Some people who lived there also worked there, he knew: they stocked shelves in stores or made sure people got safely on the trains or accepted deposit slips at banks. And standing at a bank window, greeting neighbors and helping them grow their savings accounts, seemed a universe above practicing law. Of course, he didn’t need Carol to tell him he was being romantic, idealistic. Being a teller in a village bank wouldn’t be the most exciting of lives, but he couldn’t help but wonder how important excitement was supposed to be in life.
He pulled his notebook out of the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him. He had wanted to buy a new fountain pen, a rather expensive one, to be honest, to kind of commemorate his starting out as a real, full-time writer, but Carol had pleasantly suggested he buy one with royalties. She had a point. He spent a lot of energy trying to write, but all he had to show for it were dozens of rejection slips for his short stories and a stalled novel manuscript. She’d sometimes call writing his “hobby.” He’d once told her, “Lawyering is how I earn my living; writing is how I earn my keep.” He thought he was being profound, but she laughed and said, “Then you’d better work harder if you want me to keep you.” It was early enough in their marriage that he’d laughed too.
“How’s your writing coming?” Christopher asked, pulling out his notebook and pen.
“What?”
“How is your writing coming?”
“Okay, I guess. How about yours?”
“Fine.”
“And what did you say you’re writing?”
Christopher started putting the notebook away.
“Okay, okay, you don’t have to tell me,” Richard said. “Just curious.”
Christopher opened the notebook and started writing. Before they caught the train that morning, Richard had made sure they’d stopped to buy a notebook for Christopher. He insisted on having one exactly like his father’s. Richard bent over his own notebook, writing, and noticed his son checking once or twice to make certain Richard wasn’t trying to read what he was writing.
This was a strange feeling for Richard, father and son, sitting next to each other, writing in the same kind of notebook. He felt almost as though there were two of him, that sitting next to him was a smaller version of himself.
“Will I ever know what you’re writing?” Richard asked.
“I don’t know,” Christopher said. “Maybe if you’re good.” He looked up and smiled.
CHAPTER THIRTY
It was past nine when the bright red Jeep Cherokee, only a year old, drove up the gravel driveway of his parents’ good-sized, two-story home. The front light was on, waiting. Richard climbed out of the passenger’s side, and his father, in his corduroy shirt and blue jeans, climbed out from behind the wheel. His father’s thick white hair, combined with his deep blue eyes and knowing face, made him look almost prophetic.
“Has it changed?” his father asked, smiling.
“Not a bit.”
“Is that good?”
“Perfect.”
The house was part of the land, like it hadn’t been built but had grown there over years like the giant pines and cedars surrounding it. The outside was roughly hewn wood, never painted, and a wide, wooden deck traveled around the entire house. Richard scaled the rock chimney with his eyes like he’d done with his feet so many times as a boy.
“I’ve missed this place,” he said. “A year’s too long to wait.”
“It’s missed you, too.”
Grandpa opened the back door of the Jeep. “Come on out, little buddy,” he said. “We can’t bring the house to you.”
Christopher climbed out, staring at the house.
“Isn’t it great out here, Christopher?” Richard asked.
Christopher looked up at the trees.
“What do you think?” Grandpa asked.
“It’s the most beautiful place in the world,” Christopher said.
“Oh, isn’t this wonderful!” Grandma hurried down the steps from the house. She was in her mid-sixties, but that didn’t stop her from walking with a spry jump in her step. Her hair was long and grey, with a good share of white, pulled back in a ponytail. In her red flannel shirt, jeans, and leather hiking boots, she looked like she’d fallen off a page from that month’s L.L. Bean catalog. She was clearly excited to see her son and grandson, but the person she ran up to was Grandpa, giving him a kiss on his lips and squeezing his arms. They looked at each other, talked to each other, held onto each other not like newlyweds, but like a husband and a wife who had shared forty years of life and were grateful for it.
“Now, where is that grandson of mine?” she asked. Christopher had taken a few steps back as she’d come down the steps, but she ran over and knelt in front of him.
“Hello, Mrs. Carson,” Christopher said, holding out his hand to shake hers.
“What?” Grandma’s voice sounded shocked, but she was smiling.
“Mayday! Mayday!” Grandpa said. “I told you, little buddy, I told you. It’s Grandpa and Grandma. If you don’t want to sleep in the shed, you’d better learn that quick.”
“Hello, Grandma.”
“Put that hand away,” she said as she pulled him up to her and hugged him tight. “I’m not letting go until you hug back,” she said. He brought his arms up around her and hugged her.
“I’m happy to be here,” he said quietly.
“Not as happy as I am, honey.”
“Now,” Grandma said as she stood up, “where’s that man you call your father?”
“Mom,” Richard said as he hugged her.
“It’s been too, too long,” she whispered in his ear as they hugged.
“I know. It’s good to be home.”
They held each other’s arms. “I’m sorry Carol couldn’t make it,” Grandma said, “but I’m glad that didn’t stop you two men from coming.”
“She’s very busy.”
