Sounds of laughter swept out of Emeline’s house. People inside were getting drunk now, making toasts, telling one another how wonderful Sylvie had been. One Padavano sister after another would peel herself away from the windows to share a story from their childhood; they wouldn’t be able to help themselves. They would tell everyone that Sylvie had nearly flunked several high school subjects because she’d read in the park instead of attending classes that were boring to her. Guests would laugh when they heard that the head librarian at the Lozano Library used to make out with random boys in the stacks when she was a teenager. One of the sisters would describe how, as a child, Sylvie walked around their house muttering to herself—casting spells, her sisters had claimed—while she memorized pages of poetry in order to delight their father.
William looked forward to hearing these stories repeated in the days ahead. He knew his wife would not be forgotten or set aside. The Padavanos talked about Charlie as if he were still part of their lives, still part of themselves, and because of that: He was. There was a mural of Sylvie on the side of a building not far from the library and framed paintings of her all over the twins’ houses. From a distance, because of her height and posture, Cecelia looked like Sylvie; Emeline shared her older sister’s thoughtful eyes; and Julia somehow contained Sylvie—like vines of roses, the two eldest Padavano girls had woven around and into each other when they were young.
William said, “For a long time, Sylvie knew me better than I knew myself. I think sometimes”—now it was his turn to pause—“we need another pair of eyes. We need the people around us.”
Alice turned her face upward, as if to study the night sky, as if she required a different vantage point to sort through what was inside her. William had written a series of questions in the footnotes of his manuscript, a long time ago. What am I doing? Why am I doing this? Who am I? He could sense those questions deep inside his daughter now. She was not broken, like he had been. Julia had seen to that. But Alice was taking tentative steps onto a new terrain, wondering if the ice could bear her weight.
“I know you can do this on your own,” he said. “But, if you’ll allow me, I’d like to help.”
For Julie & Whit
Acknowledgments
HELEN ELLIS, HANNAH TINTI, AND I happened to sit next to each other in Dani Shapiro’s New York University workshop in 1995. Despite our striking differences, we recognized something in one another, and when the class ended, Helen suggested we continue to meet. These two women are still my first readers, and I hear their voices in my head when I write. I am the writer I am, and this book is the book it is, because of them.
I am both proud and delighted to be represented by Julie Barer and The Book Group and to be published by Whitney Frick and The Dial Press. Susan Kamil was in the room for Dear Edward, and I feel like she remains in the room with us now. Many thanks to Rose Fox, Clio Seraphim, and Nicole Cunningham for reading early drafts of this novel and offering insightful notes. Loren Noveck and Kathy Lord were incisive, thoughtful copy editors, and they have my gratitude. Thank you to the team at The Dial Press / Random House, especially Andy Ward, Avideh Bashirrad, Maria Braeckel, Carrie Neill, Debbie Aroff, Madison Dettlinger, and Donna Cheng. I’m very fortunate to have Caspian Dennis, Jenny Meyer, and Michelle Weiner as advocates for my work, and I’m grateful to be published in the UK by Isabel Wall and Viking Penguin.
Growing up, I slept at my friend Leah’s house as often as I slept at my own, and her parents, Louis and Cecilia, were like second parents to me. There were many reasons I loved being there, but one of them was the constant parade of Ceil’s many sisters (Toni, Celeste, Rosemary, Caroline, and Christine), who walked in and out of the house as if it were their own. The sisters were all short, most of them had curly hair, and their faces resembled one another’s to the extent that they looked like different versions of a whole. They inspired my Padavano sisters, and I thank them for always being nice to the shy girl who was usually by Leah’s side.
My uncle Ed mailed postcards to me from his home in Chicago when I was a kid, and the greeting was always the same: “Hello Beautiful.” I knew that my uncle didn’t really know what I looked like—I saw him very rarely—but that’s why I loved the greeting. It felt like he believed I was beautiful on the inside, and since (as an introverted, bookish child) my insides were the most significant part of me, I appreciated this. The title of this novel, and the fact that it’s set in the neighborhood of Pilsen in Chicago, are because of my uncle. In childhood, magical lands rise up inside us, and my uncle’s mural-covered neighborhood was one of mine.
Librarians and booksellers are the best people. The librarians Kolter Campbell and Catie Huggins at the McCormick Special Collections and Archives at the Northwestern University Library answered several of my questions about classes and programs at Northwestern University in the 1980s, and I am grateful for their assistance. Katharine Solheim from Pilsen Community Books helped me determine which street the Padavano family might have lived on, and her expertise on Pilsen was invaluable. The wonderful Lozano Library sits in the middle of Pilsen, as it does in my novel. The actual library opened its doors in 1989; I have taken fictional liberties, and my version exists a few years before that date. I hope, in any case, that I have honored the library, and the profound importance of all public libraries to our society.
I’m grateful to my friend JJ Lonsinger Rutherford for answering questions about what it’s like to grow up as a very tall girl. JJ is fierce and funny and a great advertisement for growing as tall as you possibly can. I also want to thank Dominic Vendell for generously answering my logistical questions about how one earns a PhD in history. Kevin Konty told me, years ago, that his mother had fostered newborns while he was a teenager, and that was so interesting to me that I’m amazed the idea didn’t show up in one of my novels until now.
I read numerous books about the history of basketball on the way to writing this novel, and I listen to too many basketball podcasts to count. Nothing makes me happier than sitting on our couch with my husband and two sons to watch a Golden State Warriors game. I would like to thank Steph Curry for the joy with which he plays, Klay Thompson for his singular vibe, Draymond Green for being Draymond Green with such admirable intensity, and Gary Payton II for bouncing around the court like a human pogo stick.
The incredibly busy Fabrice Gautier—the “flying osteopath for aching and bruised NBA players”—was kind enough to let me interview him about how he approaches protecting and strengthening the bodies of elite athletes, and his time was incredibly helpful.
My babies are now taller than me, and I want to thank Malachy and Hendrix for making me laugh, giving me hugs, and being my biggest cheerleaders. I am grateful to be their mother.
Dan Wilde is my final reader, and he always makes my work better. I love his brain, which is so different from my own, and his heart, which is enormous.