’t bother critiquing its clearly misguided and troubling foundations,” Elizabeth continued. “For the moment all I’m concerned about is this, tonight, the whole reason we’re here: You and Andrew, speaking. And this kind of talk is not something he can handle right now.”

“He can handle it.”

“No, Sheryl, he can’t.”

“He’s acting, mother, he’s playing pretend. He’s basing his feelings off of every movie he’s seen where a father loses a son, but he isn’t actually feeling anything, he just wants to be treated like a child.”

“He is a child!” Elizabeth said, her voice lowering to an even finer whisper, her eyes flickering to the hallway to check if anyone might be listening. “Damnit, Sheryl, you’ve married a child.”

“I have?” Sheryl asked, a tiny smile forming in her lips.

“Yes,” Elizabeth said, allowing herself to smile as well. “It’s alright, really,” she said looking away at the bookshelves, “I did it too. We all do. For the first couple years men are not fathers, they are children raising children.” She turned back to Sheryl, her expression once again terrifyingly earnest. “Now you’ve got a child up there, a Peter Pan, and you go up there and tell him the truth, you’ll kill him, you’ll just kill him, don’t you see that? He needs help, more help than he might deserve, more help than you might be comfortable giving, but he needs it, he really does. That’s the only reason why I’m here, I swear.”

“And will you stay?” Sheryl asked, taking her mother’s crumpled newspaper hands in her own and wringing out what warmth they had left. “If I go, if I can’t do it, will you stay with him?” There were tears dripping from the edges of her cheeks, and Elizabeth was reminded of that Christmas morning some twenty years ago when Sheryl had come to her parents sobbing, and asked with complete sincerity why she hadn’t been given the one gift she had actually wanted: an elephant. 

Elizabeth looked down into her cup and said nothing. Clark Gable let out a soft wandering howl followed by a sneeze. On the street below, a taxi honked, and in the distance there were sirens. Sheryl sent one final pulse through her mother’s hands, then softened her grip, removing her fingers from their hold one by one. Then, she rose to her feet and turned away softly, keeping her footsteps quiet as she walked out of the living room and up the stairs.

This is where the monkeys leave the cage. As far as I’m concerned, it’s eleven o’clock, and I’m about to be broken up with. There are other shenanigans, other departing monkeys, occurring simultaneously, that is to say, at alternative moments which have been lifted from their cubby and placed atop this one. For example, as I’m sitting there on my knees, holding her from behind on the bathroom floor, my nose pressed against the small of her neck, my mouth, quite unconsciously, attempting a soothing shhhh shhhh meant to calm both her and myself, I hear two things at once: the first is Rose’s voice, choking halfway through a sentence that starts, “I think we.” The second is softer, less nasal, yet still, a distressed expression; a little girl out there saying, “I don’t think you should touch that, Jamie.”

I let go of Rose and pass my eyes over the bathroom for the second voice that I know is not present. From this vantage point I find all the memories of these tiles congressing. This is the shower where we drew shapes on each other’s skin with soap. This is the toilet where I’d sit and watch her wash her face. This is the mirror, behind which we kept our toothbrushes; this is the glass, through which I’d watch her eyes and she’d watch mine. 

Watch. “Check your watch.” Despite hearing her voice, I tell myself that my mother is not in this bathroom, just as Sadie Simberland is not in this bathroom, she cannot be, Sadie Simberland is dead. There is only Rose, and she is done choking, ready to finish her sentence. 

It is iambic: “I think we should break up.” And once she says it, hears it, sees my face, and knows that I have heard it too, her crying resumes and I grip her tighter, whispering “it’s okay,” even though I know it isn’t, I know how stubborn she is, how once she says something it becomes a part of her being, as much as her arm or her leg. This is the end of that beautiful thing we had, and that special awareness that comes with the end of things, that fuzzy and spotted feeling that sits on your chest during your final period of high school or your last hour at a job, it comes to me, purring. Feeling this in reference to her leaves me, in a very simple, non-dramatic way, craving death. 

