"Inspiring story about family, love, and second chances"
Reviewed by Debbie Wiley
Posted September 27, 2014
Suspense
Jenna Parsons hates going home but when her mother calls
and
says her twin brother, Warren, didn't come home, Jenna
knows
she has to return to her childhood home. Warren has
always
been a bit different, but now his quirkiness is viewed by
the neighbors with wariness, particularly with the recent
rash of thefts. Warren has always been there for Jenna and
now Jenna knows she will return the favor, even if her
childhood home isn't where she wants to be. However, Jenna
is about to find that these challenges may be just what
she
needs in order to step into the future that awaits her.
HOUSE OF WONDER alternates between past and present. The
current day is told from Jenna's viewpoint while the past
is
told from her mother, Silla's, perspective. I love the
depth of family history Sarah Healy portrays in HOUSE OF
WONDER and how she tackles the very sensitive topic of
mental health. Warren, although undiagnosed, presents
characteristics of Autism Spectrum Disorder and his
quirkiness is both endearing and frustrating to Jenna.
Silla, on the other hand, presents tendencies of hoarding
as
their childhood home has become a mishmash of random and
unneeded items. Meanwhile, there is a family secret that
is
slowly revealed through Silla's story as we begin to see
the
parallels between past and present.
HOUSE OF WONDER is a heartwarming story that sensitively
addresses mental health issues and their generational
impact. I love how Sarah Healy shows us the people behind
the stereotypes as she humanizes the societal and
psychiatric labels. HOUSE OF WONDER is an inspiring story
about family, love, and second chances and is highly
recommended!
SUMMARY
When we were little and I needed Warren, I would rub my
earlobe. And perhaps it was the alchemy of childhood, a
magic that happened because I believed it could, but I
swear
it worked. He always came. Theirs wasn’t always the misfit family in the
neighborhood.
Jenna Parsons’s childhood was one of block parties and
barbecues, where her mother, a former beauty queen,
continued her reign and her twin brother, Warren, was
viewed
as just another oddball kid. But as her mother’s
shopaholic
habits intensified, and her brother’s behavior became
viewed
as more strange than quirky, Jenna sought to distance
herself from them. She is devoted to her career and her
four-year-old daughter, Rose. But now, in his peculiar
way,
Warren summons her back to 62 Royal Court. What she finds there—a house in disrepair, a neighborhood
on
tenterhooks over a rash of petty thefts, and evidence of
past traumas her mother has kept hidden—will challenge
Jenna
as never before. But as she stands by her family, she also
begins to find beauty in unexpected places, strength in
unlikely people, and a future she couldn’t have imagined.
ExcerptThe House on Royal CourtOurs were dinners of boneless chicken breasts, smeared and then baked in
the congealed contents of a red and white can. My mother would have
clipped the recipe from a magazine, using sharp orange-handled scissors,
the type that can slice down a length of wrapping paper like a fin
through placid water. Warren and I would sit waiting, eating our green
bell pepper quarters filled with twisting orange strings of squirt
cheese. They filled the role of vegetable, the bell pepper and cheese
boats, but I’d lick out just the cheese. And then a timer would beep
assertively and a steaming casserole dish would be pulled from the oven
and set down in front of us. Portions would be scooped and piled on top
of our plates, and then Warren would notice a desiccated piece of rice
that was stuck to his fork from three dinners ago. His brows would draw
together as he stared at it, and my mother would take the fork from his
hands with a gentle tug. “For goodness’ sake, Warren,” she’d say,
scraping the fleck off with one of her long, shiny magenta fingernails.
