The Last September: A Novel

“Hey,” I called. “Hey Lightfoot.”


She ran toward me, full of relief. I knelt to pet her and her ribs felt sharp, alarming, under my fingers. I thought about loading the dog directly into my car and driving away. But where would I go? And could I really leave without checking on Eli? He was both my old friend and my family.

I glanced toward the backseat, where Sarah lay sleeping. A voice rose up in my head, battling the moment of uncertainty. Come on. Do you think Eli would hurt a baby? I was so used to Charlie’s rebuttals they arose even in his absence, making me feel silly—selfish—for hesitating. Eli wasn’t some bogeyman who would snatch my baby and swallow her whole. He was just Eli, my friend who suffered from a debilitating disease. Whatever state I found him in, he wouldn’t hurt anyone. Quietly as possible, I clicked the infant seat out of its holder and carried Sarah into the house.

I’d barely crossed the threshold before realizing that talking myself out of my gut reaction had been a mistake if the house was any reflection of what was going on in Eli’s mind. The living room looked ransacked, newspapers and garbage strewn everywhere, books tumbled from the shelves, clothes draped over every piece of furniture and all over the floor. A low-hanging odor of cigarettes and must, possibly urine and feces.

“Come on,” I said to the dog, who had trotted to the middle of the room and stood there, expectant. “Let’s get out of here.” She hesitated, either waiting for me to find her bowl and fill it or else too loyal to desert Eli. “Come on,” I said again, slapping my hip with my free hand. “I’ll get you some food.”

And then Eli appeared in the doorway from the kitchen, completely naked. A cigarette in one hand, his hair greasy and matted. I took another step backward, closer to the door, and moved the baby seat behind my knees, as if I could hide it.

“Eli,” I said. I had to clear my throat to be audible. “Your dog is starving. I’m taking her to get some food.”

He dropped his cigarette to the floor and ground it out with his bare foot. Then he went back into the kitchen. Still facing the kitchen doorway, I started to back toward the open front door, calculating how fast I could carry Sarah through the screened-in porch and to the driveway. Eli reemerged with an unopened bag of dog food. He ripped into the top and turned it over, the kibble pouring in a loud rush onto the floor. Lightfoot ran forward, her tail wagging, and ate while the two of us stood at opposite ends of the room, watching.

“There,” Eli said. “There you go.”

Standing on the other side of the room, staring at Eli and the ravenous little dog, I felt a rush of very serious anger. At Charlie and Deirdre, yes, but also at myself, and Ladd, and even my father and mother. All the little pieces, the unravelings, that had led me to this exact spot, again and again and again, the only place I had to go.

“Listen,” I said to Eli. “I just have to get something out of the car.”

He stood there, placid, as I left the house. Crossing the lawn, I gulped in the clean night air. Sarah woke up and started to wail, but I steeled myself against the sound, clicking the seat into its platform and climbing directly behind the wheel. I screeched out of the driveway and drove up the street, less than half a mile before I pulled over. Unsettling as the sight of Eli had been, I wasn’t worried that he would follow me. It didn’t take much distance, to stop being afraid of him. I climbed into the backseat and unbuckled Sarah. Once I had her nursing, I dialed Charlie.

“Brett,” he said. “Where are you.”

“I’m on the Cape. I just went to the house. Eli is there and he’s in bad shape.”

On the other end, an intake of breath, Charlie unsure which upheaval to address.

“I’m just calling to tell you,” I said. “I’m not ready to talk.”

“Are you coming home?”