He walked straight in the front door as Mrs. Muir was putting a plate of cookies on the kitchen table. She said it was our reward for a kitchen well cleaned. I turned around to comment and there he was, staring at me.
“Sam? What are you doing here?”
I froze. I thought I might be intruding before; now I knew I was.
“Alex,” Mrs. Muir gently reprimanded him. “We invited Sam for dinner. We’re having a lovely time.”
Alex shook his head as if clearing a thought or rustling up some good manners. “I’m surprised, that’s all. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Professor Muir took my number at the café. Then Mrs. Muir called me.”
He waved his hand. “Don’t explain. I told you they were good people. Glad you’re here.” But he didn’t sound glad. He turned away from me, crossed the kitchen, and kissed Mrs. Muir on the cheek. “Where’s Pops?”
“He went to get Sam a book from the study.”
“Great.” Alex grabbed a cookie and left in search of the professor.
Mrs. Muir studied the empty doorway for a moment. “That was abrupt.” She turned to me and smiled. “Don’t let him rattle you, Sam. We’re so delighted you came.”
“I’m intruding on his time with you. You said he’s like your son, and now a stranger is mucking up his last night here.”
“Not at all. When Robert was teaching we had lots of ‘sons’ and ‘daughters’ coming for dinners. It was great fun. But since his retirement, Alex has been the only one around. Perhaps he’s grown a bit spoiled.” She grinned and handed me a cookie. “Let’s sit.”
Alex and the professor came back to the kitchen and we sat around the table, chatting and eating cookies for another hour. Then the conversation dwindled, and I knew Alex needed time alone with them.
“Thank you so much. I need to get home and finish some work.”
“Remember what I said about talking to Johnson.” The professor smiled at me.
“What are you working on?” Alex looked across the table at me—directly for the first time.
“I have an article due, and I’m reading The Merchant of Venice. It’s showing downtown and I thought I’d see it and write a review for one of my classes.”
“Good for you. That’s very thorough of you, Sam, to read the play first. I’m impressed.” The professor cut into the conversation.
“Ah, Portia and her secret identity . . . I love that one.” Alex nodded and chomped a cookie.
“I do too.” I paused and looked at him for a moment. It was a surreal experience. It’s not like I have a crush on him; I don’t. Alex wasn’t that nice tonight, and I’m seeing Josh—we went out again last Friday. But sitting across a table from Alex Powell, eating cookies, was unique.
“Let me drive you back to campus.” Alex slid his chair back.
“No, I’ll be fine.” I didn’t want to take the Metra at night, but I was not about to take Alex from the Muirs.
“You’re not taking the Metra. I’ll drive you if Alex won’t.” Professor Muir stood as well.
“Take a seat, Pops. I’ll drive Sam and be right back. While I’m gone, you can read my plot points for the next book.”
“Excellent.” The professor rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Alex stalked to the front hall without another word and grabbed his coat. I felt like the Ugly Duckling—obtrusive and unwanted.
As he opened the door, the professor rushed into the hall. “You’re staying here for Thanksgiving, Sam? On campus?”
“Yes, how did you . . . know that?” I stammered.
“Students usually babble about home this time of year. You never mentioned it.”
“Ahh . . .” I let it hang. There was nothing to say.
“You’ll come here.”
“No, I . . .” I fumbled for an excuse. Any excuse.
“Franny will call you. I make stuffing. It’s the only thing I make all year, and I have a talent. You’ll love it.” He winked at me and leaned down for a bear hug, and I couldn’t pull away—he’s too big—so I surrendered. I’m unused to hugs, so at the time I couldn’t enjoy it. Several hours later, I loved that hug.
Alex and I got into his rental and headed south. He didn’t speak. I thought a fifteen-minute silent ride with Alex Powell might kill me, so I started asking questions.
“You’ve got an outline for your next book?”
He turned his head and looked straight at me for a moment, studying me. I guess I passed some test, because he visibly relaxed.
“I do. This one’s been hard. All the publicity I’m doing for Salvation Bound hasn’t helped, but they’ve got me on a yearly release now, so I keep chugging.”
