inside him, as if his grief hasn't quite figured out where to go. And, for now, he's numb to the emotion that should follow this death, aware only of the fact of it in its cold nakedness.
As the funeral home's facsimile ambulance was taking Sy's body away, they all stood in the driveway, waiting in the red shine of the ambulance's brake lights. Simon was still in a state of heightened reality, almost floating above the scene, viewing himself standing there with the three grieving women. He looked over at Maggie, and she was looking at him the same way she's been looking at him since they discovered he was gone. She was looking at him as if she expected him to do something about it, say something that would make things better somehow. But he had absolutely nothing to offer her.
"Would you like me to stay with you tonight?" Simon asked Susannah.
"Oh, God," Susannah said, looking back at the house. "I can't stay here tonight. I just can't."
"What will you do?" he asked.
"I'll go to a hotel."
"No, you'll stay with us," Maggie said. "You shouldn't be alone tonight."
"You're sure?" Susannah asked.
"Of course."
"But Simon is staying with you. What will he do?" Susannah asks.
"Don't worry about me. I'll sleep on the couch."
"Oh, no. I couldn't ask you to—"
"He can stay with me," Laura said.
They all turned to look at Laura as the red lights of the ambulance began to disappear down the driveway.
"Really?" he asked.
"If you don't mind. I could use the company."
"Sure," he said, and though he was surprised by the invitation, he was suddenly excited by the night to come, and yet his excitement was met with the sad incongruity of the facts and reasons behind the invitation.
As he pulls into Maggie's driveway, he sits in the car for a minute and stares at their old house. And as he looks into the rearview mirror and sees the red shine from his brake lights, the knowledge of his dad's goneness pours over him for the first time, cleans him free of the facts of things, and he just feels it. He feels it so thoroughly that he wonders if he'll ever be able to control it.
He tries to catch his breath, but he can't control it. Every time he thinks he might get in front of the panic, the unfathomable unfairness of losing something so wholly latches onto him with its cold, tight grip. This is what takes hold after the cruelty of death. He knew it was going to happen, knew his dad was about to die. He could tell himself that he knew what it would mean, but, still, it has to happen before the meaningfulness of it can truly be absorbed.
He rubs his palms over his eyes, trying to compose himself. Scott's probably inside the house, and Simon doesn't even know if Maggie has let him know. She hadn't called him while Simon was still with her at Susannah's. This means that Simon may be in the unfortunate position of having to break the news to him. It's not something he particularly wants to do, and he wonders if he can just wait here until Maggie gets home.
He turns the interior lights on in the car, inspects his face in the mirror. The puffiness and red eyes he's grown accustomed to are readily on display. He wipes away what he can of the crying that remains on his face and takes a slow, deep breath. He goes to turn the engine off but stops. He looks up at the house, looks at the dark window of his old bedroom. A flood of memories comes over him. Not a flood of detailed memories, but a feeling like a rush of years rolling over him, a deluge of a life lived behind that window. All the pain and sorrow, along with the few bits of joy and hope, wash over him. Then the flood stops and every memory recedes to rest on a single image. It's an image of his dad standing in Simon's doorway, leaning against the doorframe, silhouetted by the soft, warm hallway light. He's looking into Simon's dark bedroom, watching him sleep.
Sy would often schedule a class in the evening in addition to his daytime schedule. This was by design, of course. It was a handy excuse for not having to come home in the evenings. But on more than one occasion, Simon would still be awake when his dad got home. He'd be alone in bed, staring into the darkness, dreaming and fantasizing about the great big world outside their house, outside their town. And when he'd hear his dad coming up the stairs, he'd close his eyes and pretend to sleep. His dad would always stop and lean on Simon's doorframe and just watch him for a minute. Simon never let on that he knew he was standing there. He was too afraid that it would transform these moments into something too self-conscious for his dad. He always knew, though never quite understood, how important it was for his dad to maintain an illusion of distance. But it was always a comfort to know his dad was home, and that he still cared enough to look in on him, make sure he was okay.
