Matt & Zoe - Charles Sheehan-Miles Page 0,31

be interested now.

I open my laptop and browse to Masslive.com. Right at the top of the page is the headline, South Hadley Teachers Stage Walkout. The subtitle says, Parents scramble for childcare as strike begins.

I read through the article. All in all, it’s mostly correct. Mostly. Dianne Blakely is quoted, of course, noting that the teachers of South Hadley actually sprout horns and eat children at night. Or something like that. I browse away from there to the entertainment pages. Maybe there’s a decent play or something coming up.

I freeze.

At the top of the page: Binder and Mills Circus to Perform Six Nights in Pioneer Valley.

Oh, that’s just fantastic. If I’m not back at work by then, I’ll go join the circus. I scan the article. They’re performing in Albany, Boston, and Worcester first, and will be here just before Thanksgiving.

I stand up, out of sorts, as if I were going somewhere. Anywhere.

But … Christ. I grab my phone and dial Tony. The phone rings without answer. I disconnect, wait thirty seconds, then try again.

He answers on the first ring.

“You gotta be kidding me. Six months I don’t hear from you, and you gotta call me at six in the morning?”

“It’s seven,” I say.

“Not in Madison.”

“Oh, bummer.”

“What do you need, Matty?”

I shrug, then realize he can’t see it. “Just wanted to check in. See how you were.”

“Bullshit,” he replies. “You saw the schedule.”

“What schedule?” I say. He knows I’m lying.

“Whatever. You should come join us. It would do you a world of good.”

I shudder, thinking of the helpless terror of Papa’s hands slipping out of mine. “No, thanks, Tony.”

“Will we get to see you at least? Dinner? Anything? Mom’s all broken up she never sees you anymore. You didn’t even come home for Christmas. What’s that about?”

“Tony, I didn’t have the money. Elementary school teachers don’t get paid all that much.”

Tony mutters something under his breath. Then silence. Silence that drags on, because it’s heavy.

I finally break the silence. “Yeah. We’ll have dinner.”

“That’s real generous, Matty. Real generous. Yeah. We’ll talk later.”

He hangs up the phone, leaving me with silence and guilt. I can deal with one, but not the other. It’s time to head out.

I lock up the apartment and walk down the wooden stairwell to the parking lot. I live in a one-bedroom apartment next to South Hadley Common, just above a restaurant. It’s a good location, plus the rent is cheap. Hard to beat. My commute is usually less than five minutes.

As I unlock the car I think, once again, about buying a bike. I’ve been going to the Gold’s Gym on memorial drive pretty regularly—okay maybe regularly is an exaggeration—but every once in a while anyway. And I run a lot in the mornings. I’m nowhere near the shape I was once in, when I had to perform five nights a week.

The car is new to me, but not new. I took the insurance money from my old car and bought a 6-year-old Honda Civic. It had 45,000 miles on it and is paid for. I’m happy.

I drive to Dunkin’ Donuts and go through the drive through, ordering an assorted dozen and two large cups of coffee. I take a guess and get cream and sugar for both, then head back up College Street until the white colonial is in view. Paint, once white, is peeling all over the house, and the front steps are crooked and bare. The house needs a lot of work.

Zoe’s minivan is in the driveway.

I pull in, my tires crunching in the gravel. Is it weird that I just show up here? Will she think it’s weird? No, she asked me to not disappear, to be here for Jasmine. That’s what I’m doing.

Okay, maybe it’s weird.

Anyway, I open the door and grab the donuts and the two cups in their cardboard carrier. I carry my load to the front door, cups in one hand and donuts in the other. I don’t make it to the porch before the front door opens.

Zoe is there. She’s wearing a gray Army sweatshirt and blue sweatpants, and her hair is disheveled, not long enough to tie back easily. Loose nearly-white hair hangs in front of her left eye. Her expression is… not exactly hostile. She tilts her head to the left slightly and purses her lips and her eyebrows squish together.

“What are you doing here?”

“You said I can’t just disappear. I’m not. I get it. Here’s some coffee and donuts, if I don’t drop them.”

Her eyes widen slightly and she reaches out to takes the coffee tray from my left hand. “Come on in.”

Her voice betrays no enthusiasm.

It’s dim in the front room as we enter, shades drawn. She sets the coffee down and starts opening the shades. “I wasn’t expecting company. Come on in the kitchen. I don’t think Jasmine’s awake yet.”

She walks on past the long living room into a doorway capped with a wide, shallow arch. I follow through the dining room (dominated by a large scarred farm table) and into the kitchen. A small table sits in here and the room smells heavily of smoke. An old Apple laptop is open on the table next to a mug of coffee. It has characters in Chinese or Japanese or some other Asian language, along with a bright pink heart:

私は東京を