And yet here he is, local boy moving home after twenty years away. There’s even an article about it in the local newspaper, “Twenty Questions with Dr. Sam Statler.” His realtor, Joanne Reedy, suggested the idea. Her niece wrote the column for the local paper, and Joanne thought it would be good for business. Sam’s been spending the last few years trying hard to be a nice guy, so he agreed. Turns out the niece was a girl he’d slept with in high school, and she kept him on the phone for an hour, reminiscing about the old days before asking him a long list of inane questions about his interests. His favorite television show? (West Wing!) Favorite drink on a special occasion? (Johnnie Walker Blue!)
Given a dearth of both art and entertainment, the article appeared on the front page of the Arts and Entertainment insert, including a color photograph of him, legs crossed, hands folded across his lap. Former resident (and renowned heartbreaker!) Sam Statler, is moving home. But don’t get too excited, ladies! He’s married!
Annie hung the article on their refrigerator, Sam’s big, dumb smiling face on display every time he reached for the milk, the charming only son moving home to take care of his beloved and ailing mother.
That’s the great irony of this whole thing. He supposedly moved back home to this shitty river town to take care of the mother who spent a lifetime doting on him, and now he can’t do it. In fact, he hasn’t set foot inside Rushing Waters in three weeks.
He takes a long swig of beer, trying his best to avoid thinking about it, but like all mechanisms of defense, repression isn’t always reliable, and the memory of their last visit abruptly returns. He could see his mother’s confusion when he opened the door to her room, the few moments she needed to put together who he was. Her good days were becoming less frequent; she was angry most of the time, yelling at the staff. He’d brought her favorite lunch—ziti with meatballs from Santisiero’s on Main, the local joint still hanging on after thirty-two years. She ate her portion sloppily, asking him the same two questions again and again. What time is bingo, and where is Ribsy? He explained that bingo was every Wednesday and Friday at four in the recreation hall, and Ribsy, the family spaniel, dropped dead in 1999—the same week, the little fucker, that Sam left for college, leaving her completely alone.
“You’re exactly like him, you know,” Margaret said out of nowhere.
“Like who?” Sam asked, ripping the hard end off a piece of Italian bread.
“Who do you think? Your father.” She put down her fork. “I’ve spent my whole life keeping this in, and I can’t anymore.”
The bread lodged in his throat. “What are you talking about, Mom?”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Sam. You’re selfish. Self-centered. And you treat women like shit.”
He reminded himself it wasn’t her speaking, it was her disease. And yet even now, the beer has trouble going down as he remembers the look of disgust on her face. “And you want in on a little secret?” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “You’re going to leave her, too. That nice new wife of yours. You’re going to end up just like him.”
He pushed back his chair and walked out of the room, out of the building, to the parking lot. When he got home, he told Annie he wasn’t feeling well and went straight to bed. Sally French, the center’s director, stopped him in the hallway on his next visit, two days later, and asked him to come with her to her office.
“Your mother has stopped speaking,” she explained from the other side of the desk, assuring him it was probably a temporary symptom of her condition. But it wasn’t temporary. In fact, Margaret Statler never spoke a word again. None of her doctors had seen a case of mutism (“the inability to generate oral-verbal expression,” as explained in her medical report) come on so fast. Over the next week, Sam begged her to talk—to just say something, so those wouldn’t be her last words.
But she’d give him an empty stare, the weight of her accusation hanging between them. You’re going to end up just like him. And so he did what he always did when life didn’t unfold the way he wanted: he walked away.
He knows it’s cowardly, but he hasn’t been inside to face her since—a small detail he’s been hiding from Annie—choosing instead to avoid the heartbreak by sitting in his car, drinking beer, wondering how long he has to stay.
He looks down at his phone—sixty-six minutes—and turns the key in the ignition.
Good enough.
Chapter 4
It’s official. I’m bored out of my gourd.
It’s not that I’m not trying, because I am. The other day, after Sam went downstairs to work, I put on an actual outfit and drove to the bakery, where I found the coffee burnt and the “lifestyle boutique” next door selling a scented candle called “Bookmobile” for thirty-eight dollars, and that was all I needed to see. Chestnut Hill, New York: zero stars.
I’d never tell Sam that, of course. He’s settling in nicely, and business is thriving. A little over two months since he opened for business, and his days are filling, former New Yorkers lining up, desperate for one of their own to complain to. (His looks don’t hurt. I was roaming the aisles of the CVS the other day and overheard a woman in the diaper aisle, talking about him on her phone. “He’s so cute I’m considering developing a personality disorder just to get an appointment.”) That aside, I’m happy for him. He told me the first time we met that he’d been dreaming of this for a while—a quiet life, a private practice outside the city. He’d earned it. Since getting a PhD in psychology ten years ago, he’d been working in the children’s psychiatric unit of Bellevue Hospital, a very trying and difficult job.
Meanwhile, I feel like a loser, hanging around this house all day, nothing to do except water the plants. Which is why I have resolved to be more productive, starting today, the day I tackle the project I’ve been avoiding for weeks: Agatha Lawrence’s study, the room where she died of a heart attack, which is filled with her personal papers.
It was the deal on this house. It came as is, and as the attorney representing the estate of Agatha Lawrence explained, this included “all furnishings and any other items left behind by the previous owner at Eleven Cherry Lane.” I didn’t know this was going to mean six file cabinets encompassing a complete history of the Lawrence family, going as far back as 1812, when Edward Lawrence established Chestnut Hill. I poked my head into the room a few times, wishing I was the type of person who could throw a dead woman’s papers away without even a look. But I’m not, and so each time I shut the door, and put it off for another day.
This day.
I finish watering the plants in the kitchen and take my tea down the hall, steeling myself before opening the door. The room is small and simple, with a window overlooking the garden, largely obstructed by a boxwood that needs a good trim. I peek inside the empty closet and trail my fingers along the yellow wallpaper. It’s an interesting color—chartreuse yellow, with a repeating pattern of shapes that seem to feed into themselves. Agatha Lawrence favored bright colors, and I’ve surprised myself by liking them so much I’ve hardly made any changes to the decor. Apple-green walls in the kitchen, bright blue in the living room.