Rose is talking again, explaining why she wants this and how it will actually be good for both of us. I want to interrupt her, to tell her about the other people in this bathroom with us, and how I’ve just realized why they’re here. 

…

It’s almost two o’clock, a decade prior, and Sadie Simberland has two chimpanzees in her living room. I watch them in their metal cage the size of a sedan, parked beside the picture window. The chimp closest to me is sitting on the floor, chewing a stick, while her brother hangs from one arm to the metal bars above him; these monkeys, I can lovingly report, are named Muffins and Flip. They are facing me, but they do not look at me; they are taking in the living room. 

There is a painting of a homestead surrounded by mountains and yellow fields on the wall above the fireplace. Other paintings like this, painting of houses or fields or houses in fields, flank the fireplace at scattered heights. The two gray couches have been pushed into the corner of the room, along with the rolled-up orange wool rug, to make way for the monkeys. Above the cage are a quartet of red and white balloons, set to accompany three strings of card-stock letters: “H-A-P-P-Y,” “B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y,” and “L-U-C-Y.” There is a blue laminated piece of paper attached to the cage, which reads, “Edna and Dale’s Monkey Experiences.” The chimp wrangler, Dale, presumably, has stepped outside for his second smoke break of the afternoon and I am alone in here, or at least, I think I am. 

“I don’t think you should touch that, Jamie,” Sadie Simberland says. She has been standing in the threshold, watching me approach the cage and fiddle with the lock. I look back at her, one hand still on the metal bars; I don’t know it yet, but my prodding has undone the lock’s hold, and only a slight pull or push would be necessary to open it now. The chimps do not react to Sadie’s voice, they are unbothered by all of this. I smirk at her and cock my head towards the cage. 

“Want me to open it?” I ask. She shakes her head. 

Sadie Simberland is afraid of chimpanzees because chimpanzees are twice as strong as humans, strong enough to, with relative ease, remove an arm from its socket or snap a shin-bone in two, for example. Captive chimpanzees have a much higher tendency towards violence than wild chimpanzees, and are usually provoked by loud sounds and large groups of people. Sadie knows all of this because I told it to her last week after she invited Mom and me to her little sister’s surprise party. 

“I know Lucy loves monkeys,” I whispered in her ear, “but I wouldn’t let her get too close to the cage.” 

I scared her then, and I want to scare her now because I am in love with Sadie Simberland, and at this age I subscribe to the wisdom that the best way to show a girl you love her is to scare and irk her to the quick. Sadie does not believe this, does not understand the true intention behind my actions, does not actually want me at this party, and only invited me because I’m her neighbor and our moms are friends. I don’t think that she hates me, but she thinks that I hate her, and it is because of this that we will never be together. 

This is a shame for two reasons, the first of which being that I really do love her. I would go so far as to say that I will always love Sadie Simberland and that any love I would come to experience for another person would only be due to their having certain qualities of hers. Sadie Simberland has dark brown eyes with a thin circle of forest green surrounding the iris. Sadie Simberland has little palms and long fingers. Sadie Simberland has patches of freckles in unexpected places and a mole the size of a dime on the back of her neck. Sadie Simberland smells like an outdoor shower. She smiles at street signs, city buses, anything that passes her by. 

The second reason is more of a loss on her part. In six years, Sadie will become one of the 72,000 people killed by an overdose of fentanyl in 2021. We will never be together, so it is impossible to know whether I could treat her right or keep her happy, but I know this much: I could keep her alive. 

I won’t, of course. We aren’t friends. She is afraid of me, and I enjoy scaring her. Eventually, Sadie will come around. She will realize that the men in her life who scare her, men far scarier than me, are actually the ones willing to love her. And she will love them, will follow them, away from her house and her family, to distant trailer parks and alleyways filled with poison that goes down like love but bubbles in the gut like magma. She will light herself on fire from the inside and she will not even know that she is burning. 

