Lauren Grodstein - The Explanation for Everything

Andy nodded. It was an inflammatory little paperback Rosenblum had sold for a mega-advance and dedicated to a few of his favorite people, including, for better or for worse, Andy. It had climbed to the top of the Times best-seller list and perched there for months, leading to appearances on Oprah for Rosenblum and a certain notoriety, even embarrassment, for Andy.

“So do you really believe that? That religion is a dangerous lie? My sister does.”

“I don’t believe that exactly.”

Lionel smiled his underfed smile. “So then you believe it’s a good thing?”

“I didn’t say that, either,” Andy said. He thought about how little he liked to talk about these things, and then he thought, without warning, about Lou. When you die you’re just dead.

“So you’re an agnostic.”

“There are no agnostics in foxholes,” Andy said, which he knew wasn’t exactly how the saying went but at that moment he would have said anything to keep from saying Lou’s name out loud. “Listen, Lionel, if you want to protest, by all means protest, but don’t be so downhearted about it. Gird yourself for the fight!”

Lionel shrugged.

“And also, if you are going to protest, please don’t do it on a Friday afternoon. You’re freaking out the secretary.”

“Okay,” Lionel said, and then added, for no particular reason, “thanks,” and then picked up his sign, brushed it off tenderly, and walked the opposite way down the hall, past Louisa’s ghost, whom he didn’t notice at all.

THAT EVENING, AS he drove down twisted Stanwick Street, Andy saw that the Halloween decorations were already up—plastic pumpkins in windows and scarecrows on lawns. Roberta Hayes, who kept chickens, had decorated their coops with paper skeletons. Halloween was still important to his girls, who relished their princess costumes and refused to put winter coats over their tulle bodices. But they hadn’t mentioned anything about costumes so far this year and he wondered if they might be growing out of it, and if so, what new trick might replace princesses.

He pulled into the driveway just in time to beat them home from Janet Goldsmith’s, where they spent most Friday afternoons. He put a pot of water on to boil—Friday was spaghetti night—and thought about whether it was time to turn on the heat. The house relied on oil, like so many houses in the pines, and it was expensive. A small six-room place like theirs could easily run two thousand dollars for the season. But when the girls walked in they kept their coats on, so Andy reluctantly moved toward the thermostat. “Thanks, Dad,” said Rachel, who noticed these things.

They bustled while he finished dinner, mulling on the findings of the day. When would his mice act like themselves again?

How on earth was he supported to win an NSF grant with inconclusive results based on inconsiderate rodents? This chewed at him, as did the money the oil heat was costing them, and the fact that Rachel, when she took off her coat, was wearing a sparkly shirt that seemed teenagerish, and tight.

To distract himself from these worries, as they sat around the linoleum-topped table, eating spaghetti, he asked his girls what their thoughts were on Halloween. They shrugged; the radio in the background hummed the evening news.

“Maybe princesses?”

“Maybe,” Rachel said, but something in her voice said she was humoring him. “We’ll figure it out.” Then they were quiet for a while. He thought about telling them about the problems with the alcoholic protein but doubted they would understand. He also thought about telling them about Lionel Shell, but he didn’t know quite how to explain him, and worried that the story might make them feel sad.

“I think you could have done something more with this spaghetti,” said Rachel, finally, after a few minutes more of listening to the radio, the inconsequential market report.

“You do, huh?”

“Definitely.” Rachel had recently taken to the Food Network, and to her own little experiments in the kitchen, which was interesting to him because at the same time she’d started talking about dieting, sugar, and carbs. “I mean, what is this? Spaghetti from a box and a jar of Ragú?”

“You’ve never complained before.”

“I like it, Dad,” said Belle. “I think it’s awesome.”

“It’s not awesome,” Rachel said, “I mean, it’s fine, it’s certainly edible. ”

Andy smiled; he couldn’t help it. Picked on all day by all these spoiled brats.

“But I mean, couldn’t we make our own sauce?” Rachel jumped up to the celery-colored fridge. “Look, we’ve got garlic, we’ve got onions—why do you even buy this stuff, Dad, if you’re not going to use it? We’ve got carrots, bacon. We could make our own sauce.”

“So you should make your own sauce,” he said.

“I will,” Rachel said. “Although maybe not with bacon. Nitrates suck. And another thing—”

“Don’t say suck,” said Belle. “You’re not supposed to say that.”

Rachel shrugged her off. The evening was dark around them, but the house, percolating with oil heat, felt warm. There were pools of light in the kitchen, above the table, over the sink, over the range. The rest of the room receded into pleasant darkness. “Another thing I’ve been thinking is that I should have a key to the house. I don’t need Mrs. Goldsmith to babysit me anymore.”

“She’s not babysitting,” Andy said. “Don’t you like hanging out with Tiffany?”

“Oh my God, how many times do I have to tell you Tiffany Goldsmith is like the biggest loser in school—”

“Rachel,” he said, sharply.

“What I mean,” she took a breath, “what I mean is that it doesn’t matter how I feel about Tiffany. What I feel like is that I’m old enough to be allowed to come home after school with a key. I’m almost eleven. I’m not a baby, and I’m not—”

Her argument was interrupted by a rap on the window of the kitchen door. “Jeremy!” Belle said, jumping up, while Rachel rolled her eyes. “Hey! Look, it’s Jeremy!”

Jeremy, and Sheila, whom he had barely seen in the weeks since whatever had happened between them had happened—passing her with a smile and a quick word at school drop-off, and once stopping to chat by the benches in front of Our Lady of Lourdes—they stood huddled outside his front door, filling Andy with an unpleasant anxiety. She hadn’t mentioned anything about their encounter, and neither had he, and he assumed that whatever awkwardness it had engendered would soon enough evaporate in the repetition of their day-to-day routine. But she hadn’t been in his house since that night, and her presence there now felt enormous. Without wanting to, he imagined her wide white body, that sturdy underwear. He opened the door. They came in, stood by the door.

“Hey, guys,” he said, standing, affable. Sheila had her hands in the pocket of her sweatshirt. “Anybody want some spaghetti? Rachel here was saying that we should start making our own sauce, but I don’t know—”

“Actually, what I was saying was that I should have my own key to the house. Jeremy has his own key, right? And he’s eight. ”

“Rachel—” Andy said.

Now they were all standing, and Sheila looked apologetic, as though her very presence had started a fight. “We were just taking a walk home from pizza and saw your light on. We thought we’d say hi.” She paused. “It’s been a while.”

“Isn’t that right, Mrs. Humphreys? Doesn’t Jeremy have his own key?” Rachel had a hand on her hip.

“You know, Rachel,” Sheila said, her expression turning from plaintive to responsible, “what your dad decides about you and your safety has nothing to do with whether Jeremy has a key—”