The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“You have a chance to get stuff,” Doyle says. “That’s good.”


We follow Alice’s taillights up Middle Country Road. Cars are stranded on either side—a ghost town of vehicles. She turns us toward the water, heading north, taking side roads around downed trees. When we reach Till Road, Enola starts to cry.

Alice pulls into Frank’s driveway and I park alongside her. I tell myself not to look until we get out of the car and can stare it in the face.

*

The house is in silhouette, hanging off the cliff’s edge, tilting like an Irishman’s cap. We stand beside it, four tiny figures, no more than paper dolls, two huddled together, the smallest spark dancing between their bodies. Children at the gates of our history.

“Throw whatever you can get in the truck and come back to my place,” Alice says. “You can stay with me.”

“Thanks,” I say. “It won’t be forever.”

“We’ll work it out.” She gives my hand a squeeze. “I need to talk to my mom.” She walks toward the house where she grew up, and for a minute I don’t know who has it worse, and then I do. It’s Alice.

Enola tells Doyle to wait by the car. “This is excavation. Watsons only.”

Though he says cool, he conveys be careful.

*

The door hangs off its hinges and the hole in the living room floor has become a pit. A wide split spiders up the wall between the kitchen and living room. I can see Mom’s hand wrapping around the corner, laughing as she ran down the hallway. We walk around the edge of the room, balancing against things—the couch—I can remember Enola hiding behind it, giggling—my desk, anything that will take weight. Enola sees me limping and offers her shoulder.

“Get that picture,” she says, pointing. “The one of me and Mom.”

“Frank took that.”

“Get over it.” She yanks it from the wall. My grown sister hands me her child self. “You’re going to want it.”

“You don’t want anything?”

She shakes her head. “You know I never asked you to stay, right? When it’s gone I think you should just forget it was ever here. Be happy, okay?”

A sharp whining screams down the hallway. We tense. Her fingers dig into my shoulder. The sound deepens to a low howl, then crashing. I clap my hands over my ears, but it’s too late. Enola mouths something—what the fuck. Plaster showers over us. I yell, “Run,” as the floor begins to roll. I tuck my head to my knees. Tossed against the front wall, back slammed into the desk. A sucking spasm. Emptied out. A great tearing sound. A chair topples. Glass shatters. Papers and books tumble onto me. Air, air pushes up from under.

The sound dies and the floor stops moving. My ears buzz. The room is thick with dust. Enola is huddled in the corner by the sofa, covered in papers, shaking.

“Fuck! Are you all right? Everybody all right?” Doyle is in the doorway, streaming nervous chatter. Daylight comes from the hall through the dirt and debris. Tentacled arms lift Enola, me, pulling us onto what’s left of the lawn and into the whipping grass; his grip has the bite of electricity.

*

We wind up on the hood of my car. The damage is incredible. The side of the house collapsed, spilling the contents of my parents’ bedroom across the cliff, along with bits and pieces of the stone foundation. The bed traveled farthest, mattress hidden among the beach grass, headboard kissing the remnants of the bulkhead, and Dad’s shoes toppled down the bluff until they bounced their way into the water. I wanted to throw them out, but I could never bring myself to.

The crabs are still here. They should be gone. They should have left after I’d burned Frank’s things and the book. Or rolled out with the tide as the storm that took my house pulled back. It’s stronger now, the feeling that I’ve missed something. Papers are scattered everywhere—leaves or snowflakes—pieces of my family thrown to the wind. Why are the crabs here? Was burning not enough?

“Is that Mom’s typewriter?” Enola asks. It is, banked against a scrub pine along with what must be manuals. A piece of chimney falls. Down the cliff, Dad’s tools dig themselves into the sand. It’s gone. All of it.

Enola takes her cards from her pocket. In the light of day they’re brown and worn, edges rounded out until there’s almost nothing left at all. They’re nearly pulp, worn by skin oils—hers, Mom’s, other people’s. They smell like dust, paper, and women. She sets them beside her on the hood of the car. Doyle hops down and begins pacing.

“Put those away, Little Bird.”

“No.” To me she says, “Cut.”

“Fine,” Doyle replies. “I’ve gotta walk. I need to walk.” He twitches his hand in the air and heads up the street.