I was back in Shepaug by ten in the morning. I had driven the truck into the city, cruising around the Lower East Side till I found a place to park not too far from a subway station. It was a litter-choked block filled with shuttered shops. It was nearly dawn but loud music blasted from a parked car half a block away. I parked under a flickering streetlamp. I had worn gloves the entire night so there were no prints to wipe off, but I did it anyway, using a small towel that I found in the truck’s glove compartment. After wiping everything down, I spread the towel out and draped it over the soiled passenger seat, then I gathered any paperwork that had Brad’s name on it in the truck and took it with me. There was a nearby trash bin and I pushed the papers down into the stew of pizza crusts and coffee cups. Then I dropped the keys to the truck on the pavement next to the driver’s side, where they would catch the light. I hoped that the person who first spotted the dropped keys would not be some do-gooder who would alert the authorities. I was counting on the likelihood that the truck would be in several pieces in a chop shop by the time the sun came up.
I took the subway to Grand Central, bought a ticket on the Metro-North Commuter Rail to Shepaug. It was an hour wait and I drank coffee and ate a greasy doughnut, and watched as the station slowly filled with early-morning commuters. I managed to doze a little on the train ride to my hometown, and woke up shivering from the cold that had gotten into my bones from the long sleepless night. From Shepaug station I walked the three miles to Monk’s House, staying on a trail that skirted an unused portion of rail line. I hadn’t lived in Shepaug for close to ten years, but I didn’t want to risk getting spotted by someone I knew.
When my mother opened the door to me, a large mug of coffee in her hand, she said, “Darling, there you are,” and for a brief moment I wondered if I’d told her I’d be there, before realizing that she was covering for herself in case she’d forgotten about a visit from me.
“Were you expecting me?” I asked, walking into the house.
“No. Was I? He’s not coming today, is he?”
The he she was referring to was my father, who was moving back to America and back into Monk’s House. I’d arranged it over my last trip to London. Long story short: my father needed to live with someone who would look after him in his fragile mental state, and my mother needed money to pay her bills. I’d brokered a deal, and had no idea if it would work or not, but it was at least worth a try, or that was what I was telling myself.
“This weekend, Mum,” I said, making my way to the coffeepot in the kitchen.
“What are you doing here, and what are you wearing? You look like a cat burglar.”
Over coffee I told my mother that I had been traveling for work, picking up college archival material, first in Maine, then in New York City. I told her that I’d left my car in Maine and flown from Portland down to New York City but that I missed my flight back. I told her I’d decided to come out to Shepaug, see my mother, maybe get a ride up to Maine to get my car. It was a ludicrous story, I know, but my mother, for all her supposed instinct, was incredibly gullible, for the simple reason that she wasn’t interested enough in other people’s stories to properly process them.
“I don’t know, Lily, I have my pottery group today . . .”
“It’s only about a three-hour drive to Maine,” I lied. “Afterward, I thought maybe you could follow me back down to Winslow. We could have a mother-daughter dinner. You could spend the night.”
She thought about it, but I knew she’d agree. For some inexplicable reason my mother was always trying to get invited to my house up in Winslow. She liked the university setting, and my “tiny cottage” (her words), and she liked that I cooked for her. I knew that she’d drive me to Maine if it meant she could come to Winslow.
“Okay, darling,” she said. “How exciting. A spontaneous trip to Maine, just you and me.”
It took a few hours to get her ready but we were on the road by noon, me driving her old Volvo. I hadn’t properly slept in about thirty hours, and the thought of spending another four hours behind the wheel of a car was not a pleasant one, but everything had gone perfectly. And it was nearly over.
We spent most of the trip talking about my father. “I hope he doesn’t expect conjugal relations,” she said, not for the first time.
“You’re not even married, so it would hardly be conjugal,” I said.
“You know what I mean.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re not even going to recognize him. He’s not the same as he was before going to prison.”
“I should hope not.”
“He can’t be alone in the house. Not at night anyway. He has panic attacks. You don’t need to be near him at all times, but he needs to know where you are.”