in it—including those things that the terms of the divorce did not entitle her to. When the judge gave her the house, he also granted George several items within it, such as his guns, the record player, the antique bureau that was a family heirloom, and his clothes. To date, not a single item, not even George’s cotton drawers, had made it through the door. Early on, when her ex-husband still had something of the younger man’s blood in him, he’d shown up on the porch, demanding his things. On occasion, he showed up with the law at his side. She wouldn’t answer the door, and eventually they would leave. Those times when he showed up by himself, banging on the door and shouting, she called the law herself and then watched through a window as they hauled him off.
Even then she knew that had he pressed matters—perhaps gone to the judge and sought a warrant—he could have gotten everything belonging to him. But he didn’t, and without knowing how, she knew he wouldn’t. Maybe it was a penance he’d given himself after the years of other women, and the shouting, and the one time he’d hit her. In the same way she knew that Adelia would see snow in January, she knew George would never have her arrested, and that was boon enough to keep her from destroying those things he wanted. But it wasn’t enough to make her forgive him—or to grant him a single thing in the house.
“Where are you staying?” she asked CJ.
He shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”
“I thought you’d stay at The House,” she said. She’d always called it that, even during what CJ would have dubbed the happy times. It was the way she accented it that made it a proper name.
“I don’t think so,” he said, resisting the urge to rub his neck. “Too much going on over there.”
Dorothy nodded as if she believed it. “You could stay here.”
He couldn’t tell if her tone was hopeful or not. Regardless, he didn’t think that was a good idea either. It was a case of too much, too soon. Besides, he wasn’t sure he was up to sleeping in his old room. For some reason, the thought unsettled him.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to say anything. It must have been evident on his face, because his mother offered a sad—and perhaps slightly relieved—smile.
“I’ve probably been alone too long to have to deal with a roommate anyway,” she said.
CJ just nodded, and neither of them said anything for a while. He could hear what sounded like a delivery truck go past the house, heard it slow at the stop sign, then turn right onto Floral Street, its tires sinking into what had to be the world’s oldest pothole—one that he’d caught a time or two in his old Mustang.
“I’ve read all your books,” Dorothy said, pulling him back.
“I would hope so,” he laughed. “You are my mother.”
“So much cursing,” she said with a tsk. “Where did you learn that kind of language?”
“Where did you learn to like scotch?” he countered.
“My father’s liquor cabinet,” she answered. “Then, after I had you kids, I would sneak some when you were asleep. Your father didn’t want me drinking in front of you.”
It was another thing he’d learned about her that didn’t seem to engender an adequate response. He just shook his head. Dorothy offered a self-conscious smile before looking down at the dog. Thoreau appeared caught in that quintessential place where the urge to lie down competed with the desire to have the petting continue. It looked as if the former need was about to win out. With a grunt the Lab sank to the carpet, nose between his large paws. Dorothy watched him until he closed his eyes and started to drift off.
She sighed. “Have you ever known a dog with insomnia?”
“I can’t say as I have. Are you having trouble sleeping?”
“Only when I’m awake,” she said with a chuckle. She watched Thoreau for a while longer, until the dog began to snore. She looked up at her son, and despite the scotch, her eyes were sharp. “They don’t like you being here. You know that, right?”
He didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then he shrugged and said, “That might bother me if I stop and think about it, so if it’s alright with you, I won’t.”
Dorothy snorted. “It’s not like it’s such a big deal. Sal’s the only one of us you liked.”
“Now that does bother me,”