“Two o’clock!” a voice calls from the other room. Sadie keeps her eyes on me for a moment before turning to leave. I follow her, letting go of the metal bars absent-mindedly, leaving the cage door slightly ajar. 

I enter the kitchen, where Sadie is standing in front of a half-dozen of her little sister’s friends, telling them to shhhh and hide behind the counter. All around the kitchen are more red and white balloons, craning their necks against the ceiling. Each of Lucy’s friends are wearing red cone hats and on the table there is a stack of wrapped presents beside a tray of cupcakes. Mrs. Simberland stands beside the front door, peaking between the blinds. She is an older version of her daughter, with the same brown curly hair and small yet pointed nose. In a way, I suppose, I am also in love with Mrs. Simberland, for she is how I picture my future wife will be. I feel Mom’s hand on my shoulder as she pulls me down to a squat behind the kitchen island. She is looking at me with a smile that asks, Isn’t this so fun? I know that in this moment she feels like a kid again and I would like to share this joy with her, God knows she deserves it, but our roles have reversed; suddenly I feel like the adult at a six-year-old’s surprise party who’s got bills to pay, dinner to prepare, and better things to do.  

Ten minutes pass. Lucy’s friends are getting antsy and Sadie has to keep telling them shhhh. Mrs. Simberland checks her phone, pockets it, checks her phone, pockets it. 

“Check your watch,” Mom whispers. I check it. 2:12. 

The sound of a car door closing echoes from the driveway. Mrs. Simberland turns toward us and nods her head excitedly as if tapping a baton. Mom squeezes my hand and I squeeze hers. The door opens. 

“Surprise!!” we yell. Mrs. Simberland gasps. 

The birthday girl has a large rip at the collar of her pink t-shirt. Her father stands beside her, holding his baseball cap in his hands, staring at it. 

“What happened?” Ms. Simberland asks, kneeling down in front of Lucy, wiping tears from her red and puffy cheeks. Lucy cannot raise her eyes from the ground. 

“I should’ve just bought it,” Mr. Simberland answers. He will repeat these words for many a sleepless night in the years to come, will be kept up wondering why he hadn’t just bought that stupid fucking teddy bear. Mrs. Simberland runs a finger along the frayed cotton, shaking her head. 

“Not again, Mitch,” she says. Lucy looks up at her mother, her eyes wide and pulsing. 

“I was being naughty,” she explains. Sadie steps forward from behind the counter and there is panic in her voice. 

“He didn’t mean it, Mommy.” Her mother doesn’t listen. 

“Not again, Mitch.”

The Simberlands are standing in a circle, repeating themselves as if trying to cast a spell, each one only listening to their own voice. 

“I should’ve just bought it.”

“I was being naughty.”

“Not again, Mitch.”

“He didn’t mean it, Mommy.”

The rest of us watch this chorus without any clue as to what is actually unfolding, although I notice a modest sense of nostalgia in my mothers’s eyes, like she is an actor watching a play she once performed in herself. At some point the kids quit their incantation and bow their heads as their parents continue, their love taking its final flops atop the deck. Then, we see the monkeys. 

They are standing at the threshold of the living room, three feet or so from the girl for whom their “experience” has been purchased. The smaller one, Muffins, pulls a balloon string down from the ceiling, her other hand reaching up to grasp the floating red orb. The balloon pops, and Sadie yelps. Muffins cries out as well, hiding her head in her arms. Completely unfazed, Flip puts an arm around his sister and pulls her in for a hug. He holds her head close to his chest and pats the back of her neck, cooing softly in her ear. We watch all of this in a paralyzed silence, caught in the amber of a moment that is no longer ours. 

The back door opens, and a pair of boots approach the scene. 

“Shit.”

Dale guides the monkeys back to their cage; they follow amiably. Mrs. Simberland tells the kids to go into the living room before heading upstairs; Mr. Simberland follows her up, his baseball cap still in his hands. I start to leave the kitchen but Mom stops me; I can see the tears in her eyes, and I know that it is time to leave. 