It's a sad image, really. And months ago, the same image would've only served to make Simon angry at his dad for keeping such a distance. And that anger would be justified. But now he finds himself in the desperate place of wanting to believe that his dad isn't truly gone, that the man he spoke to only a few hours ago, will still be there, ready to look in on him again.
But as he begins to tear up again, he knows he doesn't want to go back inside the house. He doesn't want to walk into that same dark bedroom tonight to grab the few things he'd planned to take with him to Laura's. For now, he just wants to see Laura.
Laura occupies the upstairs apartment of a big, white house a few blocks from the worst of the student housing, but not so far away from campus that she can't easily walk to the English building.
The lights of her apartment are shining bright from the two windows that face the street, and Simon watches her shadow bounce back and forth from one window to the next. She looks like she might be tidying up the place. He decides to give her a few extra minutes to finish what she's doing. She may not have been expecting him so soon.
After what seems like several minutes of her just pacing from one side of the apartment to the other, she peels away a sheer curtain from the window and spots his car on the street.
He gets out of the car and walks around to the side of the house, where she told him he could find her door. He holds his hand up to knock, but she pulls the door open before he gets the chance.
"Hey, you," he says.
"Hey," she says, staring at him a second longer than comfortable, before catching herself. "Come on up."
She turns and walks up the dark, narrow staircase, moving toward the light at the top. "Sorry about the darkness," she says, motioning toward an unlit bulb on the ceiling—high above the middle of the staircase. "It burned out months ago, but since it's in such a precarious position, the landlord doesn't seem to be in a hurry to change it."
"It's alright. I can see," he says, coming into the light of her apartment.
It's a very spacious place with a surprisingly open floor plan. He feels like he can see the entire apartment—kitchen, living room, bedroom—all from his perch at the top of the stairs. And he immediately notices how much it smells like her—sweet and feminine, honey and vanilla. The space, the smell, the light, all make the place feel warm, lived in. And though he's never quite known the feeling, it feels like what he imagines a home should feel like. He recognizes the idea of home, is able to identify its attributes, but he can't quite say he's ever known a place you want to escape to and not a place you want to escape from.
"You didn't bring anything?" she asks.
"Right," he says, holding out his empty hands. "I decided not to go to Maggie's. Coulda used a toothbrush, though. Didn't think about that, I guess."
"That's alright. I think I have an extra," she says, and then suddenly seeming self-conscious, "Not because I'm accustomed to overnight visitors, but because I buy— Why am I explaining this?"
"It's alright."
"You want a drink?" she asks, walking toward the fridge in the kitchen.
"Sure."
"Soda? Beer? Water?" she asks, her face glowing in the fridge's light.
"A beer would be great," he says, sitting on the back of her couch in the living room as she brings him a beer.
&n
bsp; "You alright?" he asks.
"Yeah, why?" she asks, opening a bottle of water for herself.
"You seem nervous."
"Do I?"
"If it makes you at all uncomfortable to have me here, I'll be—"
"No, I asked you to come, remember? It's just that I'm still kind of trying to get my footing after… How are we supposed to talk now? Do we pretend nothing's happened, that the weight of his death isn't everywhere? All the things I think to say just seem… So… So…"
"Insignificant."
"Yes, insignificant," she says, sitting bedside him on the back of the couch. "But I'm glad you're here."
"Me, too," he says, taking a drink of his beer. Then he looks down at the floor, wondering what else there is to say. She's right. All the normal things that come to mind, seem so facile under the circumstances.
"You have any trouble finding the place?"
"No, my internal map of town is still very much in tact. Some things you never forget, I guess."
"You spent your entire childhood here?"
"As long as I can remember. We moved here when I was too young to remember any place before it."
She shakes her head to acknowledge what he's said and then bites her lip, looking as if she too is trying to find the right things to say.
"How long have you lived here?" he asks.
"In town or in this house?"
"In town."
"Almost five years now."
"And you've known Dad that whole time?"
"Yeah, he's the reason I applied here, though we really