“That’s a lot of writing.”
“It’s a much different pace than I kept for my first two. I wrote Redemption while getting my MFA at Columbia and worked in a coffee shop while finishing it. It was easy, I guess, because I didn’t have any expectations. Now there are expectations.”
“Do you get any breaks?”
He laughed this self-deprecating chuckle that sounded tinged with regret. “This week was supposed to be that. I decided to visit Mom and Pops Muir at the last minute and look what happened—PR events, signings, interviews. I told my publisher my plans, and ‘vacation’ went out the window.”
“Your talk at Northwestern?”
“That? No, I set that up on my own. Megan and I were at Columbia together, and she’s been begging me to talk to her class. But the dog-and-pony show downtown? Not my favorite.” He looked at me again. “I’m sorry I’m complaining, Sam. I sound pathetic. ‘Poor me, too many people love me.’”
I laughed. “I was not thinking that.”
“I wouldn’t blame you.” He paused. “Let me tell you something else. Something good, that’s not a complaint.”
Alex then shared that he comes from eastern Washington and has three siblings; he thinks Mrs. Muir’s chocolate chip cookies are straight from heaven; he loves to watch baseball; and he gets his hair cut only at places with a traditional barber pole outside. Don’t ask how that last detail came up. I can’t remember, but it didn’t sound odd at the time.
We were in the Conleys’ driveway before I knew it.
“Thanks for putting up with me, Sam. I was rude tonight.”
“Not at all. I intruded on your family. I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to.”
I started to get out of the car, but he called me back. “Sam?”
I leaned into the open door.
“Please go to their house for Thanksgiving. They never had kids and always wanted them. I think retirement has been harder on Pops than he’ll admit. He misses his students.”
“If they call, I’ll go. He was right. I don’t have any plans.”
Alex nodded. “Good then. Thank you.” He reached out to shake my hand.
I’ll keep you posted on
Thanksgiving,
Sam
DECEMBER 2
Dear Mr. Knightley,
I hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving—filled with turkey, green beans, potatoes, fall leaves, pumpkin pie, family walks, movies. Mine was packed with all that and more. It was one of the most warm-feeling, broad-smile, deep-belly-sigh days ever.
I anticipated a lonely day: Josh went home to Cincinnati, Ashley to New York, and Debbie to Minneapolis; Kyle was with the Hoffmans, and everyone else was gone as well. I couldn’t bear to call Father John and ask if I could come to Grace House, so I planned on heating a frozen turkey dinner here and watching the old BBC Pride and Prejudice. I didn’t expect Mrs. Muir to call. But she did.
She invited me to spend the whole day with them. But, unlike the professor, she invited me so softly and with such care that I didn’t even try to refuse.
I was so anxious and excited that I couldn’t sleep past five and went for a run. Ten miles definitely calms one’s nerves. It was perfect: dark, cold, and silent. It was my first time out in the dark alone since the Great Beat-down,
so I stuck to the main streets and felt safe. I loved each step and felt myself settle with each mile. The sun came up over the lake in a spectacular series of blazing oranges, pinks, and yellows. At the end, I knew I could handle the day—all by myself.
I then worked on a few articles until it was time to grab an apple pie at Foodstuffs on Central Avenue and hop the Metra north.
Mrs. Muir welcomed me with a huge smile and an equally warm hug. “You didn’t need to bring pie, dear. We just wanted you. Come in.”
I walked in to the most amazing smells of garlic, turkey, potatoes, and something citrus . . . It was tangible and delicious.
“You’re finally here. I’ve been waiting for you,” the professor started with little preamble. “I want to see what you think of this.” He handed me a couple printed pages.
“No work today.” Mrs. Muir gently took the pages from me and handed them back to him. “Right now we cook.”
“But I think young Sam here will have good insights.”
“I’m sure she will. Another day.”
“Very well.” He winked at me and slid the pages into my bag as he followed his wife to the kitchen. “Another day, Sam.”
We cooked, chopped, tasted, and laughed throughout the day. We didn’t talk about anything specific, just stuff that meant nothing and everything: books, movies, weather, trees, politics, school, personalities, Chicago, art . . .
