The Last September: A Novel

“What does it matter? You’re coming here.”


“It matters,” Charlie said. His voice sounded a little too devoid of worry, at least over what I would do. I could almost hear him saying, You will always come back. He would mean it as a compliment, a nod to my devotion. Maybe that was why he loved me.

But Charlie just said, as if he’d read my mind, “I love you.”

Without thinking I said, “I love you, too,” then hung up and tossed the phone aside.

I looked down at Sarah, her eyes half closed, long lashes like her dad’s skimming the tops of chubby baby cheeks. How could they, I thought, my brain returning to its primary wound. Charlie and Deirdre (even as I thought it, my heart rebelled against the phrase, placing their names side by side like a couple), sneaking around, having an affair, while I was taking care of this little baby, maybe while I was pregnant, too.

For a moment, a rising and blinding anger blotted out my fear and sadness. I wanted to kill him. I really did.

“Your timing sucks,” I said aloud. Maybe I was talking to Eli as well as Charlie. I’d come to the Moss house so I could figure out what to do next. If not for the imperative of my child, it would have felt wrong to leave Eli there. But I couldn’t exactly unpack a diaper bag to stay with a naked madman. Find a comfortable spot to nurse my baby and wait for Eli to start monologuing about Billy Shears or whatever his latest delusion was. But I did wish I’d managed to take the dog with me. I thought about Eli’s last dog, Manny, who’d been killed trying to follow Eli across Mass Avenue traffic. And then finally, I thought about Eli. All alone with the torturous workings of his mind.

I closed my eyes, trying not to give into thoughts of if only. Once, years before, I’d heard a recording of my father talking and been astonished to learn he had a Brooklyn accent. It wasn’t the way I remembered him. If only my father hadn’t gotten lymphoma, how familiar that voice would have been to me. Maybe he would be somewhere, right now, and I could run to him. If only Eli hadn’t become schizophrenic, he would have graduated med school by now, be deciding on a specialty. Or maybe he would have changed his mind and become a vet instead. Maybe he’d have a family. What a great dad he would be. According to E. M. Forster it was the only tense we could never be sure about: what would have been.

I buckled Sarah back into her seat and climbed behind the wheel. On very dark nights, on deserted country roads, driving can feel like flying. The engine of my car hummed so quietly, the wheels moving imperceptibly over cool, invisible pavement. Leaves, still dark, shimmered through shadows on either side of me. I drove past the long dirt driveway to Daniel Williams’s compound. Ladd wouldn’t be there—he was still in Honduras. And anyway, summer was long over. Daniel himself was probably back in Boston. Still, I found myself making the turn. Off the pavement onto the dirt, so I could feel the earth rumbling beneath the car, feel myself returning and connected to some sort of home. The house came into view sooner than I expected, because lights were on—in most of the downstairs and one upstairs window. A thin line of smoke spiraled up from the chimney. I stopped short of where they’d hear me approaching, wondering if it were just Daniel home or if he had guests.