The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“Hey, we ready?” Doyle asks. He looks back and forth as if sensing something off.

“Sure.” Enola flings herself at him, dropping a loud kiss right over his ear.

“You told them you’re bringing me, right?” Doyle asks. “You gave a little warning.”

“About what? The McAvoys are nice,” she says.

He looks at me, concern pulling the tentacles on his jaw downward. “People can be weird about the tattoos.”

I think of everything Frank will hear tonight. “I’m sure you won’t be a problem.”

I follow them down the pebble driveway, across the street, to the McAvoy house. White-shingled, a picket fence and freshly painted porch, a plaque proclaiming it the homestead of Samuel L. Wabash, established 1763. In the yard is a swing set Dad helped build for Alice.

“Looks like my mom’s place,” Doyle says, sticking the tip of his tongue from the corner of his mouth.

The blinds snap down on one of the front windows. Frank’s wife keeps a pair of binoculars on the windowsill, watching all the comings and goings. Leah probably told Frank the instant the gutter broke on my house.

Enola waits for us on the porch. For a moment there’s terror in her eyes, then as Doyle approaches the look dissolves.

“Hey,” I say to her.

“What?” she replies, the what that ends a conversation.

The door opens and Enola hugs Frank.

“Too long, Enola. It’s been far too long,” he says.

I wave to Leah, who hangs back in the living room. She smiles and politely says hello. She’s never been quite as warm as Frank.

Frank’s eyes land on Doyle. He blinks a few times before greeting him, gawking. To his credit, Doyle appears to not mind. The Electric Boy sticks out a hand to shake.

“Doyle Bartlett.”

I never even asked his last name. I assumed that Doyle was his last name.

“Frank McAvoy. Pleasure to meet you.” The handshake lasts too long. I clear my throat and Frank drops his hand. “No sense in standing around on the porch. Leah’s almost got dinner ready,” he says, scratching his sunburned nose, “and Alice is here.”

“Great.”

“Good to have all you kids under one roof,” he says, and pats my shoulder. I follow him inside. It’s like my house; couch against the far right living room wall, a kitchen off the back, the hall to the left that leads to the bedrooms—three of them—only Frank’s house has gone right. The walls are pale yellow, free of cracks, and sprinkled with pictures of Alice. By the door is a photo from our high school graduation. Alice is in the back row, the tallest of the girls. She’s in the kitchen, delaying the inevitable awkwardness, the amount of which even she doesn’t fully understand. She waves at me, then spots Doyle. She mouths with library-perfect silent diction, What is that?

Dinner is formal. Leah’s taken out the good china, which only makes the meal more uncomfortable. Enola picks at the lace tablecloth. The fancy silver is out, and we’re drinking tap water from the crystal, which is out of place in Doyle’s green and black hands.

Alice radiates nervousness, or maybe it’s me. Leah sat us together and our knees touch. When I say hello, her lips tighten, but under the table she weaves our fingers. Hi. I remember the Alice of the graduation photo and how she used to giggle at the smallest things; that is not this person, and she isn’t the smiling woman from the library, either. Here she’s a daughter. She steals quick looks at Doyle and he catches her at it. She blushes and it’s beautiful.

It’s been a while since I’ve seen Leah, but unlike Frank she looks the same, still wearing her hair in a long red ponytail. She might dye it. Maybe she’s softened, gotten a line or two, but she’s still Leah and openly gaping at the tattooed man sitting across from her.

“It hurt to get them done,” Doyle says. “They go everywhere. It’s the worst when the needle is over bone, but after a while you kind of fade out and it’s not so bad.”

“Oh,” Leah says, her mouth going round. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

“It’s cool,” he says. “You can’t help it.”

“Why so many?” she asks.

“It’s sort of like a hobby, but kind of like addiction?” he says, voice tipping up as he cocks his head. “You think you’re gonna get just one, but then one starts looking really good with another and before you know it you want every piece of you drawn on. I wish I had more space. Some people don’t like their skin, you know?” He pops a piece of broccoli into his mouth, using his fingers. “I picked mine.”

“I got stuck with mine,” Leah replies. “Horrible. I burn to a crisp if I’m in the sun for five minutes.”

“Guys like freckles,” he says. “True story.”

A slow smile crosses Leah’s face. “I know.” Soon she’s laughing, in pleasant conversation with a tattooed Electric Boy. Enola chimes in now and again. Alice stays quiet but keeps brushing my hand. She hasn’t brought us up. That should feel good; it doesn’t.