“It’s just rice.” My mother’s fingernails were things of wonder. Each week she would go
and have them wrapped in some sort of space-age material that made them
as hard as drill bits. Then Sheryl, the manicurist to whom all the
mothers went, would adorn them with snowmen or beach balls or abstract
geometric shapes that my mother called “contemporary.” “I love the
contemporary design that Sheryl did this week,” she’d say as she admired
her fanned-out fingers. When we couldn’t sleep, those fingernails would
trace figure eights on our backs. We would close our eyes, feeling our
mother’s fingers skating across the planes of our skin, listening to her
voice as she sang. Her speaking voice was soft and feminine; it was
lapping waves of vowels. But when she sang, her voice was the type that
would penetrate. It was the type that would make men stare as they ran
their fingertips up and down the sides of their sweating highball
glasses. But we didn’t know that yet. We just knew that when she sang,
we wanted to let the music seep inside us. When she won Miss Texas in
1972, she sang Anne Murray’s “Snowbird,” but with us, she tended toward
old jazz standards. Her pageant songs were for brightly lit stages; they
were for judges with clipboards. In our bedrooms at night, we heard
songs for small, dark rooms. We lived on a cul-de-sac in a town called Harwick, in the state of New
Jersey. It was, in many ways, a brightly lit stage. So everyone knew
about Warren. “How’s your son?” they would ask my mother. And she’d
crease her brow and soften her smile and reply that he was, Good. Thanks
for asking, in a manner that made them feel benevolent and kind. “You
know I asked after the Parsons kid,” they’d say later that night over
their own dinners of soup-can chicken. “Priscilla says he’s doing well.”
And then they’d sink down in their seats, enjoying their armchair
compassion. In that way, Warren performed a great community service. My
mother had managed to make him, if not beloved, then at least accepted. Priscilla Parsons had learned many things from the pageant circuit, but
most important, she learned to play to her audience. And in those days,
she still had the will to do it. In those days she would slick on some
lipstick and arrange her bangs into a spiky waterfall and show up at my
soccer games with a box of donut holes. She sat with the other mothers
on the bleachers and they talked about who was going to be on Donahue
and congratulated one another on enjoying that new show with the black
woman, Oprah something. They talked about whose daughter was promiscuous
and whose son was doing drugs. They talked about which male teachers
were a little too effeminate and which female teachers were a little too
butch. And then the mothers would clap when the game was over. And we
would go to the mall. Well, my mother and I would go to the mall. Warren
would walk circles around our neighborhood, flying his homemade radio-
controlled airplane and listening to whale songs on his Walkman as our
neighbors glanced out their windows. The first time Warren ran away, everyone was sympathetic. The principal
called, lasagnas arrived with nice notes, and friends’ mothers implored
me to tell my mom that if she needed anything, anything at all . . . And
then their voices would trail off. I was never sure exactly what I was
supposed to communicate. But when I would arrive home and see my mother
pacing through the house, holding Warren’s pillow, I knew it didn’t
really matter. And everyone was happy when he returned. Or they appeared
to be, at least. But as Warren’s childhood eccentricities lingered past
adolescence, as he continued to disappear, as he reached the age when he
was supposed to be “growing out of it,” their collective goodwill became
sapped. “Goddammit, Warren,” my father would mutter under his breath, as he
nudged back the curtain from the front window. Warren would be standing
at the end of our driveway, deaf to my mother’s announcements that
dinner was ready, immobilized as he stared at the pavement. “Jenna,
honey, go out there and tell your brother to get in the house,” Dad
would say. So I’d grab a jacket and throw it over my soccer uniform, and
push open the door, feeling the chill of the early fall air. “Warren,” I’d say softly as I approached, seeing that he was staring
down at something, seeing some movement on the pavement. “It can’t get away,” Warren would say, his eyes frozen. There wasn’t
terror in his voice, only a sad, tired resignation. “It’s still alive,
but it can’t get away.” It would be a garter snake, a small one. And its tail would have been
run over by a car, mooring it to the pavement. There would be no way it
could have moved from that spot, but its body would continue to undulate
in graceful, rhythmic Ss, its lidless eyes staring forward. In its
futile attempt to keep moving, it would be doing the only thing it knew
