The Book of Speculation: A Novel

I grabbed her and felt the open skin on her legs. No, there had been no skin; bits and pieces of Enola hung from the rocks. I flipped her onto her belly and cradled her.

Alice looks out the window. I mouth One minute. She shrugs and drinks her wine.

“You carried me home,” Enola says.

She didn’t see the bloody trail we left in the sand. When I reached the house it felt empty though it wasn’t. Dad was at the kitchen table with a newspaper, drinking from a cup of what had once been coffee. He didn’t look up. I carried Enola to her room and dropped her, stomach down, on the bed, then rummaged through the medicine chest. Half of it was filled with Mom’s prescriptions. Six years expired and Dad still kept them.

Barnacle cuts are a wonder of nature—so many different kinds of bacteria and no way to avoid infection.

“You put iodine on me, you fuck.”

“I didn’t know what to do.”

I threw myself over her middle, holding her in place while she screamed. We stayed there for what felt like hours, me sprawled over Enola’s back, Enola on the bed, Mom’s medicine all over the bathroom floor, Dad in the kitchen nursing empty coffee cups.

“You were good to me, Simon,” she says.

I did what I could. She sounds calmer than she did when she first called. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah. I just wanted to hear your voice. Sometimes you make me feel better.”

“Okay.” Bess Visser. I suddenly remember where I’ve seen that name. It was on a slip of yellow paper with two other names Mom had written down. I found it last year when I moved her dresser to patch a leak. The paper was hidden in the back of a drawer. Mom knew that name.

“Wait, did you say you were with Alice McAvoy?”

“Yes.”

“Alice. Nice. I should go. See you in a few weeks.”

“Enola?”

“Thanks.” There’s a click, and she’s gone.

Back at the table, Alice has finished eating and paid the check. I must look bad because she immediately asks how I am. I tell her that Enola just needed to talk. She raises her eyebrows but says nothing. I make all the proper apologies but everything feels off. My feet feel off. When I walk Alice to the car, I notice she’s listing. She mutters something about her heels and leans into my side, a comfortable weight.

“It isn’t fair,” she says after we’re buckled in and driving back toward Woodland Heights. “You always looked after her. I know you did. Then she leaves and expects you to just drop everything when she calls.” She seems prepped and ready to go on but stops herself with a sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m drunk.”

I smile. “No, you’re not. You’re right, but it’s just how things are.”

“Well, it’s shitty.”

“Sometimes.”

We linger in the doorway to her apartment. I apologize again and promise to pay her back for dinner. She says not to worry about it. Her skin blanches where her hand touches the door frame.

“I need coffee,” she says. “Would you like coffee?” And then, because she’s complained about my family for me, bought me dinner, worn a dress, because we may not have jobs in a few weeks, because of the way her eyes close when she says coffee, and because she’s Alice and in that lives the difference, I take the risk and lean in. Her lips are soft, inviting. At this too, she’s better than me, perfect.

Her bedroom is a mix of practical and whimsical. An imposing hardwood desk lines a wall. Clean, square shelves are filled with perfectly organized books and pictures. Near her window hangs a small mobile made of periwinkles, broken moon snails, and tiny horseshoe crab shells—the sort of thing only a beach girl could love. It suits her. The bed is another matter. A mountain of pillows, different fabrics, sizes, different shades of pink. I start to laugh, but then her hands are on my shoulders, pushing me back, and falling on it is wonderful.

There are snaps and wires, zippers, hooks, and then there is skin, and yes, the freckles on her breasts are every bit as intriguing as the ones by her navel, her neck, and between her thighs. And then there is breath and touching, tracing all the places we’ve hidden from each other. Accustomed to whispering, even our laughs feel hushed, secret. Her hand runs down my back.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi.”

Then there is the taste and feel of our bodies.

*

Alice sleeps on her side with her knees almost to her chest. She’s fallen asleep this way sunbathing on the beach since we were children. I lie awake, thinking about Enola’s call, the book, the house, and my job. I can’t keep the house if my job goes. Despite what I told Frank, I don’t want to sell, not when my parents are in the walls. I need money. Time. I need to call Liz’s leads. On the desk there is a photograph of Alice as a teenager, holding a giant bluefish. She’s thirteen or so, back when she had bangs. Frank must have taken the picture. Though he’s not in the photo, I can see him staring out at me from her grinning face. I should put my arm around her, but it feels a little strange. I slept with Frank’s daughter.

“You awake?” She sounds drowsy, happy.