“What makes you think I’ve got anything?” she asked.
“You said men are such idiots. You can start there. What you’re thinking about? Who?”
“Thaddeus, if there’s something you want to know, you should ask me.”
“And you’ll answer?”
“Yes,” Grace said.
“Answer truthfully?”
“I won’t dignify that.”
“You have to promise. There’s no point to it if you won’t promise to tell the truth.”
“I will tell you the truth, Thaddeus. Ask away. Anything you want.”
“All right.”
He waited. He studied her face. He was still holding her hand and he placed it gently on her lap.
“Okay.” He breathed deeply. “Here’s my question.”
“Just ask, Thaddeus.”
“Okay. Here it is.” He stood up, walked across the room to the windows, turning his back to her, choosing not to see her face when she answered. “My question is this: are you absolutely one hundred percent sure you won’t join me in a drink?”
Ah, a joke. Another emotion toppled into its waiting grave. Relief shivered through her as bright and cold as the thawing of a stream. She would live to lie another day.
“Daddy!” Emma’s voice called from upstairs.
“Mom?” called out David. The two of them were standing at the top of the stairs. “We smell smoke.”
Thaddeus parted the curtains and looked out into the night. He moved his head left and right, trying to see around his own reflection. Silence, privacy, a world of your own: it was what the house had been built for, no one could see you, but that meant you couldn’t see them. He never thought he’d have to worry about a them before, but now he wasn’t certain. All that he could see were the pebbles on the driveway, the back wheels of the golf cart. Everything else was as invisible as luck, fate, time, love, everything that actually mattered.
He, too, smelled smoke, but if there was a fire it was far away. How could it not be? Wasn’t the fire nearly always somewhere else?
“Daddy?” Emma called out.
“It’s okay, guys,” Thaddeus said, turning to their voices. He went to the staircase and saw them peering down, their faces bewildered, frightened, their hair askew, their limbs bare. They were holding hands. “It’s fine, kids,” he said, as he rose toward them. “Don’t worry.”
He gathered them in his arms and kissed them as he carried them down the stairs, wishing he was stronger. Once he was off the staircase and on level ground their weight was easier to bear. He carried them to the library, where their mother sat silently on the sofa, twiddling a green Prismacolor, looking down at the drawing on her lap, and where the dogs sat alertly in front of the hearth, their slumber interrupted by the smell of smoke. He knelt in front of the window, balancing David on one hip, Emma on the other, and the three of them peered out at the night through their own reflections. “You see?” he said. “Everything’s quiet, everything’s nice.”
“But I hear sirens,” said Emma.
“And I smell smoke,” said David.
“But look, look,” Thaddeus said. He started to point but Emma almost slipped off and he gripped her again. “What do you see?”
“Us,” said Emma.
“Nothing,” said David.
“That’s right,” said Thaddeus. “You’re both right. Something’s going on out there, but it’s not us. There’s a fire, I guess. But it’s far away. And we’re safe, you guys, me, Mommy, Finn, and Molly. Someone’s in trouble, but it’s not us.”
Acknowledgments
Thank you, Jo Ann Beard, for everything from inspiration to stern warnings.
Thank you, Lynn Nesbit, always wise, always strong. Thank you, Dan Halpern, my editor, publisher, and perfect reader. Thank you, Gabriella Doob, for herding cats.
Thank you, poker players and tennis partners who provided distraction, amusement, and emotional sustenance during my long journey through this novel: John Kurowsky, Steve Leiber, Jody Apap, Paul Cohen, Sheila Maloney, John Corcoran, Griffin Dunne, Wally Carbone, Steve Siegel, Ralph Sassone, and Henry Dunow.
Thank you to Ariella Thornhill and Emma Singer for charting the river under the road by researching everything that was happening around the world while this novel’s parties were taking place.
About the Author
SCOTT SPENCER is the author of eleven novels including Endless Love, Waking the Dead, A Ship Made of Paper, and Willing. He has taught at Columbia University, the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, Williams College, the University of Virginia, and at Eastern Correctional Facility as part of the Bard Prison Initiative. He lives in upstate New York.
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Also by Scott Spencer
Man in the Woods (2010)
Willing (2008)
A Ship Made of Paper (2003)
The Rich Man’s Table (1998)
Men in Black (1995)
Secret Anniversaries (1990)
Waking the Dead (1986)
Endless Love (1979)
Preservation Hall (1976)
Last Night at the Brain Thieves’ Ball (1973)
Credits
COVER DESIGN BY SARA WOOD
COVER PHOTOGRAPH © PLAINPICTURE / BY
Copyright
RIVER UNDER THE ROAD. Copyright © 2017 by Scott Spencer. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Print ISBN 978-0-06-266005-3
EPub Edition June 2017 ISBN 9780062660077
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