to do. “It’s okay, Warren,” I’d say, putting my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll
tell Dad. He’ll take care of it.” Warren wouldn’t be fooled, but he’d come with me. The hair on his arms
would be raised from the cold air and I’d see his breath cloud in small,
vanishing white puffs in front of his mouth. And he’d turn and together
we’d walk inside. But not before it could be noted that the Parsons kid
had stood at the end of the driveway staring at a mutilated snake for at
least thirty minutes. “Forty-five,” Mrs. Daglatella would correct, her
eyebrows raised and the lines across her forehead like ripples. “I heard
it was forty-five.” “You have a way with your brother,” my mother would say. “It’s you and
me that he’ll listen to.” I didn’t have to point out that she’d left out my father. My father had very little patience for Warren. “I wish he’d just snap
out of it,” I’d hear him say to my mother on nights when I was supposed
to be asleep. “I didn’t think twins could be as different as Jenna and
Warren.” “He’s a late bloomer,” my mother would say. “Late bloomer?” There would be a humorless laugh, and when he spoke
again, his voice would be somber. “I don’t know, Silla. I think he
should talk to someone.” “Why?” she would ask, a tinge of hysteria in her voice. “Because he’s
not just like everybody else?” “He’s not like anybody else.” “He is a smart, kind, wonderful boy. He just needs time,” she’d say, her
back to my father as she folded laundry, putting our things into nice,
neat piles. Smoothing the creases and tucking in the arms and legs to
form squares. “And maybe we should look into getting him a computer. I
think he’d like that.” My mother was always offering up such solutions.
She wanted so badly for them to work. But when the computer arrived,
Warren never did take to it. He seemed suspicious of its binary
soullessness. “Silla!” my father would shout as he walked in from the garage, and I’d
see Warren tense. “When did you get a Bloomingdale’s card?” My father would set his briefcase down by the kitchen island and hang
his suit jacket over one of the chairs. In his hands would be an
envelope and a few sheets of paper with purchases itemized and listed in
small black type—all that pleasure condensed into dry words and sums. My
mother would remain facing the stove, her head tipped forward. “They
were offering fifteen percent off with your first purchase and Warren
needed a new comforter,” she said, stirring, stirring, stirring a pot. “But there are twelve hundred dollars’ worth of purchases on here in the
last month!” he’d declare. “Fine,” she’d say softly, still not looking up. “I’ll take it all back.”
And the next day the frenzy would begin. She’d unearth her purchases
from their hiding spots—the tucked-away closets and corners where my
father never looked—and try to marry the contents of various bags with
receipts. She’d try to determine what she could live without, what she
didn’t need. “It’s not like we can’t afford it,” she’d say to herself as
she held up sweaters and lamps and platters. After my father left, things happened very fast. Without anyone to tell
my mother to take things back, things didn’t get taken back. And our
house quickly filled with a great number of solutions. I’m glad she’s
spending her alimony so responsibly, I heard Dad snipe. And Warren,
perhaps feeling a freedom he never felt around our father, perhaps
feeling a rejection he never imagined, would fill the kiddie pool in the
backyard and sit in it for hours. “What are you doing, Warren?” I’d complain, as he sat with his thin,
pale body submerged, his face turned toward the sky. He’d look at me
with a glint in his eyes that were so much like my mother’s, as blue as
hers were green. “I’m reverting to a protozoan state,” he’d say. And I
couldn’t help but laugh. He’d smile back at me, pleased. But an hour
later, when I found myself once again outside, once again urging him to
come in, it wouldn’t be funny anymore. “Get up,” my mother would demand, as he lay in bed the next morning. “Mooommmm,” he’d say. It would be a groan, a plea that was comforting in
its good old-fashioned teenagerness. “Don’t you ‘Mom’ me. You need to get your butt to school.” And he would go. Despite any bets against it, Warren graduated from high school. No one
ever doubted that he was smart, but Warren’s brand of intelligence
tended to be a bit problematic. In eleventh-grade English, when we were
studying the transcendentalists, we were instructed to write our own
poems. Most—including my own—utilized nauseatingly common clichés and
followed simple rhyming schemes, with lines like: My heart floats on the silver sea Will you ever see the real me? But Warren’s poems were different. Warren’s were loopy, gasping
compositions with a flamboyant structure that countered their restrained
language. Anyone could see that they were special. Anyone could see that
they were different.
