“I wouldn’t get too broken up over it,” he said.
“Come on, now,” she said. “I’m sure you’re going to miss this place.”
Todd slouched in his seat, yanking on his tie and undoing his mother’s handiwork. Would he be sorry when he left at the end of the year? He would miss the comfort of it, the fact that he knew where everything was; he had his friends, who gave him the well-worn satisfaction of an old pair of shoes, the feeling that, while they were not perfect, they wouldn’t disappear on him one day, or decide they no longer liked him. Before he had arrived at Berkley, his mother helping him pack carefully from the list the school provided, he had been anxious. He was, back then, only three years ago, a bed wetter, a secret about which he had never told anyone. It was an intermittent problem, occurring on and off ever since his father had left them. It wouldn’t happen for months, or even years, at a time, and then it would strike for a few days, or a week. Todd had become used to trudging down the hall of his mother’s apartment in the middle of the night to the washing machine, throwing in the messy bundle of sheets. Jackie would wake quietly, appearing at the threshold to the little laundry room like an angel, silently taking out new sheets from the linen closet, helping him make his bed again. The two of them were complicit in their deception, so that no one—not Brian, not the housekeeper, or the chef—would ever know that Todd (at age seven, at ten, at fourteen) was soiling the bed. Jackie had done everything to prevent it—she had taken him to a psychiatrist, set alarms for him in the middle of the night, encouraged him not to drink water before bedtime. On a family vacation, the problem had struck unexpectedly, and Jackie found herself calling housekeeping at the seaside villa where they were staying in Positano and requesting garbage bags that she cut open into larger panels and placed under Todd’s bedding.
Then the problem would go away. He had always been a deep sleeper, so deep sometimes that nothing could wake him up. He felt as if he weren’t responsible for his own behavior, that his body was acting of its own accord.
The problem never lasted so long as to be a cause for serious concern, just long enough to create discomfort, to give him anxiety at the thought of overnights at friends’ houses; his mother would pack him identical sets of pajamas, just in case. When he left for Berkley, ready to enter the Fourth Form (his school in New York, like many, had gone to the ninth grade), he was worried. Would he, at age fifteen, be caught one morning by his classmates in a puddle of his own urine?
It had never happened. Not once. He was proud of this, that something at Berkley had solved the problem, that while other more masculine fluids might stain his sheets, never again would he have to do a load of laundry as the sun was rising.
He looked at his mother, considering her question. “I don’t think I’ll miss it. I want to get the fuck out of here.”
Jackie sighed. “That English teacher seemed nice.”
“She’s cool. A little too political, but basically okay.”
His mother started rifling through her handbag. “I do wish you would appreciate the fact that you’re here. I never got to have an education like this.”
Todd groaned. He could feel one of her speeches coming on. Several times a year, his mother would remind him how hard she had worked to ensure that he and his brother got the best schooling, how the tuitions she paid now were more than she had made in her first job working as a secretary. Sure, Todd thought, but they’re about one-fiftieth of one of your book advances. He supposed he shouldn’t be ungrateful about it. Those books had made everything possible.
But his mother didn’t offer a lecture. Instead, she asked him the question he was dreading even more. “What about Alex? Is she around?”
“Yeah, she’s around.”
“Will I get to see her? She’s such a sweet girl.”
“Mom, we broke up.”
“Oh, darling!” His mother leaned over in an attempt to hug him. He winced as he noticed that her voice had just gone up by several decibels.
“Don’t make a big deal about it,” he hissed, pulling away. “It’s nothing.”
“Has it been hard?” she asked. “I never would have known.”
“Mom, just forget it. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, you look great, I have to say. There’s color in your cheeks, your complexion is clear, you look healthy.” She leaned forward and whispered, “How’s the smoking? Are you still smoking cigarettes?”
“Sometimes,” he said.
“Well, you shouldn’t. They’re so bad for your skin. But whatever you’re doing, keep at it. It’s working.” She extracted a small pocket mirror from her purse, surreptitiously examined her teeth for remnants of apple, and then began reapplying a shiny tube of lipstick to her mouth.
Todd winced as he realized, from his mother’s pose, from her demeanor, from her tone of voice, that she was addressing him in exactly the same way she spoke to Nick.
Later that day, Todd was sitting with Jackie at the tearoom. The small restaurant was bustling with students and their parents; the crowd overflowed into the entryway, and Laura couldn’t seat people fast enough.
In her usual inquisitive fashion, Jackie had grabbed a booklet describing Wilton’s offerings, though Todd was hesitant to remind her that this might be her last chance to shop for hand-dipped candles or overpriced antiques. He noticed she was perusing a section on the history of the town. It had been founded in the late seventeenth century after the Salem Witch Trials as a refuge for those who might be suspected of practicing the craft. For a hundred years, Wilton was a home for misfits, those shunned by society. Because of its remote location and spectacular landscapes, however, it was eventually discovered by the wealthy from Boston and New York as a bucolic respite from city life. As Wilton’s past as a haven for eccentrics was long forgotten, it continued to be populated by adventurous city dwellers who visited the town with a sense of stoic reserve, as if they had been coming here for centuries, as if they were not simply enjoying their leisure time, but rather enacting an ancient filial duty, that edict that stated Thou Shalt Not Spend One’s Weekend in the City.
Ethan was supposed to join Todd and Jackie for lunch before the three of them pushed off for New York. Todd felt nervous, he realized, because his mother would be meeting Ethan for the first time.
As Todd and Jackie glanced over their menus, Ethan arrived in a burst of cold air and commotion, his tie crooked and his hair mussed.
“Mom, this is Ethan,” Todd said.
“Hello,” his mother said, in a tone that Todd knew she reserved for maladjusted teenagers and the elderly.
Someone had taken the third chair from their table. After mumbling an awkward hello, Ethan went to find another one.
“Is that a friend of yours?” Jackie asked, once Ethan was out of earshot.
“Mom, it’s Ethan. Ethan who’s coming to stay with us for the weekend? He’s in my English class?” In Ms. Davis’s class earlier that day, Ethan had arrived late, and had raced off as soon as the bell rang. Since Jackie had wanted to quiz Ms. Davis on feminist interpretations of Pride and Prejudice (even Todd, who was behind on the reading, could tell that his mother was out of her depth), he had not been able to introduce his friend to her until now.
“Of course! I’m sorry, I totally forgot.”
At that moment, Hannah appeared in the doorway, alone.
“Well, look who’s here!” she said, looking down at Jackie and Todd. She stuck out her hand. “I’m Hannah