Lucy stands in the living room with her friends, staring at her birthday monkeys as if they are just another painting of a homestead. Mom is already out the door, waiting for me on the front lawn. I am sitting on the kitchen floor, tying my laces while Sadie Simberland stands beside me. The fuzzy spotted feeling of finality is perched on my shoulder, and I wonder if Sadie can hear it purring. Standing up, I watch her wavering chin. I want to hold her the way Flip held Muffins, and when I step toward her she does not step away. But the actual matter of doing it, of touching her, is far too silly to actually consider. Instead, I stick my tongue out, and raspberry some spittle onto her nose. Sadie winces, turning away from me suddenly and running out of the room. I hear her crying as she goes. 

The thing about pain is, when we cause it in other people we tell ourselves it's justified, or at least, that we were perfectly allowed to act the way we did, but when somebody causes us pain, we are devastated by it, and cannot help but ask, how could someone ever do this to another person?

…

It’s right now, I think. Or at least, this moment. I am standing in Rose’s room as she gathers my things: the knitted sweater I lent her, as well as the pajamas, reading glasses and phone charger I kept at her place. She gives them to me in a messy pile, and the act of handing these objects over is like a kick to her stomach. She folds into me and I drop the pile on the floor. I keep her head against my chest and run my fingers up the back of her scalp. We hold each other desperately, like two monkeys released from a cage only to discover that they are really no better off than before, and have no idea what to do next. Neither of us wants to let go, although, eventually, one of us does.

“What?!” Wesley Wiggles shouted from the other room. 

“Wimona’s here,” Winnifred, Wesley Wiggle’s wife, called from the kitchen. 

“What?!” Wesley repeated. Years spent as a professional washboard player had wadded a fair amount of wax in Wesley Wiggles’ ears 

“Wimona!” Winnifred repeated, raising her voice. “She’s at the door. What should I do?” Wesley paused, waffling over his next words.

“Let her in, I guess,” he finally replied. 

“What?” Winnifred called from the kitchen. Years spent attending Wesley’s professional washboard performances had wadded a fair amount of wax in her ears as well. 

“Let her in!” Wesley called. 

Finally understanding, Winnifred smiled as she walked towards the front door. It had been many weeks since she had seen her daughter, and she missed her desperately. Of course, as Wimona had departed about a month ago, two duffle bags slung over her shoulder, Wesley had called after her, shouting that never again would she be welcome back inside his house. But now, it seemed these weeks without Wimona had weakened Wesley’s convictions. 

Winnifred opened the door to discover that Wimona was not alone on the porch. Beside her was a gangly boy who wobbled in his stance, wearing ripped gray jeans. A wiry expression was stapled into the boy’s brow, and Winnifred got a sudden and unexplainable impression that this boy was the type who thought it funny to whisper about people right in front of them. 

“Wimona,” Winnifred said, trying to ignore the cold and uninviting aura emanating from the boy beside her daughter. “It’s so good to see you. Your father and I… We’re so happy you’re home.” 

“Thanks Mom,” Wimona said. “I… I’m happy to be back.”

“Who’s this?” Winnifred asked. 

“Oh,” Wimona began, turning to the boy. They looked at each other for only an instant, but Winnifred wondered whether their eyes were communicating. Taking the boy’s hand in her own, Wimona looked back at her mother and said, “This is my boyfriend, Frank.”

Winnifred couldn’t help but wince. Deftly she recovered, managing a smile. “Well, isn’t that wonderful. Come in, please, come in. Welcome.” 

Wimona stepped inside and Frank followed, shutting the door behind him. Winnifred took Wimona’s jacket and hugged her tightly. She allowed herself a moment to wallow in the hug, letting the smell and feel of her daughter waft over her. Winnifred had felt like this before, after nine months entangled with Wimona in the same woman's body: the feeling that something crucial had been taken from her. The feeling had passed then, and here it was passing again, with her daughter back in her arms. 

“Wimona, oh, Wimona,” Winnifred whispered. “I’m so happy you’re back.”

“Thanks Mom,” Wimona said. 