“Did you write this?” asked Mr. Beeman, the principal, when Warren was
called into his office. He sat at his desk, his fleshy red hand holding
Warren’s poem. Warren replied that he had. “I hope so,” said Mr. Beeman, letting his words make their way slowly to
Warren’s ears. “Because plagiarism is cause for suspension at Harwick
High.” Warren and I graduated together, accepting our diplomas one right after
the other. My mother sat in the audience, a few rows away from my father
and his new wife, whom I was now expected to call Lydia. And all the
adults agreed that Warren should be allowed to take some time off. “To
get his bearings,” said my mother. “To grow up a little,” countered my
father. I went to college that fall. And I was glad to be rid of Warren. When I
made new friends at school, and they asked me if I had any siblings, I
could reply, “Yeah, I have a twin brother,” and leave it at that. They
didn’t need to know anything more. If I had been back in Harwick, I might have been able to identify the
exact moment when my mother’s purchasing habits crossed the line from
pattern to pathology. I might have been able to tell when the
neighborhood’s perception of Warren became something other than “oddball
kid.” As it was, I was young and unfettered and dizzy with freedom. And
I didn’t want to think about Harwick or the house on Royal Court or
anyone in it. Chapter One Where’s Warren? I might have said that I was busy, that my family and I had grown apart,
as families sometimes do. I could have pretended that our relationship
was amicable but distant—one of pastel birthday cards and generic
sentiment. I might have mentioned my four-year-old daughter, Rose, whom
I was raising alone, or played for pity with the story of her father, of
how he left and when. I could have trotted out any number of the excuses
I relied upon to explain why I rarely went to my mother’s house. But the
truth was simple: I hated being there. The house was too full of things, both tangible and intangible. Too full
for me. In it, the past seemed to have mass and weight and form,
crowding out the future. So when I did see my family, when we met to
exchange our pastel birthday cards, it was anywhere but Royal Court. And
I took solace in no longer belonging there. I had moved on. Or thought I
had anyway. Because what rules us more ruthlessly than those things from
which we run? I could have spent my life running. Instead, I got lucky. Instead, I got a phone call. “Jenna?” It was my mother’s voice. “What’s wrong?” “Warren didn’t come home from work last night.” In the silence, I remembered the way my mother used to look whenever
Warren was gone, the way she would walk the house in circles. “I’ll come home.” I’ll come home. That’s what I always used to say—when I was at a
friend’s house or soccer practice or even at college, until Warren’s
disappearances dwindled and then ceased. I’ll come. It was like a
liturgy that I hadn’t spoken in years, a response that came reflexively. And so I canceled a meeting, picked up Rose at day care, and drove back
to Harwick. (A shamefully short trip, I’ll admit.) Warren going missing
may have been the one thing that was sure to bring me back when little
else could. Warren knew that. From the backseat, I heard Rose’s voice. “Are we here?” I brought the car to a stop and, with my foot on the brake, found my
daughter’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Everything about Rose was
red—her hair, her lips, even the dime-sized birthmark on her cheek.
“Yup,” I said. Then I looked up at the house where I had grown up, the
house where my mother and brother still lived. I was Rose’s age the
first time I saw it. With its brick facade and white columns, I had
thought it looked important, like the president of the United States
could live there. I set the car into park. “We’re there.” My mother was waiting by the front window, her hip jutting out as she
leaned against the frame, the back of her hand holding aside the lace
curtain. When she stood like that, like an old Hollywood starlet caught
between takes, you could see the woman she used to be. When she stood
like that, even I was mesmerized. I raised my hand in a greeting.
