She crouched under the telephone table and fed the letter into the paper shredder. Same with the check. The shredder made a whirring noise and deposited the remains into the basin below.
The kitchen was still. A peace came over her, one she hadn’t felt in a long time. Smoothing back her hair, she started for the second floor. She could see the key in her mind, sitting on James’s desk. It was small and silver with a square top. “Sentry,” it said on one side. On the other: “Made in China.”
There were conflicting voices in her head. It doesn’t matter. She would look in the cabinet and find some evidence of the woman, whoever she was … and then what? It would open up something she should just let pass. But, on the other hand, she wanted something real, something truthful. A name. Even if it hurt. She was ready.
A glint of light on the landing caught her eye. James’s office door was already ajar.
She walked inside. It was chilly in the room. She walked to the window and looked out. There was something in the yard. She leaned her head against the glass, frowning.
It was a tent.
She hurried back downstairs and out the door, certain it was a hallucination—for how could she have missed it when she came inside? But no, it was a tent, big and yellow, fully erected in her backyard. She had no idea when she’d last seen a tent. Its presence here seemed alien, unnerving. And then she saw something dark moving inside. A shadow.
Slowly, she walked toward it. She squatted, her heels immediately sinking in the mud. There was a zipped flap at the front. “Hello?” she said softly.
There was rustling. “Mom?”
More rustling. Then the opening unzipped and Charles stared out at her. He’d taken his shoes off; they were sitting on the tent floor next to him. He was dressed in work clothes, a blue button-down shirt and dark khaki pants. His eyes, cheeks, and the tip of his nose were red. At first she thought it might be windburn, but then she wondered if he’d been crying.
“What are you doing?” she asked. She tapped one of the posts. “Where did you get this?”
“In the garage. It was Dad’s.”
She blinked, still not understanding.
“I built it,” Charles went on. “Do you want to come in?”
She hesitated, the idea of it was not very appealing. The ground was cold, wet, and there was a bitter chill in the air. But she wondered if something in him had broken, just as something in her had. It was probably high time things broke inside all of them. She looked inside the tent again. Everything was an iridescent gold. “I guess I could come in for a minute,” she said softly.
Charles moved back so she’d have enough room to crawl in. She climbed into the tent awkwardly, her skirt riding up, her necklace bouncing against her collarbone, her knees instantly cold, separated from the tent’s floor by only a thin layer of pantyhose. Charles was lying down, so Sylvie did, too. There was just enough room for them to lie side by side, their arms touching.
For a long time, neither of them said anything. There were a lot of things Sylvie wanted to ask him—why he’d built the tent or why he wasn’t at work, for instance—but she sensed that she shouldn’t. They lay next to each other in their own separate and walled-off pain, listening to the wind.
“It kind of doesn’t feel like we’re in our backyard,” Sylvie said.
“I know. We could be anywhere.”
“And it’s cozy, in a way. Sort of like a nest.”
“I guess it is,” Charles said. “It’s pretty crazy that people used to live like this. Not in tents, I mean, but so exposed to the elements. So primitively.”
“They were used to it, though,” she said. “I guess if you’re used to it, it’s not such a big deal.”
Far off in the distance, someone started up what sounded like a buzz saw. “Why did Dad hate me?” Charles asked.
A shiver ran through her. She sat up halfway. “Honey. He loved you.”
“Well, he didn’t exactly like me. Is there something I could’ve done differently? Is there something I should’ve said? A way I should’ve looked?”
Her throat was tight. “I don’t know if it was as simple as that.”
“So you did notice it.” He watched her for a moment. She neither nodded nor shook her head. “Couldn’t you have said something to him? Couldn’t you have asked?”
“You don’t think I tried? You don’t think I agonized over it? That I questioned why he acted the way he did? You don’t think it killed me?”
“I …” Charles stammered, surprised.
She shut her eyes. It felt like there was a tidal wave brewing deep inside her, beginning to build momentum. What had she harmed, trying to keep the peace? Après moi, le deluge, her grandfather said. She didn’t know any answers. She wished she did, but she didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” she said, sighing. “I did try. I did. But no, I didn’t try enough. No one did. Don’t just blame him, though,” she said quietly. “It’s my fault, too. Maybe it’s mostly my fault. Don’t think it’s yours.”