“Frank, let me take your coat,” Winnifred said, outstretching her hands towards Frank. 

“I’d prefer to keep it on, thanks,” Frank said, adjusting the collar of his brown fleece jacket. 

“Alright, that’s perfectly fine,” Winnifred said. “Why don’t you guys head into the living room, sit with your father. I’ll get you some water.” Wimona nodded, and Winnifred reached out, placing a hand on her arm, drawing her close. Touching her, Winnifred couldn’t help but notice how skinny her daughter’s arms felt beneath her wool sweater. During these weeks away from home, who had been feeding her? Had anyone? Winnifred shuddered; this was a thought too worrisome to wonder. 

“We’re…” Winnifred began, speaking in a low voice. “We’re happy you’re back. Both of us. Even if he doesn’t act like it. Understand?” 

Wimona nodded, and her mother smiled, bowing into the kitchen. Looking back at Frank, Wimona’s lungs expanded without her even having to inhale. Frank’s eyes said everything that needed to be said, and Wimona liked being the only one who knew how to read them. Reading his gaze now, Wimona smiled softly, and led Frank into the living room. 

Here was a collection of green corduroy sofas, one propped up against the wall, the other slanted in front of the TV. Wimona had spent a good part of her childhood on that couch, watching her favorite television show: Wizards of Waverly Place. In the corner of the living room was a red Lazy Boy which Wesley had spent a majority of his adult life on. That chair was the place he tied his shoes, the place he watched TV, the place he ate his dinner, the place he’d sleep half the night until he’d wake up and shuffle off to bed. When Wimona had been smaller, Wesley and her would sit on the Lazy Boy together, tying their shoes, watching TV, eating dinner, and sleeping. But it had been many years since the two had shared this seat. Over time, their relationship had progressed from separate couches to separate rooms. And, if Wesley or Wimona were ever to find themselves in the same room as each other, Winnifred was often responsible for separating them. For almost a decade now, Wimona and her father's main form of communication had been relentless bickering, their arguments at times getting physical. Their most recent argument, the one that led to Wimona’s departure, had ended with a pink and bruised right ear for Wimona, and a missing clump of hair for Wesley. 

One month later, and here was her father, still sitting in that red Lazy Boy, still wearing his wasabi-stained white wool sweater. The patch of hair she ripped off had mostly grown back. Wesley’s face was wide set and weary, his jaw whirring before his mouth had even opened to speak. 

“Wimona, there’s someone behind you!” Wesley shouted. 

“What?” Winnifred called from the kitchen.

“An intruder! There’s an intruder in the house!” Wesley exclaimed. 

“Dad, he’s not an intruder, he’s my boyfriend,” Wimona explained. 

“Boyfriend?” Wesley asked. 

“Yes. This is Frank.”

“Frank?!” Wesley’s eyebrows raised to meet his hairline. 

“Yes.” 

“Well…” Wesley began, unsure of what to say. “Hello, I guess.”

Frank nodded, and Wesley wondered whether the boy’s smile was actually a smirk. Wimona sat down on the couch across from the Lazy Boy, and Frank sat beside her stretching one arm over her shoulder. As they sat, Winnifred entered the living room holding two glasses of water.

“Here you are,” she said. 

Crossing the living room toward Wesley, Winnifred tried looking at him the same way she’d seen Wimona look at Frank. Catching his wife’s gaze, Wesley wondered whether his wife was constipated. 

“So, Frank, where are you from dear?” Winnifred asked, perching herself on the arm of the Lazy Boy. 

“Fresno.”

“Frank from Fresno,” Wesley said. “You like sports Frank?” Frank nodded. “What sports?”

“Football.”

“Football?!” Wesley asked. “Ever heard of Wiffle Ball?” Frank nodded. “Now that’s a sport,” Wesley explained. “What kind of music do you like, Frank?”

“Foo Fighters.” 

“Foo Fighters?!” Wesley asked. “Ever heard of The Who?” Frank nodded. “Now that’s music,” Wesley explained. 

