But on this particular night, the rest of us felt as if we had to honor Agnes’s wishes, however silly they felt. We filed out, even Louie, grumbling about the long day as he went.
“Have you ever seen it so bright?” Agnes said, opening her arms wide as if to pull the sky into herself. “I didn’t want you to miss it.”
“They’re stars, Agnes,” Louie sighed—sounding more like himself than he had in the last few days. “We’ve all seen ’em before.” He started for the house.
“No, look—she’s right, Lou.” I put my hand on his arm. “It’s almost like that puzzle I did a while ago. What was the fella’s name?”
In the light of the moon, I saw Zaidie roll her eyes. “Van Gogh, Ma. Vincent van Gogh. You’ve done a few of his. I got you a book from the library about him and everything, remember?”
In the past, I might have taken offense at her tone, but not that night. She was eighteen and about to leave everything she knew, and mixed with the excitement, I could tell she was as scared as I was.
“When I was working on that puzzle, I thought he was crazy, but now . . . now I see what he saw.”
I dragged Louie to the picnic table where we’d never once in all our years picnicked. “You know, we should pick up some hot dogs at the N. P. and have a cookout out here sometime, Lou. I could make up my Jell-O mold and a nice potato salad, maybe invite the neighbors over.”
“Don’t get crazy, Dahlia,” he said. “No matter how far you walk, we’ll never be that normal.”
The girls would have sniggered, but their eyes were fixed on the sky. I noticed they were holding hands, almost unconsciously, the way they did when they were little.
“You know what it reminds me of?” Agnes asked. “The night Jimmy got out his bat and sent that ball flying over the Guarinos’ fence and beyond. He wanted me to know how good it felt to win something—not just for yourself, but for everyone around you. And not just to know, but to feel it.” On a night just like this one, I did.
“I tell Coach Lois that was the beginning of it all for me. And you know what she says?”
We all turned to her.
“She says that whenever I’m tired or the competition is too tough, or I just think I can’t—especially then—all I have to do is close my eyes and go back to that night. See the ball Jimmy hit for me, soaring for the moon. Hear his yell, and then all of yours.”
“Does it work?” Louie asked.
“Every time, Dad. Every single time. And not just when I’m in the pool.”
THE NEXT MORNING, the house was more empty than it had ever been. I put on the magenta lipstick I’d bought at Apex Drugs to give me courage, and walked to the five-and-dime. With the money she’d earned at Hanley’s, Zaidie had bought most everything she needed for college, but I wanted to give her something from Louie and me. After poking around for a good half hour, all I could find was a plain blue notebook and a nice Paper Mate pen to go with it. Same as I gave her on her eleventh birthday.
On the next block, I found myself peering in the window of Mather’s Furniture, and then inexplicably wandering inside. I took in the fancy velvet couches (for heaven’s sake, how would you ever get the stains out?) and the new geometric tables and chairs.
Mr. Mather came sidling up behind me like those salespeople types do. “Mod, they call it. Very popular these days.”
“Hmph.”
Hoping to shake him, I sauntered away till I found myself standing in front of a fine-looking baby crib. It was a lovely off-white color.
The salesman followed. “A real beauty, isn’t it? And there’s a bureau to match, if you’re interested. Are you expecting, Mrs.—”
“Moscatelli—and heavens, no. I’m an old woman, sir. Forty-six last month.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had a lady around that age shopping for her nursery,” he began before the name registered.
By the look of him, he’d heard about me or my kids. But keeping his eye on a potential sale, he quickly brought his face back to neutral. “We have a layaway plan, Mrs. Moscatelli, if you’re purchasing a gift for someone you know.”
“Not someone I know, Mr. Mather. My grandchild.” It was the first time I’d said the word out loud—heck, the first time I’d even thought it. The force of it almost knocked me over.
Apparently, it was visible, too, because poor Mr. Mather forgot about selling me anything as he took my elbow. “All right there, Mrs. Moscatelli? Can I . . . call someone for you? A drink of water, maybe?”
“The heat must’ve got to me,” I said, though the air-conditioning made the place downright chilly. “If it’s all right, I’ll just have a little sit-down on one of your mod chairs up in the front.”
Mr. Mather brought me a glass of water anyway, and since there were no other customers in the store, he took the lime-green chair opposite my screaming yellow one.
“So this is the new style, huh?” I asked when I regained myself. “Hideous, if you ask me.”
“Uncomfortable as hell, too,” he said, shifting in his seat. The man had a fine set of teeth when he smiled.
It wasn’t till I was ready to go that the salesman in him returned. He handed me his card. “If you come back, ask for Artie. I’ll give you a good price on that crib.”