Through the glass, Mom did the same. From behind me, Rose yelled, “Hi, Nana!” and waved vigorously. I got out of the car and opened Rose’s door. Next to her was the
evidence of the drive-through meal that we had eaten on our way over, at
which our dog, Gordo, was staring with great interest. Rose scrambled
down onto the blacktop and I squatted in front of her. “I don’t know how
long we’re going to be able to stay,” I said, tucking a curl behind her
ear. And it was the truth. Now that I was here, I wasn’t quite sure why.
Now that I was here, I wanted only to leave. Rose held up two fingers. “How about for two shows?” she said, as if we
were in a heated negotiation and the currency was children’s
programming. I rested my hand on her head. “We’ll see, kiddo.” I stood and opened the
back gate of the station wagon for Gordo, who lumbered down, and we made
our way up the path to my mother’s battered-looking house. The front door opened and Mom stepped out, propping it wide with the
side of her body. She watched as Gordo passed her without hesitation and
disappeared inside; then she looked up, her eyes meeting mine, and
forced a smile. “How’re my girls?” she asked as Rose and I climbed the
front steps. There was a jitteriness to Mom’s voice, shaky edges to her
words. She was always anxious when Warren was gone. “We’re fine,” I answered. Mom glanced around the neighborhood, then rested her hand protectively
on Rose’s back. “Come on,” she said to me, tilting her head toward the
doorway. And it was only for a moment that I hesitated, just at the
threshold, before stepping inside. Mom led Rose through the foyer and toward the kitchen as I followed,
navigating a path through a maze of boxes and bags, past towers of books
and catalogues and baskets. There were long receipts—like ticker tape—
scattered here and there. Many were from the department store where my
mother worked. Their sums might be small, maybe only a few dollars, but
the solutions ran cheaper these days. Under tables and lining the floor
were bags of clothes with the tags still on them, boxes of infomercial
inventions, and But-Wait-There’s-More! extras still in their plastic
wrapping and decoupled from the devices that could make them of use.
Stacks of magazines were piled on each of the steps leading to the
second floor, their covers showing women and houses and lives that were
so perfect, you could stare at them all day. Some of those magazines had
been there for years, becoming more and more dated. Mom glanced back at me, reading the expression on my face before I had a
chance to change it. And for one honest instant, we looked at each
other. But the moment was too uncomfortable to let linger, and so I
said, “The sugar maple’s gotten huge.” The maple stood in the park that
abutted many of the backyards in King’s Knoll, including my mother’s. “I know,” she said, her face moon white. Then she turned, letting her
words trail behind her. “I remember when you kids used to climb it.” For the next hour or so we sat, not mentioning Warren’s absence. Not
really mentioning Warren at all. Rose drew pictures of whales and arrows
and hearts while Mom watched, asking her quiet questions, complimenting
her on her skill. With Gordo at my feet, I took out my phone and tried
to scroll through e-mails, but found myself watching my mother instead.
Until she looked up at me, the pretense of a casual visit becoming too
much to bear. “He just hasn’t done anything like this in so long.” The
words came out as if through a steam vent—only hinting at the pressure
inside. I put my phone down on the table and repositioned myself in my chair.
“So, Fung said Warren left at his regular time last night?” I asked.
