The television blinked soundlessly: an ad about Toyotas, then another about eHarmony dating service. “Actually.” Charles gazed out the window. “It is pretty bad out there.”
Joanna paused, her hand on the doorknob. “So … you don’t want to go out now?”
He shrugged. He knew he wasn’t making sense. He felt like he was losing his mind.
Joanna slapped her hands on her thighs. “Whatever.” She walked to the kitchen sink and turned on the faucet. “Oh. I have to go to Maryland next week. My mom’s having a biopsy on Tuesday.”
Tuesday. The day of his interview with Bronwyn. “Is she all right?”
“I hope so. Probably.”
Then he had an idea. “Do you want me to come?”
She looked up from the sink, startled. “What?”
“Do you want me to come?” he repeated. “We could go to Baltimore after your mom has her appointment. Or to D.C.”
She blinked. “You’ve never wanted to come before.”
“Okay. Never mind. I just thought I’d ask.”
“No, I mean, sure. Come.”
“Yeah?”
“Of course.”
There. It was a good enough excuse. His mother-in-law was having a biopsy. He needed to be there for moral support. It would get him out of the interview. He could assign someone else to the story. The end.
“Don’t expect much,” Joanna said over the running water. “We don’t have to stay at my mom’s house if you don’t want to.”
“Okay. Whatever you want.”
Decision made. He stood there in silence for a while, watching the muted TV, the rain on the windows, assessing the piles of still-sealed boxes. Most of them were marked JOANNA, KITCHEN or JOANNA, BEDROOM or JOANNA, MISC, remnants of her life before him. Good, he thought. This was figured out. He was free.
And then, feeling something rise up inside him, he padded down the hall to the first floor full bath, the one they never used. He shut the door.
It was warm in the bathroom. The towels were fresh and dry. The dispenser was full of orange soap, and the shower curtain was printed with bug-eyed fish, maniacal octopi. Charles ripped it back and stepped into the scoured, empty tub. He sank to his knees, spread his legs out, and closed his eyes. The memory pressed at him, begging him to think it through. Even though he didn’t want to, even though he might not have to explain it, it wouldn’t leave his mind.
The last time Charles had seen Bronwyn was the end of his senior year, at the Swithin award ceremony and banquet. The ceremony, which presented achievement awards in academics and sports, was taking place in his parents’ garden. Charles’s great-grandfather had held one of the first award banquets there, and a board member had held succeeding banquets at one of their homes ever since.
Charles and Bronwyn sat together with their friends around one of the large, round tables that had been set up in the back garden, sneaking sips of champagne when their parents weren’t looking. They were all guaranteed to win something: Nadine the English department’s award, Rob a plaque for student government, Bronwyn for art and science, and Charles, well, Charles was pretty sure he was getting the Academic Achievement of the Year. It was a Renaissance-man award, reserved for the senior who excelled in all areas—academics, community service, and activities. The awards committee allegedly kept the winners secret from the board members, but Charles had a feeling his mother knew something. Why else had she asked his father to come home from the office early so he could catch the entire presentation? Why else had she gazed lovingly at Charles while he put on a jacket and tie, telling him she was so proud of all he’d accomplished?
The headmaster, Jerome, stood in front of the rose trellis—they’d long since replaced the one Scott had burned—calling out the sports awards. When he called Scott’s name for wrestling, Charles thought it was a joke. It was unheard of for underclassmen to be honored. Scott burst through the crowd, wearing a brown suit that seemed like it had been dug out of some seventies time capsule. Everything about the suit was huge, made for a much larger man, and the pants sagged low on Scott’s hips, the same fit as his jeans. He swaggered with irony up to the stage and instead of shaking Jerome’s hand, slapped him high five. Jerome looked startled but then smiled nervously. There was a guffaw from the left—their father. He had materialized at the table next to his mother when Charles wasn’t watching. Charles suddenly felt anxious and sweaty, astonished that his father was really here and annoyed that Scott had stolen some of his thunder.