“Come on, Grandma,” Grandpa said as he pulled the bag out of the back of the Jeep, “it’s almost tomorrow. I’ll put the Jeep in the garage later.”
He led the way up to the house. Richard tried to take the bag from his father, but he wouldn’t hear of it, barreling through the front door, knocking the bag against the walls. Grandma and Christopher followed. She reached down and took his hand, holding it as they walked up the steps.
“Is it really almost tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yes, in less than three hours it will be tomorrow.”
“Then where will today go?”
“Not to worry, it doesn’t go anywhere,” Grandma said. “It just becomes one of the yesterdays. Those aren’t cheap, either. It’s taken me years to have as many yesterdays as I have.”
They stepped into the entry and she closed the door behind them. Grandma and Christopher, still holding hands, climbed the stairs to the second floor and found the two men standing in the hall, looking at the pictures that lined the walls.
“Remember the other one you took of us that same day?” Richard said to his father, pointing to a picture of Richard and his parents with Christopher in front of the Brooklyn Bridge. “We’ve got it up in Christopher’s room.”
Christopher came up to take a look.
“And I haven’t seen this for years,” Richard said as he took a different picture off the wall and looked more closely. “I’m not sure I even remember why we took this.” It was a photo of two eleven-year-old boys—Richard and his best friend, Andy—leaning against each other, hair messed up, dirt on their face, backpacks beside them. They were each outdoing the other’s grin. “What were we doing?”
“You’ve been breathing that Manhattan acid air too long, son. Don’t you remember the way you talked and talked about how you wanted to camp out, alone, once school let out? Just the two of you, for a whole week. Your mother and I kept saying you were too young. Finally you wore us down, and we said you could do it.”
“If you camped here,” Grandma added.
“Now I remember. Who wanted to camp in their o
wn yard?”
“That’s why we built the house on four acres,” Grandpa told Christopher, “so the boys could be in the woods without having to leave home. Anyway, your daddy and Andy packed everything up, wouldn’t even let me help, and took their long hike a few yards back into our woods. And how long do you think your brave daddy roughed it with his friend?”
“I don’t know. Did he last for a week?”
“More like one night! Those boys were jumping at the chance to get warm and have Grandma’s cooking for breakfast.”
“That’s when we took this picture of our own Lewis and Clark,” Grandma said.
“Well, it was cold,” Richard said. “And when we woke up we realized all we’d packed for breakfast was a can of pork and beans.”
“And no can opener!” Grandpa said.
“Who’s that?” Christopher asked, pointing at a different photo. It was a picture of Richard’s brother, about sixteen years old, sitting on the railing of the deck, the woods behind him. His jeans had several holes, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. There was no smile on his face, and it looked like he was working hard to make sure one didn’t show up. “Is that you when you were a boy, Richard?”
Richard looked closely at the photo, then looked away. “We need to get you to bed,” he said.
“That’s a good question, Christopher,” Grandma said. “That’s your daddy’s brother, David.”
Richard sighed.
“Richard has a brother?” Christopher asked.
“He never told you about his brother?” Grandpa asked. Christopher shook his head no. Grandpa looked over to Grandma. “You need to meet your uncle, little buddy.”
“Now, I’m not—” Richard started.
“It’s almost tomorrow, Grandpa,” she said, then smiled. “You’ve got a grandson to spend tomorrow with.”
“You’re absolutely, positively, correctalamente, my dear. Come on, buddy, help me carry this bag to your room. We got it all ready especially for you.”
Christopher helped Grandpa carry the bag down the hall. As they got close to a room, Grandpa told Christopher that it would be his, and he and his grandmother went in first. Grandpa waited for Richard to come.
“Richard, I want you and our grandson to have a wonderful time here,” his father said quietly as he followed Richard into the room.
In the bedroom was an oak student desk and chair, a bookcase full of books, a baseball and mitt on top of a tall oak dresser with a bat in the nearby corner, and even a couple of new Batman and Spiderman posters. And what a bed! It was piled high with pillows and covered with a thick, plush, inviting red and brown comforter. Such a bed would make getting up in the morning, especially a cold morning, very difficult.
“This used to be your daddy’s room,” Grandma said. “We thought you’d like to sleep in it.”
“It’s changed,” Richard said, still staring around at the walls. “Not a lot, but some.”
“Of course,” Grandpa said. “This is a bedroom, son, not a museum.” He knelt next to his grandson. “So what do you think?”
“This is very nice and spacious. You’re very kind.”
“Now boy, quit talking like you’re a text book. You’re home—act like it!”
“Don’t listen to that old owl, honey,” Grandma interjected. “You can talk any way you want. So long as you call me ‘Grandma’ all the time.”
“Life’s too short to talk like you’re being interviewed for a job, for Pete’s sake,” Grandpa said. He turned Christopher around so they were looking eye to eye. “That’s right, little buddy, you talk anyway you want. Not the way they told you to talk.”
There was an uneasiness, but just for a few seconds, then the boy smiled. “I can talk any way I want?”
“Take it from me, an old English professor. You be yourself. With which a preposition you may even end a sentence.”
“Then, may I ask you a question?”
