Arthur turned from the window. The brass keyhole of the locked drawer sparkled. He looked away.
Over Thanksgiving, Frank had said again, “The resemblance was uncanny. When I watched Charlie walk down the street, I felt his gait in my body. If you saw this kid, you’d agree with me.” At some point, Frank would think of Tim, Arthur was sure of that — they had always laughed about how similar Tim was to Frank, especially as an ornery and determined little boy. Arthur shook his head. He had no rights over this young man, none whatsoever.
Coming up on three years now, since his life had ended. After Lillian died, he’d embarrassed himself thoroughly, but it was logical, really — if you would prefer to be dead, why shave, or wash, or sleep, or talk? Why take out the trash? Why eat, especially if you literally could not swallow, if your stomach clenched up and prevented entry, and the smallest items of food felt jammed in your lower esophagus, making you gag? Why not leave the doors of the house open even in the coldest weather, why not empty everything of everything — let the coal burn and the heat fly away and the mice and rats raid the larder, let the water run out of the sink and over the floor, let the lightning strike the trees and the lawn grow and the garden disappear in weeds. Let the fencing collapse. And so he had been taken in hand, and there was not so much pain now. Now there was simply nothing, more convenient for everyone.
But they had returned him to the childhood he’d made every effort to leave behind, including restricting his access to dangerous objects like butcher knives and throw rugs. Was it like this for everyone when they got old? The phone was ringing now. It would be Debbie. Having gotten the kids on the bus, she would be calling to ask how he’d slept, what he was having for breakfast, what he planned to do today — would he like to come with her to the rec center and have a swim? The pool was warm. They could stop at the library on the way home, if he needed a book. She had been reading Anna Karenina; had Arthur ever read it? Did he think it was the greatest novel ever written? If Arthur remembered correctly, Tolstoy had written Anna Karenina in his late forties. Arthur was not interested in a novel someone had written in his late forties, and he suspected that if Tolstoy were beside him or, say, across from him, sitting on the rim of the bathtub, brushing his teeth, his beard to his waist, turning to spit down the bathtub drain, his hair in tangles, then hoisting himself, leaning to stare into the mirror at what he had become, he would agree. This is what they would do, he and Lev, they would creep down the stairs, making sure to hold both of the banisters. They would wince at the squeal of the front door as they opened it. They would stagger onto the street, turn right, and walk along, waving their arms. Passersby would avoid them.
The phone rang again, right on time, ten minutes after the first ring. Arthur picked it up. As usual, he couldn’t bring himself to speak. But it wasn’t Debbie. A voice on the other end of the line (buzzy — long distance) said, “Is this Arthur Manning?”
Arthur coughed, then forced himself to say, “Yes.”
“Oh! Wow! I can’t believe…Anyway, my name is Charlie Wickett. I hear you’re trying to get in touch with me.”
Arthur said, “Actually, Mr. Wickett, I am doing my best to not get in touch with you, but I see that I’ve failed.”
Charlie laughed, and it was, indeed, Tim’s laugh, full-throated but self-possessed, and Arthur burst into tears.
—
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS LATER, things had exploded as they always did. Debbie was both offended and dumbstruck, but she couldn’t decide precisely which aspect surprised or offended her the most, there were so many. Frank was relieved, disappointed, and curious, ready to fly Arthur out to Aspen to meet the kid. Tina, somehow, felt vindicated — he lived in Aspen, not so far from Sun Valley, where her studio was — something was significant about that. Dean seemed irritated by the whole thing, as if Tim were returning to the spotlight yet again. Frank said that Andy had said, “I’m sure he’s not the only one.” Arthur focused on the question of how Charlie had found him. He did not expect to be found, ever, unless he presented himself. But when he asked Charlie a few days later, Charlie was forthcoming — Sister Otilia at the adoption agency was tight with his mom, though not officially, of course, and there had been gossip, and his mom had driven up to St. Charles and gone right to the Mother Superior and given her a talking-to, and so had found out who was doing the looking. His mom, of course, had always been perfectly straightforward with him, had told him early on that he was adopted, and if you were five foot two and your husband was five foot eight, and your child was six foot three, the neighbors had to be told, and so they were; as far as Charlie knew, his mom had never kept a secret in her life. Arthur said that the Mannings and the Langdons were a big family, and Charlie said, “You’re kidding! Great! I always wanted a big family.”
After four days, Debbie settled on Tim’s betrayal as the real crime — he’d known Fiona was her friend, what in the world had he been doing, so that was why, when she saw Fiona at Madison Square Garden that time — fourteen years ago — and told her Tim had died, Fiona had turned white, nearly fallen down, and not ridden again that evening. Debbie didn’t blame Fiona.
“What do you care?” said Hugh, as her voice rose.
And then she set her fork on her plate and looked around the table. Carlie was staring at her, Kevin looked worried, and Hugh looked as though he’d had it. For once in her life, she said, “I don’t know,” and then she shook her head at Arthur and put her face in her hands. After he and Hugh did the dishes (not a word spoken other than “I’ll start the dishwasher in the morning”), Arthur went to the master bedroom and knocked on the door. She might have said something. He turned the knob and went in.
The master bedroom was a work of art — Hugh the historian had built the headboard out of spalted maple. His mother had knitted the bedspread, moss-green lace. The two bedside tables were etched glass, made by Tina. In one corner, there was an antique rocking chair with a rattan seat. Debbie was sitting cross-legged on the floor, as if she didn’t dare touch any of these beautiful things. Arthur sat in the rocking chair and eased it over toward her. Then he did what Lillian would have done: he started rocking and didn’t say a word. Lillian always said, “If you don’t ask them, they will tell you.”
Debbie didn’t look at him, but she did say, “Do you remember when you were forty?”
“More or less,” said Arthur.
“Did you feel grown up?”
“Only reluctantly.”
“Everyone says that!”
“They do?” said Arthur, genuinely surprised.
“Something like it. Everyone wants to be young, everyone wants to be irresponsible.”
“Or maybe,” said Arthur, “not responsible.”
“I always wanted to grow up!”
“I understand that. Our household was chaos.”
“And everyone loved it but me! Are you sure I wasn’t adopted?”
“I think you were a statistical outlier.”
Debbie said, “But I didn’t grow up! I didn’t! I just left certain feelings behind without realizing it, and they’re always coming back.”
“I know,” said Arthur.
“Don’t tell me that.”
“But I have to tell you that, sweetheart. I have to. Because that is my experience. Ask your uncle Frank; ask your aunt Andy. Ask her — she’s had as much psychoanalysis as anyone; she would know.”
“She is a mess,” said Debbie.
“But a strangely prescient mess,” said Arthur.
“Why did you love Tim for being bad and hate me for being good?” She said this quietly, as if she were only asking, as if no resentment remained.