“You know, Wesley once played washboard for The Who on tour,” Winnifred explained. “That was quite the show. Did Wimona ever tell you about that?”

“No,” Frank said, looking at Wimona with a subtle grin. “She didn’t. She didn’t even tell me that you play the washboard.”

“You didn’t tell him I washboard?!” Wesley shouted at Wimona. 

“I…” Wimona began, looking from her father to Frank then back to her father. 

“Quick, Wimona, get my washboard!” 

Wimona winced, as if afflicted by a sudden ache that quickly passed. “Which one?” she asked, rising to her feet.

“The white one!” Wesley said. “Actually, no, wait; the wiggly one. Yes, get the wiggly one!” Wimona nodded and headed up the stairs, walking towards her parent’s bedroom. Across from their bed was a closet where Wesley stored each of his sixteen different washboards. Beside the collection was a glass case holding a white-gold wrist watch. The watch had originally belonged to Wesley’s father, William Willoughby Wiggles. William had been a banker, and wore that watch to work everyday for nearly thirty years. Since her grandfather’s death, the watch had gone untouched, unworn. Wimona’s eyes lingered on the watch for a while, before turning to look for the washboard. 

Back in the living room, Wesley was telling Frank about his career as a professional washboard player. 

“You know, I didn’t just play for The Who,” Wesley explained. “I also played for Wes Montgomery. Weezer. Weird Al. The list goes on.”

“Wow,” Frank said.

“And he’s got his own percussion group,” Winnifred added. 

“Wesley Wiggles and the Wigglers,” Wesley said, with a nod of pride. 

“Oh, like The Wiggles?” Frank asked softly.

“What?” Wesley asked. 

“You know, the band. The Wiggles.” 

Wesley turned towards his wife. “What the hell is he talking about?”

“So, Frank, how did you and Wimona meet?” Winnifred asked, changing the subject. She was happy to have a moment alone with the boy, wanting to see if he was the right sort for her daughter. 

“Picked her up hitch-hiking,” Frank said.

“Huh,” Winnifred answered, her voice faint. “Hitch-hiking. Well, at least you picked her up and not… someone else.”

“You pick up a lot of girl’s hitch-hiking?” Wesley asked reproachfully.

“Only the pretty ones,” Frank answered. Wesley scowled. 

“Ain’t you a freak,” Wesley said.

“Wesley, don’t say that!” Winnifred exclaimed. 

“Who says something like that, huh? That’s what he is, ain’t he?”

“A weirdo, even?” Frank said, smiling. 

“Sure…” Wesley began, unsettled by the boy’s smile. “A weirdo and a freak.”

Wimona returned holding a wooden washboard, each pole connected by yarn rather than a rim; this caused the washboard to wiggle when played. She handed the washboard to her father, and Wesley extracted several thimbles from his pajama pocket, which he placed on the tips of his fingers. Sitting up in the Lazy Boy, Wesley Wiggles held the wiggly washboard from its top with one hand, and waggled his thimbled fingers with the other. 

“Watch this,” Wesley ordered, closing his eyes. He began to play, melodically running the metal tips of his fingers up and down the poles. As he continued to play, his fingers stretched, moving with independence from one another, his pointer flicking while his middle rubbed, his ring tapped, and his pinky scratched. With plugged ears, it may have been enjoyable, or at least impressive to see a human hand move with such speed and intention, to see that washboard wiggle. 

However, Wimona, Winnifred, and Frank’s ears were not plugged, and accompanied by what they saw, was what they heard. 

Winnifred had years of experience attending Wesley’s professional washboard performances, and to her the noise was faint and calming; like a woodpecker rhythmically beating its beak against the bark of a tree. 

