The Book of Speculation: A Novel

The roof creaks in earnest. “Get your stuff and get in the car,” I say. “I think I know where we can go.” I hope.

Doyle and Enola scramble outside. I grab my notebook and the stolen library books and dig through the closet for a bag to put it all in. Mom’s coat is still here. I stared at that dark brown wool while she zipped me into a stiff red snowsuit, zip and snaps. I cried. It was too hot, too tight, the wrong color—not blue. She pulled a crumpled paper towel from her pocket and roughly wiped my nose. Yanked an itchy hat over my ears. We can’t have you freezing. If you keep crying you’ll freeze your eyes shut. I can almost remember her face just then, almost. Dad’s coat is with hers, breast to breast.

I close the door behind me and hear a loud wet thump from inside. Don’t look—it will still be there tomorrow. Now we need to leave.

Enola and Doyle wait in the car. She’s put on a dark blue hoodie and has her hands stuffed deep in the pockets. Doyle is in the back, a duffel bag on the seat next to him. I ask what’s in it. He says, “Stuff. Bulbs. Got to keep limber.”

“Where are we going?” Enola asks.

“Alice’s.”

They both whistle.

“Think Frank told her?”

“Don’t know. I hope not.”

It’s a slog to get to Woodland Heights. The roads are littered with downed branches and it’s impossible to see anything but the rain on the windshield. No one says a word until we pull into the lot by Alice’s apartment.

“We can crash in the car,” Enola says. She’s looking up at the lights in the apartments, the neat little balconies, glass doors, and porch lamps. I can’t imagine what she sees.

“If you’re with me there’s a better chance she’ll let me in.” Alice might turn me down if she thinks I’m trying something—am I trying something?—but she wouldn’t put three people out in a storm.

She doesn’t answer when I ring the bell. We wait for a few minutes, rain soaking our clothes. Doyle rocks back and forth on his heels, his skin squirming.

“She’s not here,” Enola says.

“She might not be answering because, you know.” Doyle shrugs. “Weird guy with tats ringing the doorbell in the middle of the night. I’m cool with staying in the car. Used to do it all the time,” he says.

“She’s not like that,” Enola says.

“Wait, just wait.” I knock, this time using my whole forearm. The dead bolt slides, the lock turns over.

Alice cracks the door. Swollen eyes, a red nose, face bruised from crying.

Frank told her everything. I’m sorry and wish we’d never come. The worst is she’s a pretty crier and learning that is awful.

“Oh,” she says. “Simon. What are you doing here?”

I tell her about the house leaking and not being able to get anywhere else. She opens the door a little wider, revealing a worn blue bathrobe, pajamas, and a pair of ugly gray socks with one of the toes out. She looks at Enola, then Doyle. Doyle waggles his fingers. Enola mumbles a greeting.

“I’ll make coffee,” Alice says.

“You don’t have to.”

“I’ve got to do something. I’ll make coffee. It’s what I do.”

We stumble inside. Alice asks us to take off our shoes. We toss them into a pile by the door, sole meeting sole, sand mixed with carnival dirt. Did I do this last time? Despite having been here multiple times, I remember little of the apartment; I just remember her, leaning on a counter, falling on her bed, the refrigerator light and how she’s the only person in the world who looks good in it.

Enola and Doyle hunker into an overstuffed love seat, brown birds huddling together. The taupe and peach apartment makes them look flat. I take the armchair beside them.

“Nice place,” Enola says.

“It’s good,” he says.

“If you like this sort of thing.”

“I’m not real big on leases.”

“Me neither.”

“I kind of like wheels,” he says.

“Yes,” she says. “Me too, me too.”

Alice reappears with three cups on a white serving tray. Her shoulders hunch like she’s been broken. She sets the tray on the coffee table, flops onto a peach chair, and curls her legs beneath her. “You can wait here for a little while for the roads to clear, but I don’t think I can let you stay,” she says. “I just need space tonight, okay? It’s not you.”

“You talked to your dad?” I say.

“Fuck him,” she says, like a punch. She looks at some invisible point to the left of my shoulder. “He’s like a wound that won’t stop bleeding. Now that it’s all come out he won’t shut up. All those years he never said a thing, and now he has to tell us. Selfish bastard.” Her voice cracks and she sniffs and swallows, an awful sucking sound. “Why the hell don’t people understand there are some things you don’t talk about? You keep it to yourself so you hurt fewer people. You’re supposed to pay with guilt. Guilt is penance,” she says.

A soft ruffling to my right—Enola playing with cards. Doyle sips his coffee, holding the cup as though it’s a delicate piece of glass.