She tries to repress a grin, but can’t help herself. Sadie collects misery the way some people collect stamps. They trade in bad news—as long as it isn’t theirs. “I wish your dad the best,” she says.
“And I wish for nuclear winter.”
Sadie sips her beer, looks contemplative. “You know, I had a friend of mine whose dog died a couple years ago.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
Sadie shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me, wasn’t my dog. But she really loved that animal, a big Newfoundland, loved it more than anyone else in her family. Tied at the hip. It was like losing a limb, she said. A couple years later, she got the tiniest white dog, so delicate you could break it with your shoe.”
“What are you saying?”
“Not much. Just that it’s hard to repeat things in life, you know?”
His mother would have hated Tillie. No one but Sebastian seems to care about this fact. And Sadie, he supposes. When it comes to his mother, she is his most reliable source, even if she is prone to exaggeration.
A manager sticks his head out of the kitchen and says Sadie’s name in a slow, even tone. She turns, nods, reaches out to gather up glasses and dirty plates. It is odd not being able to help. At Sadie’s house, he is always helping. Lola always did all that stuff at their dad’s house: putting things away, vacuuming. Now the bar shape-shifts into a set of things to be done. He can see it more easily, perhaps, because for Sadie the effort is heavy.
Dad
Sure. Drive Safe.
Last week a program came up on TV about a man who discovered that he had a hundred and fifty siblings. His father was a sperm donor. They all met up and touched each other’s faces and commented on eachother’s earlobes, hand gestures. Then the producers brought the father in and some of them cried and then the father cried, and the camera was right up in his face, capturing his wrinkles and regret. He had the same earlobes as well.
When she emerges, he says: “Hey Sadie, I was wondering. Did you ever visit my mom in California?”
“No. She was always so busy.” The note of resentment is almost too light to detect. Quickly she follows with, “I wish I had.”
It’s important, isn’t it? Knowing where you come from? You have to be able to explain yourself. You have to have the facts. Even if they aren’t always what you hope for.
“Do you think she—you know. Do you think there was ever anyone else?”
Sadie’s face clouds over. She blinks three times. She does not look at her nephew. There is a wobbling inside him. Sometimes he forgets that she was actually there. That they are not both engaging with limitless hypotheticals, the same amount of blank space.
“You really think she wouldn’t have told me?”
At his father’s house, Sadie’s car shuddering outside, Sebastian closes the door quietly. He assesses the scene. Awake or asleep? Upstairs or downstairs? Despite his estrangement, he misses the house. The people who aren’t in it now.
He isn’t expecting to find Tillie alone in the kitchen.
The Martha Stewart monstrosity is tucked in the corner of the countertop, pale pink manicured fingers holding a copy of a book that Lola had been reading a few summers ago when she was still obsessed with the concept of France. The cover has a woman’s face on it with painted lips and eyes full of a desire that he can’t imagine Tillie could ever comprehend. Sebastian is startled at first by the sadness of the scene, Tillie’s attempt to connect with a person so far beyond her. But then he realizes he is dealing with a rival scavenger.
“I said he didn’t have to wait up.”
“He’s not waiting up. I’m not either. Just wasn’t tired.”
Sebastian scuffs the wooden floor beams. “I just need some things.”
Tillie turns, puts the kettle on as if everything is normal, as if she is supposed to be here, in his kitchen, at midnight. “That’s fine. Tea?”
Something inside him is bubbling, unresolved. “I’m not staying.”
“No one is making you stay. How was your day?”
“Fine.”
He can’t help but notice, on the small kitchen table, a stack of catalogues that he hasn’t seen before in the house; glossy prints of nuclear families clad in plaid and laughing as dumb puppies jump around their folded knees. They are all sitting that way, even the fathers, which cannot possibly be comfortable. Crisscross applesauce. He imagines cutting out all the Stepford Wife faces from the pages for his latest project.
“You can take those if you want,” Tillie offers. “I brought them over, but I don’t need them.”
