The Last September: A Novel

Lying there in the dark, listening to the absence of Daniel beneath me, I felt flooded with a clear and certain knowledge that another bead had been added to the string. Maybe it was Lightfoot, who jumped up, skittered to the window, and placed her paws on the sill. Her little tail started to beat, back and forth, slowly at first and then faster. I sat up and placed a hand on Sarah’s heart. Then I took off my nightgown and pulled on a pair of jeans, a bra, a T-shirt—before going to the window and seeing exactly what I knew I would: Eli, making his way down the path between the scrub oaks from Ladd’s cottage, heading toward us.

My purse sat right by my elbow on top of the little desk. I could have reached in and grabbed my phone. But instead I left it there. I picked up my flip-flops but didn’t put them on, one more thing to risk waking Mrs. Duffy. Even with Lightfoot at my heels, it seemed to me I made almost no noise at all, already a ghost.

I could have gone into the kitchen and used the old-fashioned wall phone. Dialed 911, made the world converge here. How long would it take for the police to arrive and arrest him, or worse? I didn’t bother finding out. I just opened the front door, letting the dog burst through and onto the grass. Lightfoot ran down the hill to greet him. I stepped outside, locking the door behind me. The night air stood close and dark, one note of chill amid the dense summer breeze. No, I realized, not summer anymore, but deep enough into September that it had officially become fall. Beach grass swayed beyond the manicured lawn. Eli had bypassed the path to the house and now stood under the eaves of the shed. The sky sat clear and dark above us, the air dry, but Eli’s posture suggested huddling away from rain. I could see him, stringy blond hair hanging down his back, his shoulders hunched. Lightfoot ran in joyful circles around his feet, then stopped to jump up on his legs, stretching toward him, asking for a return greeting. But Eli didn’t bend to pet her. He looked so helpless, a forlorn shadow leaning against the shed. When could he have last eaten, or slept in a bed? I wished I’d thought to grab some food before leaving the house and felt acutely aware, these past few weeks, how well I’d been tended, first by Maxine and then by Daniel and Mrs. Duffy.

“Brett?” Eli said, into the darkness. His voice sounded hoarse and garbled, unpracticed, and still just exactly like himself.

“Yes,” I agreed, loud and clear, no mistaking that he would hear me. “It’s me. It’s Brett.” I left the path to walk across the grass, my arms outstretched before me as if I meant to embrace him. Eli had somehow managed not to trigger the automatic floodlight, but as I walked toward him it detected my movement and washed the lawn with a faint yellow glow.

His face looked wolfish, starving, with a patchy, unsuccessful beard. At the sight of my approaching, he let himself break into a smile. I knew it would just be one moment of the old Eli. But that was enough to let me muster my courage. I dropped one arm but kept the other one in front of me. As I approached he reached out and clasped my hand, and we stood there, facing each other in the eerie slant of light, examining each other’s altered faces, the careful and fascinated way you greet a friend you haven’t seen in a long time—someone you knew when you were very, very young.





PART FOUR


In this short Life

That only lasts an hour

How much—how little—is

Within our power

— EMILY DICKINSON





15


Three boys grew up on a stretch of beach, summer their most important time of year. Each one looking forward, through the drudgery of school, the slushy forever of northeastern winters, to the lush and persistent light of June, widening above sand and shore. The tide pools with crabs and periwinkles. Sea stars clinging to the rocks under the jetty.