Wimona, who as a young child had attended a couple of Wesley’s professional washboard performances, but none since, had a much clearer sense of hearing than her mother. To her, the playing of the washboard sounded like a quiet and smooth voice whispering the words “A week at The Wacka-da.” As the washboard played (A week at The Wacka-da) and the words repeated (A week at The Wacka-da), Wimona found herself imagining (A week at The Wacka-da) that ‘The Wacka-da’ was a Hawiian vacation resort. The prospect of actually getting to spend a week at The Wacka-da had always enchanted her, and Wimona had managed to get through her father’s performances by distracting herself with images of sunny beaches, blue spotless skies, and hidden waterfalls. To Wimona, the idea of a week at The Wacka-da meant more than a nice vacation. When Wesley played the washboard, life was easier for him and his family. That sound, those words, a week at The Wacka-da, meant peace. 

Frank had never attended any of Wesley’s professional washboard performances, had never heard a washboard played solo before. Up until today, Frank did not even know that the instrument Wesley was holding in his hand was called a washboard. Nor did he ever imagine that a washboard could appear in such varieties as wooden, white, or wiggly. To Frank, the sound of Wesley’s playing also sounded like the repeated words “A week at The Wacka-da.” However this sound did not remind Frank of any luxury resort. Instead, the words seemed as though they came from the crusted gums of a dying chain smoker. “A week at The Wacka-da” summoned images of a decrepit, haunted hotel, not unlike The Shining’s Overlook. As those words (A week at The Wacka-da) repeated themselves, (A week at The Wacka-da) Frank felt gripped by a sudden (A week at The Wacka-da) sensation of horror so strong (A Week at The Wacka-da) it made him nauseous. 

Which is why, about twenty seconds into Wesley’s washboard performance, Frank began to gag, rocking back and forth on the sofa. Wimona noticed immediately, worry spreading over her like a bucket of cold water. 

“Frank, Frank are you alright?” She asked. Hearing her daughter’s voice, Winnifred quickly rose to help Frank to his feet and guide him into the bathroom beside the kitchen. Shutting the bathroom door, Winnifred returned to the living room and whispered with Wimona about what could be wrong. Through the walls they could hear the sounds of Frank retching. 

Wesley, whose eyes were closed and whose ears were thoroughly wadded with wax, did not notice Frank’s gagging, nor any of the movement in his audience. About four minutes after he began playing he stopped, slowly opening his eyes, a satisfied smile on his face. 

“Where’s the boy?” Wesley asked, the smile gone. 

“He’s…” Wimona began. “He has a sensitive stomach. He’s in the bathroom”

“Huh,” Wesley said. In the living room, a silence took root. Neither Wesley nor Winnifred knew what to say. Their daughter was back home. They had been waiting, not waiting, praying for this day. And now that it had come, they were not sure what to do. 

“We’re so… We’re so happy you’re back,” Winnifred said. Wimona nodded. 

“Thanks Mom.”

Winnifred pushed her knee against Wesley’s. This house shook with his words, but was closest to collapse with his silence. Finally, Wesley mustered what empathy these years had left him, and spoke. 

“We… We know you… We know you haven’t always understood our… our Ways.” 

Here, Wesley paused to find his daughter looking right at him. Eye contact was rare between the two of them, and the clear sight of her eyes reminded Wesley of headlights. 

“I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry for hitting you and… what I said. It’s… it’s just our Ways are important. But, I’m sorry. I’m sorry Wimona.”

Again, Wimona suddenly winced, and a small valve in Wesley’s heart tightened. 

“What, what is it, what did I say?”

“Well, Dad, I… thank you for saying that but… well that’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Wimona paused. Through the walls, she heard the sound of Frank flushing the toilet. 

“I… It’s Fimona. My… I want you to call me Fimona,” she said quietly. 

“Fimona,” Wesley asked. “Who’s Fimona?”

“I am,” Fimona said. “I’m Fimona.” 

Three sounds began at once: Her father began to yell, just as her mother began to cry, just as Frank opened the bathroom door. 

“Fimona? Fimona?!” Wesley shouted. 

“Whyyyy,” Winnifred moaned. 

“Fimona, what kind of name is that, huh? Fimona?!”

“Why, Wimona, whyyyyyy.”