I stared at the card as if I was seeing much more than his phone number and the store’s hours of operation. “I’ll talk it over with my husband . . . and the mother . . .”
Then I looked up at him. “A grandchild. Imagine.”
Again, he showed me those fine teeth.
On the way home, I turned my thoughts back to the notebook and pen I was carrying in my bag. You could hardly call it a present, but it was all Zaida ever wanted. I’d bought a bow and a card, too. But what could I, who didn’t have her gift of words, possibly write inside it? Now that she was leaving, with Agnes to follow soon enough, what could I say to the girls who had come to me like Jimmy, in the fabulous migration of souls, and given me back a world that was dead to me?
AND YET, FOR all my newfound bravery, Louie was right. There was one place I still hadn’t dared to go. I still hadn’t climbed the precarious fourteen steps to the attic. I still hadn’t faced the boxes stacked in the corner, particularly the one full of pictures of the late Dahlia Garrison. The hopeful, yearning fool who had died beneath the golden tree. And beside them, the only thing of Jon’s I couldn’t bring myself to part with: that damn train. One thing at a time, I told myself.
I went to the kitchen and made me a nice cup of tea while Flufferbell took the chair opposite me. Then I glanced at the clock above the stove: 1:03 p.m. By that time, Agnes would be in the air, flying to the nationals, where, win or lose, she would swim as if her life depended on it. And Zaidie, who had borrowed the car to drive Jane to the prison for the first time, would sit in the parking lot, nervously waiting to see how the visit went. Though they still weren’t exactly back together, I was grateful when Charlie Putnam offered to go along for the ride. With any luck, he’s taking her hand right about now. Meanwhile, that sniveling mess of a girl Jimmy thinks is the prettiest one on earth is setting her flinty eyes and walking inside to tell him the news about a child he’ll hardly see till he’s six. And over at Louie’s Texaco, the good man who went out every day and did his part to repair what he could breathes in the fumes of his life, picks up his wrench, and continues.
What could I do but put on my shoes, start down the street, and see where the day might lead?
Acknowledgments
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, FORTUNE SHINED ON ME WHEN AN AGENT named Alice Tasman called to chat about a novel I’d submitted to her. That conversation, which continues to evolve, changed my life more than once; and sustained me throughout the writing of this book. I am forever grateful for her brilliant comments, honesty, fierce support in all stages of the process—and for coming up with the perfect title.
I felt a similar connection the first time I spoke to my editor, Sara Nelson. Her passion for this story, and e
specially for these characters, incisive suggestions and edits, and her steadiness have been an anchor in this tumultuous time. I’m immensely grateful to her and to the amazing team at HarperCollins and Harper Perennial who lent their enthusiasm and expertise to this novel, especially Jonathan Burnham, Mary Gaule, Amy Peterson, Lisa Erickson, and Kristin Cipolla.
Friends and family read sections while in progress and offered their support and suggestions. Many thanks to Nellie Kelsch, Jessica Keener, Susan Messer, Virginia Ryan, Stacey Francis, and especially to Lynne Hugo who provided critical encouragement and feedback when I wasn’t sure this would ever become a real book.
Though the characters in this novel are fictional, the spirits of many who went before stealthily worked their way into these pages. To my parents and grandparents, Emma Francis, Pat Francis, Kaeli Conley, Joan Keiran, Susan Kianski, Nancy Larkin, and Jake Mysliwiec, your joy, your resilience, your deep love for others and for this world continues to inspire me.
And finally to my family, Gabe and Nicola, Josh and Stacey, Nellie and Steve, Jake, Lexi, Hank, Will, Jude, Sebastian, Cora, Hope, and especially to Ted, the husband who is both my first reader and my greatest supporter, all my love and gratitude.
About the Author
PATRY FRANCIS is the author of The Orphans of Race Point, The Liar’s Diary, and the blog “100 Days of Discipline for Writers.” Her poetry and short stories have appeared in the Tampa Review, Antioch Review, Colorado Review, Ontario Review, and American Poetry Review, among other publications. She is a three-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize and has twice been the recipient of the Mass Cultural Council Grant. She lives in Massachusetts.
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Also by Patry Francis
The Orphans of Race Point
The Liar’s Diary
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ALL THE CHILDREN ARE HOME. Copyright © 2021 by Patry Francis. 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.
Cover design by Caroline Johnson
Cover photograph © Karina Vegas/Arcangel Images
FIRST EDITION
Digital Edition APRIL 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-304544-6
Version 02262021
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-304545-3 (pbk.)
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-306507-9 (library edition)
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