Fung Huang owned Pizzeria Brava, where Warren worked doing deliveries. My mother nodded, her lips tight, her arm resting on the back of Rose’s
chair. “At eleven p.m.” I glanced at the digital display on the stove. It was six o’clock in the
evening. “Are you talking about Uncle Warren?” Rose asked, as if we had tried to
put something past her. Mom and I exchanged a glance. “He just forgot to tell Nana where he was
going,” I said, seeking to soothe her. But Rose was unruffled. “Oh,” she said, as she processed the
information. When she turned back to me, she did so brightly. “Can I
watch a show now?” Though raising Rose without cable was a budgetary
rather than ideological decision, it had resulted in a child who could
sniff out the Digital Preferred package like a terrier. I got her set up in the family room, switching on the set and selecting
an addictive but vacuous cartoon, then came back into the kitchen. “Do
you want a cup of tea or something, Mom?” “I can make it,” she replied, as she began to push herself up from her
chair. It was more of an effort for her now. I hadn’t noticed that
before. “It’s okay,” I said. “I got it.” As I waited for the water to boil, I stood in front of the window above
the sink. The sun was setting, the trees turning into silhouettes
against a watercolor sky. I looked out at the homes that lined the park,
at the flickers and flashes of neighbors’ television sets as they made
their dinners and folded their laundry. King’s Knoll looked exactly as
it did twenty years ago. “God, nothing ever changes here,” I said to
myself, my face reflected in the window in front of me. “I wouldn’t say that,” responded my mother, a strange lilt of warning in
her voice. “What do you mean?” I asked. Across the park, a deck light switched on. “Nothing,” she said, brushing some nonexistent crumbs from her lap. “I
don’t mean anything.” My eyes lingered on her for a moment before I turned back to the window,
now noticing a framed picture on the sill. It was of Warren and me as
babies, dolled up in our ridiculous his and hers twinsie ensembles. “Oh,
God,” I said, picking up the photograph. “Where did this come from?” Mom leaned back in her chair to better see what I was holding. And
though a smile came to her face, it looked as though it hurt just a
little bit. “I found that picture when I was looking for”—her forehead
creasing gently—“something else.” “How old are we here?” “Three months.” I shook my head at the sight of us, with our big bulging eyes and
infantile acne. “God,” I chuckled. “We were such ugly babies.”
With an expression of affection, my mother’s head dropped to one side,
her eyes on the photo as she considered my assertion. “No, you weren’t,”
she said. “Yes, we were!” I set the photo back on the sill. “We were so skinny.” “Warren was skinny,” Mom agreed, the look on her face distant and fond.
“But you were regular-baby-sized. The doctor said you got all the
nutrients.” I felt the smile slide off my face. “That’s a messed-up thing for a
doctor to say.” My mother gave a shrug. “Warren was four pounds to your seven,” she
said. “Still,” I said, glancing back at the photo, at the way I dwarfed him in
size even then. “It’s not like I denied him something.” I saw her face change. I saw it sink with regret. “Coming into this
world was just harder for him,” she said, referring, I assumed, to the
fact that I was born first and vaginally, while Warren was delivered
sixty-seven minutes later via an emergency C-section. I glanced at Rose, who was fully zombified by the television’s flashes
of color and sound. “Do you think the birth process”—I turned back to my
mother—“hurt Warren in some way?” Mom took a deep breath, her elbow on the table, her hand propping up her
head. “Your father did,” she finally said, as if it were an
inconsequential and commonly known fact. “He did?” I had never been aware that my father faulted anyone but
Warren for the way Warren was. Mom’s eyebrows lifted and she nodded steadily. “Umm-hmm. For a while he
talked about suing the doctors.” “Why?” I asked. “Do you think they didn’t act fast enough? With the C-
section?” She considered it for a moment. “No,” she said ambivalently, “I just
think you and Warren have a different makeup, that’s all. You’re more
like a Parsons.” Her head began to nod slowly at some inevitability.
“Warren’s a Briggs.” Briggs was the maiden name of her mother, Martha,
who died when she was five. My mother spoke of her very rarely and so I
didn’t know much about the Briggs side of the family, except that they
had been wealthy by the standards of the day. My great-grandfather
Benson Briggs had owned a small chain of department stores called Briggs
Western that he sold for what was considered a very significant sum. The
stores continued to change hands until they no longer existed, and the
money from their original sale seemed to disintegrate through the
generations. But when my grandmother was a young woman, there was enough
of it left to guarantee that she and whomever she married would be quite
comfortable. “Were there people from the Briggs side of the family that were . . .