After an amazing meal, during which I did not embarrass myself or insult anyone else, we grabbed seats on the couch for their annual Thanksgiving Day tradition of watching George C. Scott as Scrooge in A Christmas Carol. I’ve read the book about six times, but I’d never seen the movie. At each reading I struggle with Scrooge’s turnabout. It seems too fast, too complete. I mean, he resists goodness with the third ghost, and then flips almost instantly into the embodiment of St. Nicholas. It never made sense to me.
But post movie I feel differently about Scrooge. I watched the transformation play across the screen, and I saw his longing for love and community earlier in the story than I’d noticed in the book. From the beginning, I now suspect his isolation hurt him deeply. I watched as he painfully built each wall in his life and, even more dramatically, how he tore them down. It was both wonderful and unsettling.
Afterward the professor offered to drive me home, but Mrs. Muir invited me to spend the night.
“It’s so late to go home, dear. Why don’t you stay? There are clean sheets on the guest room bed and fresh toiletries in the bathroom.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“Not at all. I want to try a new French toast recipe tomorrow, and Robert is hardly helpful. He says everything tastes good.”
“Everything does,” the professor protested.
“Stay, and then I’ll know the truth.” Mrs. Muir smiled at me.
“Samantha will be just as polite as I am, my dear. She won’t be objective at all . . . No, wait! She corrected my Shakespeare. Maybe she will give you an honest opinion. Let’s keep her.”
The professor laughed as I felt the color rise to my face.
He caught my arm. “Samantha, I value your little blunder, as you might regard it, and hope you take my teasing lightly.”
I simply nodded. Mrs. Muir took that as a yes to stay and led me to the guest room. My mind remained muddled as I brushed my teeth and turned out the lights. Then panic hit—the nightmares. What was I thinking? What if I wake up my hosts? I lay there for hours listening to the house settle and the clock tick. The room smelled like starch and lavender, and eventually I fell asleep. No dreams.
And that is how I know what one should eat and what one should do on Thanksgiving Day. The whole day played out like every movie and story I’ve ever seen or read.
But now school’s back in session and I’ve been researching, writing, and editing all day. I’m going bowling with the Conleys this evening, so that should be a good break. Josh is joining us—that was like pulling teeth.
“I don’t want to bowl, Sam. Come down here. We’ll go to dinner.”
“I’ve already accepted. Besides, I’d like them to meet you. They see your car in their driveway, they should know who drives it.”
“So if they meet me, and know it’s my car, you won’t kick me out so early?”
I thought about this and couldn’t see the link. “I guess.”
“Okay, bowling it is. I’ll be there by six.”
Maybe his point was that no one likes an unknown car in their driveway, but one accepts, even welcomes, the car of a friend. I still don’t get it. At least he’s coming. I think Isabella will like him. Every time we watch a movie, she asks if I think the actor is cute. And Josh is cute.
So I have a break coming in two hours—which is good because my head is about to explode. I’m sure most of my classmates are resting before the storm of exams in a couple weeks, but work presses me. I’m still at the bottom, Mr. Knightley. The Evanston Review rejected my last submission, by the way—so much for Johnson’s advice about getting encouragement from smaller papers. I can’t even get published there. I hate the bottom.
Back to work,
Sam
DECEMBER 11
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Do we ever get a break? Can’t we thrive? Why work to make our lot in life better if we keep getting beat down?
Kyle called Coach Ridley a couple days ago and asked him to take him to Grace House. Ridley did. Within hours Mr. Hoffman demanded Father John release Kyle and pressed kidnapping charges against the coach. Kidnapping? Can you believe it?
It won’t stick. Kyle started talking. Mr. Hoffman did hit Kyle. Father John called the police, and they took Kyle to DCFS. He recounted all kinds of abuse, to him and to the Hoffmans’ son, Brian. It sounded so awful that the police sought former kids placed with the Hoffmans to confirm. Four corroborated Kyle’s testimony.