Frank entered the living room, cocking his head slightly. The nausea gone, Frank felt dazed, emptied, and overall flat. He looked from Wesley, to Winnifred, to Fimona, a pursed smile forming in his lips. Now this is music, Frank said to himself.

Wesley kept on shouting, Winnifred kept on crying, and Frank kept on smiling. Fimona looked at Frank, and tried to smile with him.

“You!” Wesley cried, catching Frank’s smile. “You did this to her!” Wesley leaned forward in his seat, pushing off from the cushion, charging Frank head first like a buffalo. Fimona intercepted her father, tackling him onto the carpet. As they wrestled on the floor, Winnifred saw Frank reach into the inner pocket of his fleece jacket and began to howl. 

“Stop, stop oh please please, stop!!!”

Fimona was the first to let go. She pushed away from her father, panting as she crawled over to Frank’s legs. She climbed up him, holding onto his arm for support. Wesley got up alone, a long, slow, painful rise that included several grunts. Almost as soon as he had made it to his feet, he was back in the Lazy Boy. Frank removed his hand from the inside of his jacket, and guided Fimona to a seat beside him on the opposite couch. For several minutes there was no sound apart from Winnifred’s tears. 

“You can’t stay here,” Wesley finally said. “Not like that. Not with him.”

“I know Dad,” Fimona said, speaking to her shoes. 

“You know?” Wesley asked. “If you know that then why are you here huh? Why come back? Why break your mother’s heart? Why bring this, this freak into my house?”

Fimona took a long inhale before looking up into her father’s eyes. Seeing her face, Wesley was reminded of the time his daughter broke a trumpet vase with a wiffle-ball bat when she was six. Looking at her now, he could almost hear the sound of the glass shattering.

“Dad, we need ten thousand dollars.”

“What?!” Wesley shouted. Winnifred gasped, a long, high, swooning sob. 

“Frank… Frank owes somebody,” Fimona began. Frank tapped her knee with his. She stopped herself, and restarted. “We need the money. Just this once. We need your help.”

“What makes you think I got ten thousand dollars just lying around?” Wesley asked. 

“Wimona… Oh Wimona, whyyyyyy,” Winnifred wailed. 

“Grandpa Willy’s wrist watch,” Fimona explained. “That’s worth at least fifteen grand. We could sell it and-”

“You wanna sell your grandfather’s watch?!” Wesley’s face was red, approaching maroon. 

“Dad, you don’t understand, Frank, he, we need this money, it’s important. I mean it’s not like you wear it or anything, you just keep it up there in its case.”

“Oh Wimona, whyyyy, whyyyy?!”

“That’s my watch, I can do what I want with it.”

“But Dad, we need your help.”

“Well I don’t care.” These words were not shouted. They did not echo or boom. They fell like marbles onto a track, one syllable after the other, rolling, rolling down. 

“We won’t help you Wimona,” Wesley explained. “We… we don’t care.”

Here came our withering quiet.

Wesley lips pursed, and his head turned for the window. Staring at her father, the sun glinting off his bruised face—this image accompanied by the song of her mother’s cries—a part of Fimona withered away into nothingness. The part of her that had once shared the seat of a recliner with her father. The part of her that had once shared the sympathies of her heart with her family. Slowly, Fimona turned to Frank, finding his lips folded into their usual quiet smirk, his eyes still reading of everything that ever needed saying

“Do it,” She told him. Frank nodded. 

Smoothly, and in one fluid motion, Frank reached into the inner pocket of his brown fleece jacket and removed an FN Five-Seven pistol. Fimona ducked under Frank’s arm and moved for the stairs. She did not look back, did not try to distinguish the shouting voices behind her, did not wonder if it was Frank or her father that was doing the threatening. Fimona kept moving, kept climbing up the stairs and down the hallway towards her parent’s bedroom. She threw open the closet door and tossed aside the pile of washboards, sending them crashing onto the floor. Hitting the ground (A week at), the washboards let out a final (the Wacka-da) disjointed chorus of peace. Back in the living room, the first shot rang out.