The Last September: A Novel

First thing the next morning, I called shelters in the Boston area and found Eli’s dog, Lightfoot, at the Animal Rescue League in Arlington. They said she had fleas and a mild case of heartworm but otherwise was in surprisingly good spirits and shape. She was a nice dog, a little Italian greyhound mix Eli had adopted from Angell. I brought her home with me until they let Eli out ten days later.

“It’s not long enough,” Charlie said, lying across our bed, hands covering his eyes. Lightfoot jumped up on the bed and peered worriedly into his face. Charlie had spent the past ten days giving interviews, finding suppliers, writing menus—and also traveling to Boston for commitment hearings and visits with Eli. It seemed like every time Eli was committed, they kept him for a shorter time, which translated into a shorter time before his next break. Charlie put one broad hand on the dog, half petting her, half pushing her away. He looked ragged.

“Eli will be back in the hospital in a matter of months,” he said.

I sat down next to him and placed my hand on his forehead, as if he were a child home sick from school. Sometimes when Eli broke down I wished that he could stay in a hospital forever, sparing the rest of us. When he was better—medicated—the wish that he would stay that way was mitigated by our knowledge that that would never happen. The fog of complying with the meds would wear him down, he would quit taking them, and the voices would rise. The cycle would only continue, and no one but Charlie had the wherewithal to withstand it, and believe in him, one more time.

ELI RECLAIMED LIGHTFOOT AND went back to his job. I wrote him a check from our dwindling account so he could move into a new apartment. Meanwhile the restaurant started to look like a restaurant. Charlie hired his staff, among them an artist who helped him out with decorating before starting as hostess when the restaurant opened. In mid-May, we went to one of her openings. She was showing at the McCewan gallery with three other painters. She’d already worked with Charlie for a couple weeks, but I’d been too busy grading to come by the restaurant. At this point my one nice maternity dress was straining enough that I worried my popped belly button was visible through the stretchy black cotton. The space was brick-walled, one large and airy room, and everyone there held a plastic cup of wine.

“Go ahead,” Charlie said as he poured a cup of red for himself. “What does it matter at this point?”

I shook my head, more from not wanting people to glare at me than worry it would do harm to the baby. Charlie glanced around the room and said, “We’ll just say hi and look at her paintings. We don’t have to stay long.” Then he smiled at someone in the crowd, jutting his chin in her direction. I couldn’t tell whether the gesture was meant as an additional greeting, to her, or for me—pointing her out.

A woman glided through the crowd, her arm outstretched to me way too early. I guessed she was a couple years younger than me, fair and elegant. Despite her jump-the-gun greeting, there was something preternaturally contained about her, and I thought Charlie had chosen just right. We’d learned from our travels the importance of having a coolly beautiful woman to greet customers, one who knew how to dress and carry herself.

“Brett,” she said. “I’m Deirdre Bennet.” I remembered her name from the résumés. Deirdre went on, “Charlie has told me so much about you. I’m so happy to meet you.”

A broad, aggressively handsome man appeared and introduced himself as Deirdre’s boyfriend. My fingers folded in on themselves when he gripped my hand.