be extraordinarily difficult at this point,” he said. “Still, it would seem to be her responsibility. It’s possible these hate crimes would be reined in if she were to make herself known. Though it’s equally appalling what has happened to her reputation. We’ve utterly failed her as a society. But I assume the poor girl is dead by now.”
Edith nodded. She crossed her skinny arms and hugged them to her chest.
“Is there something else bothering you, my dear?”
She blinked, and a tear rolled down her cheek. “Just, I was following the posts on my friend’s website, and then he stopped updating it. I’m worried he’s sick. Or worse.”
“That’s concerning. Have you tried writing to him?”
Edith nodded again. “I’ll give it another try.” She stood up, arching her back in a deep stretch that sent her black shirt slipping down off one slim shoulder. “I hope you have enough to keep you busy.” She pushed in her chair. “I’m going back to Boston for a while, but I can still order books for you online.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, following her to the door. “Actually, I’m getting ready to leave soon, too. I’m going to go get my daughter and her family from New York. The city doesn’t seem safe anymore.”
“Oh,” said Edith. “I can vouch for that. I mean, I’ve heard.” A dark look passed over her face. Then she cocked her head slightly. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”
“She was angry at me for a long time,” said Keelan, surprising himself as the words came out. “Maybe she still is.”
Edith stopped in the doorway. “Oh. Why?” When Keelan only shook his head, a defence against the sudden, terrifying conviction that he might begin weeping, she added, “Just…are you sure she’ll want to leave with you?”
He was relieved to return to practicalities. “No.” He ran a hand over his beard where it left his chin. “But maybe she’ll humour me.”
“Maybe.” Edith pulled her cap down lower on her forehead. “I used to be mad at my parents for not understanding me.” She stepped outside after a brief glance up and down the deserted street. “They still don’t get it, but they try to be accommodating.” She gave him a quick wave before turning to leave. “Good luck, Professor.”
“Thank you, Ed.” He closed the door, reflecting upon her words and wondering if he could have been more accommodating to Julia—agreed to go to the family counselling session when she had asked the first time. But it had all seemed so unnecessary, so Dory. He’d resented her. After all, he and Julia had had no issues until Dory arrived on the scene. Ergo, Dory was the problem, not him. Moreover, everything he’d apparently done wrong had been so long ago.
He’d recounted his supposed misdeeds to the therapist when he’d finally been dragged along. In his own memory, those years were good ones, filled with productivity—since his books, the best ones, the ones that had made his reputation, were written then. Yes, they were speculative, those early titles—Ethics for End Times and The Survivalist’s Code—but they were also bestsellers compared to any average philosophy textbook. And bound to get a bump with the current crisis and this spate of interviews.
It was true that he didn’t remember much about Julia from her teenage years. There were her friends, whom he didn’t much care for. There was the dreadful tuba she began playing and practising with an unfortunate regularity. But her grades never faltered. She never pierced anything on her face. Unlike her peers, she was capable of uttering a sentence without the constant interjection of the word like. According to every measure he was capable of assessing, he had been a good parent.
In hindsight, the real trouble began the evening of her high school graduation. Julia had come into his office, tiptoeing around the stacks of paper on the floor until she reached the clearing near his desk. She was worrying the little fringe on the bottom of her jacket as she stammered, with eyes lowered, through what she had to say. Her secret. Then she looked up at him, and her gaze was like an ignition setting off a bomb in the bottom of his heart.
Something reverberated, deep in the pit of his Ukrainian-peasant stomach or maybe his Irish-barrel chest, and all he remembered saying—his sin of sins—was “Oh dear. Are you sure you want to be doing that?”
And what was so wrong with a little dismay? It was a different time back