The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“I get it, man. Dude took a wrecking ball to your family so you want to torch a few of his things. I totally understand. It’s okay.”


In front of the workshop it’s not okay. A large padlock hangs on the door latch, rusted and intimidating. Of course it’s locked. Why would I think it wouldn’t be locked?

“We need bolt cutters,” I mutter.

The man next to me tilts his head, swings an arm back behind his neck and pops his shoulder in a gruesome cephalopodan spasm. “Nah,” he says. “We’re good. I got it. Hang on a second.” He disappears for a few minutes, leaving me alone with the light-headedness that seems to accompany impending thievery. Eventually he comes loping back, empty-handed. “Car,” he says, by way of explanation. I must look confused because he adds, “Paper clip,” and pulls a large silver clip from the pocket of his baggy cargo shorts. “Always got a few.”

Before I can respond he’s already unbent the clip, straightening one end and leaving a large hook at the other, clearly something he’s done before. He drops into a crouch below the lock, and begins to gently work the straight end of the clip inside. His tongue pokes from the corner of his mouth. He strokes the top of the lock, as if feeling for movement. Suddenly, he flicks his wrist and the lock twists open, pulling free. He spins the paperclip around on his finger and stuffs it back into his pants. “Haven’t done it in a while, but you never really forget.”

“Doyle, why do you know how to do that?”

A shrug, the tiniest movement of suckers at his brow. “I used to play around with stuff like that when I was a kid. Wanted to see what I could get into. Started out because I always forgot my keys. Figured it was a good idea to make it so I didn’t need them.” He opens the door.

“Did you ever steal the change out of pay phones?”

He winks and smiles broadly, enough to be charming. “Now why would I do that?” Unlikely as it should be, my sister has found her perfect match.

Frank’s workshop is littered with empty bottles, freshly accumulated since I was last here.

“I’ll get the paintings. You work on the curtains.”

We pile it all, portraits and fabric, onto the frame of the dory Frank was working on. It needs to be gone, everything that was drawn in the book, because it, too, is marked by tragedy, if not intent. I’m moving slowly, awkwardly, but Doyle manages the curtains with an acrobatic grace, jumping and tugging, flinging the fabric over his shoulders.

“You’re freaking Enola out, you know,” he says, tossing a length of curtain onto the boat’s bones.

“I don’t mean to.”

“Yeah, I know. But just—I don’t know. I’m worried about her a little, okay? She talked like you guys were really close. I thought her coming here and seeing you would make stuff better, but then you’re not close and you’re not so good either. This is making her worse.”

“Worse how?” I stack the pictures on top of each other, bearded face upon bearded face, stern-looking people, vaguely Slavic.

“You saw,” he says. “She doesn’t do that, not to kids. She sometimes messes around with people who are assholes, but she never does a reading like that to kids. I’ve never heard her talk like that before.”

I tell him not to worry, because it’s all I can do. I’m not sure if I can explain how burning a few things will make everything better, or how much of this is hinged on hope. “Let’s get this stuff to the beach. She may not remember it, but she loves bonfires. They’re good for the soul.”

Doyle carries the bulk of things down to the beach, where we heap it all on a flat stretch of bulkhead to keep it from being swarmed by horseshoe crabs. We stare down at the scrabbling throng.

“No worries,” he says. “I’ll find some wood and kindling and see what I can set up. You get Enola, I’ll get this.”

“Thanks.”

“Hurry up. Smells like lightning.” He bends over the bulkhead and pulls from it a piece of driftwood that was sandwiched in the space between the posts and the boards. The Electric Boy not only juggles lightbulbs, but he can pick locks and smell lightning. A bubble of laughter rises.

Enola is more than happy to be rescued. Frank told his wife everything, from the story about his palm being read, to how my mother brought him coffee each morning, and about the house. When Leah opened the door her face grayed at the sight of me and for a brief second I thought she’d be sick. I thought I might be sick as well.

“I’m sorry,” I told her.

“For what?” Leah said. “It’s not as though you did it.”