Page 28 of By the Book

Maybe I needed to smoke a really raw, rough cigarette. Maybe it would put hair on my chest. I bet Raymond Chandler smoked like a chimney while he was yelling at his secretary.

Fortunately, at that moment, someone rang the doorbell.

“I’ll get it,” I shouted as I scrambled out of my chair.

It was a delivery—a package I’d been waiting for. I’d recently discovered thatCrime Cats(that’s a website, and it’s exactly what it sounds like) sold their own merch. They had this amazing T-shirt that showed a chonky cat wearing a fedora, and yes, I know what you’re thinking, the state of my bank account, etc. But hear me out: on the back of the shirt, you could see his tail!

I was trying to open the package with my teeth as I hurried back to the den. The tape was surprisingly strong. I was sure I owned a pair of scissors, but I had no idea where they were. Maybe Indira would hack it open with a knife, although the one time I’d used one of her knives for something not food related, I’d gotten a Talking To that still occasionally woke me up with the night sweats. Maybe Keme knew where my scissors were—

“Why aren’t you writing?”

I almost dropped the package. Then I glared at my mom, who was sitting in one of the chairs in the den. The secret passage in the fireplace was open, which explained how my mom had gotten in here without my noticing her. I took a quick look at my laptop, but it didn’t appear to have been touched.

I tried once more to get the tape with my teeth, and then I gave up. I grabbed my laptop and settled back into my seat. “Iamwriting. I had to grab that package. Also, what are you doing? Indira said you were exploring the secret passages. I thought you’d gotten lost.”

Because I’m a good son, I saidthought, nothoped.

Then I remembered how she’d looked the night before in the car. I opened my mouth, with the intent of asking something likeHow are you?orAre you okay?On the tip of my tongue was something likeI know how shocking it can be to find someone like that, and I’m worried about you and Dad, so I wanted to check in.

But what I said was “You and Dad were up early.”

“Someone needs to take a good look at this place. It’s got a lot of appeal—you can thank Vivienne for that—but you might need to talk to a lawyer who works with real estate law. I wonder if you need a disclaimer or something along those lines for interested buyers—it’s not exactly a traditional house, and some of the features might pose liability risks.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said. “If I were selling it. But I’m not.”

“Oh? Did you come into some money recently? Did you get a job?”

“I’m trying to work right now. Can we talk about this later?”

My mom studied me. The playful self-indulgence from yesterday was gone, scoured away, and it was hard to reconcile the severity in her expression now with how she and my dad had been acting when they’d first arrived. She had dark, sharp eyes that didn’t miss anything. I hadn’t realized until I was older—in college, actually—that she observed me the way she observed everyone. And that those observations, crystallized and cut and polished, were the backbone of her books. The boy who’d been afraid to fly a kite because Ben Franklin had gotten himself electrocuted that way. The teenager who’d covered the livingroom floor with a map of the universe for his favorite fantasy novel. The Audi that got totaled because the idiot driving it was distracted getting a serious hickey and accidentally bumped the shifter. None of it was exactly me. It was always…sideways. Through the looking glass, so to speak. It had been a BMW, not an Audi. And it had been sci-fi, not fantasy. The Ben Franklin thing was spot on, though.

Finally, it was too much.

I closed the laptop with a snap. “What?”

“Tell me about your story.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not finished yet. Because there are a lot of writers—a lot of good, successful, respected writers—who will tell you exactly what I’m going to say right now: it’s not good to talk about a story before it’s done. Talking about it takes the place of writing it. It’s better to bottle up the energy and let it fuel your writing.”

She didn’t laugh or smirk or smile. Parents didn’t have to do that kind of thing to make sure you knew that they thought you were full of baloney.

“I think you should let me take a look at it.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we already had this conversation. On the phone. When you were three thousand miles away. I don’t know why you drove all the way out here. And I don’t know what you thought that would change. I’m not trying to be a bad son. I’m not trying to be closed off. I love you, and honestly, I would have loved to have you come visit—if I’d known in advance. I’ve been wanting you to meet Bobby—”

“Really? Because you told us not to talk to him. Or, for that matter, to look at him.”

“I was joking. That was a joke.” But I had to struggle to make myself say, “Of course I want you to get to know him. I love him. He’s the most important person in my life.”

I didn’t realize, until I’d finished, who that sentence left out.

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