The Last September: A Novel

We stood there for a moment, wondering if we should hug and sharing an awkward decision not to. He cleared his throat and said, “Come to see those volumes?”


“You bet.”

Ladd stepped away from his door and held out his hand, gesturing to the threshold. I thought of the brief exchange I’d had with Charlie earlier, about the joking, fantasy make-out session with Ladd. In my mind, I had pictured a rusty teakettle and piles of dusty books, maybe dirty socks in the corner. But Ladd’s cottage was neat—if his bed was unmade, it was politely hidden overhead in the loft. And the teakettle that he immediately turned on was brand-new or recently polished. I’d forgotten that about Ladd, the way he kept order. In one corner of the cottage sat a small pine table surrounded by mismatched chairs. I knew the books the moment I saw them, from across the room, stacked there, waiting for me. The Years and Hours of Emily Dickinson, by Jay Leyda, both volumes. I crossed the room as he fiddled with boxes of tea bags. Before he could ask me which kind I wanted I brushed my hand over the top cover.

“Look at these. Were you expecting me?”

He poured steaming water into large green mugs. “I thought I might bring them by later,” he said. “That way I could say hi to Charlie, too.”

Since when did Ladd ever want to say hi to Charlie? The books looked ancient, musty, sacred. Funny to see something—solid and right there—that I had been wanting for so long.

I said, “It was really good of you to remember. Thank you.”

“They’re Uncle Daniel’s,” Ladd said. “They belonged to his wife.” He dropped tea bags into the mugs and handed me mine. I closed my hands around its lovely warmth, the steam rising up around my face.

“You know, Brett,” he said. “I’m glad you came by, before I saw you and Charlie. I don’t even know if you ever told him about that letter I wrote.”

It surprised me that he would bring this up so quickly. I shook my head. All of a sudden it became very apparent, this close space hidden in a thicket of trees, the intimacy of the two of us, here together. Would Charlie mind? Or was his trust in my adoration so complete that he wouldn’t give it a second thought?

“I’ve been embarrassed for two years and counting,” Ladd said.

It would have been appropriate to take time and weigh my response. I wondered, again, if anyone had told Ladd about Sarah. Probably this would be a good time to tell him myself. But at that moment, for whatever reason, my field of vision had narrowed to these four wooden walls and the crooked floorboards. And I felt like just me, a person, instead of a mother and wife.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” I said, remembering how I’d ripped it into pieces. “I love that letter. It meant a lot to me. It still does.”

Ladd tilted his head to one side. I noticed gray at his temples. On the other side of the room, my corporeal lines blurred a little bit, and while I didn’t exactly step out of body I became acutely aware of a sort of dreamlike quality, a sudden out-of-timeness. Who could have known, when I woke up that morning, that the two of us would be standing here together, in this small enclosed room, with nobody watching. I thought of Eli, heading toward Cape Cod, and Charlie, nailing in shingles as if I hadn’t even left. Then I thought of that Fourth of July seven years before and wondered what my life would have been like if I hadn’t agreed to sign on the dotted line or followed Charlie through the crowded party.

“So,” Ladd said. “How’s the dissertation coming?”