like Warren?” I didn’t know how else to phrase it. We didn’t have a
clean, tidy little label to put everyone at ease, so we settled on a
description that was at once both inadequate and perfect. My mother’s eyes became as clear and lucid as I’d ever seen them. “Yes,
honey,” she said. “There were.” “Who?” I asked. But whatever door had briefly opened to my family’s past was closing, as
my mother nodded toward the kettle. “It looks like the water’s boiling.” It took me a full beat to turn and see the steady plume of steam, the
water condensing on the spout. My desire to leave, to be free of the
house on Royal Court, was attenuated by what had become a growing and
real concern for my brother. Because what if this time is different? No
sooner had I thought it than I heard the unmistakable sound of a car
bottoming out at the entrance of the driveway. It was as if Warren had
been watching some great cosmic clock, as if he had known exactly how
long would be too long. Dammit, Warren, I thought. Finally. My mother was on her feet at once. I followed her from the kitchen and
into the foyer, Gordo announcing our procession with a series of clipped
barks that held no menace. Pushing back the lace curtain, Mom peered out
the window, lifting her chin to see past the glaring headlights from the
car that was now parked in front of her house. Already I could see that
it wasn’t Warren’s beat-up Civic. My mother waited, all her energy, all
her attention, focused on the next few seconds. Then the passenger door
opened. And there he was. Warren’s face emerged in advance of the rest
of his body, like an owl from the trunk of a tree. Almost instantly, the front door was open and my mother was on the
porch. “Warren!” she scolded as I stepped out behind her, my arms
crossed over my chest. “Where have you been?” But past her shoulder,
Warren’s eyes found mine, and his lips curved into a small smile. It was
as if we had planned to meet at this very spot, at this very moment, and
I hadn’t let him down. Gordo had rushed ahead of us and was circling what we could now see was
a green Jeep, his tail thumping against its body. I heard Warren greet
him softly. Hey boy, he repeated, his voice high and gentle. Hey. From
the driver’s side came the creak of hinges and a face appeared that was
disarming in its familiarity. “Hi, Mrs. Parsons.” “Bobby!” said my mother, her voice an echo of my own surprise. Bobby
Vanni had been Harwick’s golden boy and my own most crippling high
school crush. He had grown up down the street in the home where his
parents still lived, and from what I knew, he was married to a lovely
woman, had a lovely daughter, and was finishing up his medical
residency. In short, he had turned out just as everyone had predicted he
would: well. Mom set her shoulders back and adopted her pageant smile. “What have you
two been doing?” she asked, the slight quaver in her voice the only sign
of her unease. Bobby had only half exited the car. “Warren was walking down South
Road,” he answered. “So I gave him a lift.” Mom let out a small, almost inaudible gasp. “Well, thank you so much,
Bobby,” she said. “No problem,” he answered. And as he began to lower himself back into
his seat, I felt the relief of having escaped unnoticed. Because Bobby
Vanni was someone I only wanted to see when fully armored—with witty
remarks and fresh makeup. I didn’t want to see him that night. I didn’t
particularly want to see him at all. As if he were alerted to the
thought, his gaze met mine. I dropped my head for only a second, then stepped forward. “Hi, Bobby,”
I said. “Hey, Jenna,” he said, almost to himself, as if he weren’t quite sure it
was me. I gave him a polite smile. “It’s good to see you.” “Yeah, likewise,” he said. He stared at me for a moment before
remembering himself. “Well,” he said, “I really should get going.” Bobby made a farewell round of eye contact and got in his car. Then he
slung his arm over the passenger seat, gave me one last look, and
reversed down the driveway. I turned and walked into the house before he
pulled into the street. Standing in the foyer, my face humorless, I waited for my brother. “Warren,” I said when he stepped inside, my mother at his back. “Where
have you been?” Warren turned his head slightly, as if trying to see me from a different
angle. “I went fishing,” he finally said. He had a quiet voice, with
words that came out unrushed, as if each needed breathing room. “After
work.” I let my eyes slide shut for the briefest of intervals and took a
breath. It was our grandfather—on our father’s side—who had taught him
that catfishing was best at night. “What about today, then?” I asked, my
tone softer. “Where were you today?” His chin dropped. “My car wouldn’t start,” he said. “When I was ready to
go home.” I looked at my bother. His pale, almost ageless skin was shadowed with
purple under his eyes, and the bangs of his fine, rabbit brown hair
brushed the tops of his brows. What would he do in such a situation?