“Sure little buddy, shoot.”
“Those big pictures of those two men—”
“Yeah, we got those posters just for you.”
“Are they friends of yours?”
“Batman and Spidey?” Grandpa said. “You bet they are! We go way back. In fact—”
“Not tonight, Grandpa,” Grandma said. “This boy needs to go to bed. You’ll have to forgive him, Christopher. Grandpa’s so excited to have someone in the house his own age, he can barely stand it. Your daddy will be in the room right across the hall. You won’t get scared by yourself, will you, sweetie?”
“No, I will be just fine.”
“What?” Grandpa said, trying to look stern.
“I’ll be okay,” Christopher said. He looked up at his grandpa and smiled.
“And if you get scared,” Grandpa said to Richard, pointing at him and talking in a little old lady’s voice, “you just crawl in bed with my little buddy here. He’ll protect you. Okay, sweetie?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
It took three tries, but Richard finally got Hunter on the phone. “Look, can’t you take a hint?” Hunter said. “I’m not picking up. It’s late. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“It’s not that late,” Richard said. It was that late, but he didn’t want anyone in the house to know he was making a call so he’d waited. He stood by the window in the bedroom with the lights off, looking at the forest behind his parents house. “This is important.”
“I’m getting tired of these phone calls, Richard. You got your sabbatical. What do you want now?”
“Neuroplasticity.”
Hunter paused. “There’s an article about that on our site. You should—”
“I have. But tell me more.”
“Well, it’s like I told you at the lab. The brain is a living organ. It changes when we learn and—”
“What is Newman doing with neuroplasticity?”
“That’s in the article. He’s developed exercises that enhance the residents’ ability to learn and develop their brains. Their minds. People used to say teaching was an art. Believe me, it’s science, all the way.”
“You’re so careful to not tell me anything that’s not in the article.”
“Richard, what do you want? If you want to learn more about it, you’ve got a computer.”
“That’s just it, Hunter. I can find plenty about neuroplasticity. What I can’t find is anything about Newman’s agenda.”
“I told you, we have mental exercises—”
“There’s got to be more to it.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but that’s it. I’ve got to get going. We’re not all on vacation, you know.”
“Like, is Newman doing anything that would require an incision of some sort?”
There was a long pause.
“Hunter?”
“Is that what this is all about? Sorry we didn’t tell you, Richard, but Christopher had a little fall at the playground a while ago. Nothing serious. The nurse took care of it in no time.”
“Why hide it?”
“We weren’t hiding it. It just seemed so insignificant we didn’t even think about telling you. Those kinds of scrapes and bruises happen all the time.”
“What about his left hand? The twitching?”
“Maybe you should bring him home so we can take a look at him. Sounds like he’s having problems with you he didn’t have with us.”
Richard hung up.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The morning sunlight felt warm and comfortable as Richard walked into the kitchen. He’d set his alarm for five so he could write, but he didn’t even remember shutting it off. He leaned against the doorway and watched his mother stacking dishes at the breakfast table, her back to him. The sunlight...the waffle iron on the counter...a couple of the oak cabinet doors left open just a little...and his mother in her own world, humming.
His mother turned to take the dishes to the sink and saw him. She smiled right away.
“You’re up! I’m so glad you slept in. You needed to get more
of that New York air out of you so you can breathe better up here.” She put the dishes near the sink and gave Richard a hug.
“Am I going to get a hug every time I come into a room around here?” Richard asked.
“No, this is the last hug I’m going to give you. I just won’t let go.”
They both smiled, then started loading the dishwasher together.
“As soon as I’m finished here,” she said, “I want to fix you a big Vermont breakfast. What would you like?”
“I’m the one who slept in. I’ll fix me something later.”
“Nonsense.”
“And don’t worry about Christopher—he never eats much for breakfast.”
“Oh, that must be the city, son. He already ate with Grandpa and me.”
“He actually ate something?”
“Not something—everything. Two eggs, toast, waffles, bacon—the whole works. Your father was glad it wasn’t his turn to cook.”
“He never eats like that at home. Not even that big of a dinner.”
“City living will do that to you.”
His mother pressed the buttons on the dishwasher while Richard walked over to the table.
“Where is he, anyway?” Richard asked.
“Can’t you hear them laughing? They’re having a great time in the back.”
Richard walked to the French doors leading to the deck in the back. He reached for the knob, but when he heard shouting and laughing, he pulled back and parted the curtain. About thirty yards from the back of the house was the old stump and ax he remembered from when he was a boy. Wood was stacked near the stump, only three or four split pieces on the other side. Richard heard more laughter and finally spotted Grandpa and Christopher farther back, near the edge of the trees. Grandpa was chasing Christopher, and neither of them could run very well because they were laughing too hard. Finally, Grandpa caught up with the boy and tackled him. Christopher laughed and kicked his legs, trying to get free.
Richard watched, like he’d just walked into a theatre in the middle of a fascinating scene. He tried to figure out what he’d missed, feeling deep within himself that he was a spectator, that he was watching something far away, separate from himself, something he was no more a part of than he would be of that movie.
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