The stories make you want to cry: standing in the corner for hours; beatings around the lower abdomen and butt, where marks wouldn’t be seen; getting chained to the kitchen table or to the bed at night. Horrid stuff. And things that wouldn’t leave visible marks once Kyle put on clothes. They were careful, which is even more disgusting. Kyle did actually give himself the bruises on his neck that Coach Ridley saw a few weeks ago, by falling out of a hiding place. That’s why he wouldn’t talk then. He was afraid no one would believe him.
So Kyle’s back at Grace House. He thinks he failed. I went down and had dinner with him tonight. I had plans with Josh, but canceled them. I lied and said I had a seminar.
“I forgot,” I told him. “It’s a makeup from when Professor Feinberg was sick last month.”
“All right. We’ll be at Twin Anchors on Sedgwick. Just come after. I’ll text you if we move on.”
“It’ll be late. I don’t want to take the ‘L’ at night.”
“Then take a cab. You take a cab home all the time when you come down.” He paused.
I know my fears frustrate him, but some are legitimate. Aren’t they?
“Forget it, Sam. I’ll call you tomorrow, and maybe you can come down this weekend. Downtown isn’t that far, you know?”
“I know.” I started to feel small and defensive. “I’m sorry, Josh. Listen, I gotta go. Have fun tonight.”
“Fine.” He then relented a little. “Work hard, okay? I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
And that was it.
I like Josh, I really do. He’s a great kisser. Is that too much information? But he is. I love his arms around me. I love his smell. I love that when he walks next to me, I don’t fear steps behind me. But I don’t always feel he understands me, though that’s probably my fault. I haven’t always been honest with him. Like when we went bowling last week. Josh made the effort to come north and meet the Conleys, but I wasn’t honest at the end of the evening.
“Thank you so much for coming.”
“You’re making me leave? It’s only ten. Why meet them if I get kicked out early like always?”
“I�
��ve got a ton of work tonight. You remember exams.”
Josh relented. “I do.” He kissed me lightly. “No big deal. I’m busy tomorrow, but I’ll text you about this weekend.” And he left.
While I did need to study, I didn’t kick him out because of exams. I’d been watching Isabella study Josh the whole evening. She absorbed everything we said and every romantic gesture he made. Back at Grace House, when Father John told us to set an example for the younger kids, I couldn’t have cared less. Let them figure it out on their own. But Isabella matters to me. I want to set a good example for her. And with her bedroom window facing the garage and my apartment, I felt certain she’d be looking for Josh’s car long after her bedtime. Maybe I should have told Josh. Explained that girls have active imaginations . . . I don’t know.
But with that in mind—the importance of honest communication and setting a good example—I took a cab downtown to see Kyle after my last class this afternoon. And, boy, did we start out rough. We’re two peas in a pod, Kyle and I. At first he refused to talk and I couldn’t say anything meaningful. He was as low as I’ve ever seen him—no anger, only sorrow. I wished for a bit of his old fight.
I finally stopped my inane chatter and told him the truth about school and all my other struggles. It helped us both—shared failure is always a comfort. I don’t mean that flippantly. I mean that sharing my dismal grades, poorly written articles, limited friends, horrific nightmares, and even all the details from the Great Beat-down and its aftermath made me relatable to Kyle. We could talk. We were alike.
By dessert Kyle was sharing as well. And it helped. I could see it in his eyes. They started the night tight and predatory, rounded and softened during pizza, and showed flashes of laughter during ice cream. It made me smile.
And so tomorrow we begin a new day. Can we make it better, Mr. Knightley? Can we make life “normal”? I want that more for Kyle than I want it for myself.
Sincerely,
Sam
DECEMBER 16
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Kyle and I talked for a long time this afternoon. He’s doing much better. I suspect he’ll be at Grace House permanently now. He said Dr. Wieland wants to up his meds, but agreed to hold off if Kyle promised to make all his counseling sessions. I’m proud of him, Mr. Knightley. If Kyle needs medication, great, but the fact that he’s trying to take ownership for his actions and emotions is good too. And he’s writing again! I get e-mails daily now. They’re more like laundry lists:
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 10