What would be Warren’s solution if, key in ignition, his car remained
lifeless? “And so what, War?” I asked. “You walked?” He used the slightness of his frame to slide past me. “It wasn’t so
far.” “Where were you?” “On the Raritan. Off of River Road.” “Warren,” I said, my mind running over the route as I followed him.
“That’s got to be like thirty miles.” Pausing, I waited for a response
that did not come. “Warren, this is why you need a cell phone.” Warren shuffled into the kitchen. When he saw Rose, he shifted course
immediately and headed to the family room, standing beside the couch on
which she was sitting, and waiting for his greeting. She turned to
regard him briefly. “Hi, Uncle Warren!” she said, before being
reabsorbed into her show. Warren seemed reluctant to leave her, but
physiological need trumped all else, and he walked quickly over to the
sink, turned on the water, and pulled a glass from the cabinet. He
filled it and drank it down in three long slugs. Then he looked at me,
the corners of his mouth lifted so subtly that his smile was almost
undetectable, as if he was enjoying a joke all his own. “Warren, honey,” said my mother, who had come in behind us, “are you
hungry? You must be hungry.” Our mother was always willing to forgive
any and all of Warren’s transgressions. To bury them quickly. “I can
call for some Chinese?” Mom looked at Rose. “Rose, honey, do you like
Chinese food?” Rose looked over her shoulder and at me, as if the question were mine to
answer. “All right, you know what?” I said, Gordo’s head emerging from between
my legs. To Gordo, Warren’s arrival was all excitement, all good news.
“Rosie and I really need to get going. I have to be at work early
tomorrow.” Rose let out a whine of protest. I looked expectantly at my mother,
though what she could have said that would have satisfied me, I did not
know. Her mouth opened as if in advance of speech, but no words came.
“Come on, Rosie!” I called, turning my face toward the family room. Rose and I were already in the car, my seat belt buckled, when my mother
walked hurriedly out the front door, her arms crossed over her chest to
ward off the cold. I rolled down the window and leaned my head out as
she approached, letting the space between us fill with silence. It was
night now, and the air had the cold calm of deep water. “Your poor
brother,” she finally said. “Having to walk all that way.” “He didn’t exactly have to. He could have called someone.” “Well,” she said. “Your brother has his own way of doing things.” I let out a sound that might have passed for a laugh. “That’s one way to
put it.” “Anyhow, you know what I was thinking?” she asked, her voice changing,
becoming light and hopeful. “I was thinking that the block party is
coming up this weekend.” I didn’t move, anticipating the request. “And
it’s been so long since you came. And I just know everyone would love to
see you.” “Mom—,” I started. But my mother cut me off. “Please, Jenna,” she said. There was
desperation in her voice. “Please.” And seeing her face, I couldn’t deny
her. Since that night, I’ve often pictured Warren, sleeping in the backseat
of his car, parked in a small dirt turnaround at the side of a wooded
road. The interior would be damp with his breath and he’d have pulled
the hood of his sweatshirt up for warmth. The sun would have shone
through the windows early. And he would have set out at once, his belly
empty, his body stiff. It would take him all day to walk from his
favorite fishing spot back to Harwick. And it may have been a
coincidence, the timing of his trip. It may be simply hindsight that
lends it significance; a pivotal event requiring time to be seen as
such. Or perhaps Warren knew exactly the right moment to bring me back
home. Because when Mom called the next day to tell me that they’d
recovered his car, I asked, “So, what was wrong with it?” “You know, it was the darndest thing,” she said. “As soon as Warren put
his key in, it started right up.”
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