we went through Iggy’s apartment. We passed through the kitchen, where the turkey was cooking, past the dining room, where the mother was setting the table. It was a glimpse of a normal world, where families sat around a table and said a blessing, and there was plenty of grace to go around.
On a table I saw the paper, and I quickly turned away from the screaming headline.
75 KNOWN DEAD IN L.I. WRECK IN RICHMOND HILL TOLL MOUNTING IN CRASH OF EASTBOUND TRAIN
“Hi, Mrs. Kessler,” Hank called.
“Hello, Hank. Tell your parents Happy Thanksgiving!”
“Will do!”
A few minutes later we were in a gray Ford and heading toward the Midtown Tunnel. I looked into every car, pressing back against the seat. If I saw anybody who seemed suspicious I would nudge Hank, and he’d take off fast from the light. But mostly I saw families in their good coats, or couples not talking, or someone fiddling with the radio.
I didn’t breathe easily until we left the city. Hank took a road that curved along the East River, and you could see the skyline of Manhattan bristling on the other side. Then we drove past dunes and marsh grass and seagulls. We passed Coney Island and Idlewild. I hadn’t quite realized how close Manhattan was to sand and sea.
I tried to think about what to do when we got there, but instead I kept thinking about the day I’d left Providence. I thought I was going like a smart person, with my bills rolled up in my underwear. I’d thought I had enough money to stake me, enough looks and talent to get ahead. I’d thought that was all I needed to meet the world. How I’d hated Da for the speeches he made, walking into my room and shaking his finger. He had said things about “the characters you’ll meet” and “when you think you have all the answers, you’re just dumb.” I’d never thought I’d get to a place where Da would be right.
We saw the sign for Babylon and Hank followed the curving road to a small, pretty town. He ran into a gas station to ask directions. I felt the first vibrations of nerves, and my stomach dropped away.
He slid back into the driver’s seat. “It’s just a few blocks away.”
I cranked down the window and gulped in some air. “The air feels different here.”
“We’re near the ocean,” Hank said.
“Delia liked the ocean,” I said. “We went once. She said”—and suddenly the memory was fresh and alive, Delia sitting on the beach, her dress tucked around her legs as the wind whipped tendrils of hair around her face — “that it must be the luckiest place to live.”
The house was small, more of a cottage, really, with a white picket fence and a red door. The shutters were painted a blue that was close to violet, cornflower blue, Delia’s favorite color. I knew just looking at the house that Delia lived there. She was alive.
My mouth was dry and I swallowed hard. “Could you just drive by? Drive by, please?” I added urgently, sliding down in the seat. Hank drove to the corner, pulled over, and parked.
“Kit, it’s not too late. We can just drive back to New York.”
“I can’t.”
“Well. We’ll have to go forward, then.” That made sense. Except I couldn’t seem to get myself out of the car.
I twisted in the seat and looked again at the house. It looked spare and small in the gray light, a little narrower than most of the houses on the street, with its high peaked roof. There was a dried yellowish plot of grass in front and no porch or stoop, just irregular slabs of slate for a pathway to the door. They were placed too far apart, so that you’d have to have a wide stride to make it to the door without stepping in mud.
A woman turned the corner, walking briskly, dressed in pants and sneakers and a navy coat, a wool cap pulled down to her eyebrows. She looked like a sailor.
When I got out of the car, she stopped in her tracks. Slowly, she pulled off her cap.
We stared at each other. I guess the changes were bigger for her. I was twelve when she left, with knees like door knockers. She had short bangs now, and her hair was the length of mine. She was dressed in a baggy gray sweater and khaki pants. The hems of her pants were wet — she must have