you think my family is abnormal?”
“No. ‘Normal’ isn’t the right word. Prosaic. Standard.”
“I don’t think anyone is prosaic. I mean, some people are more eccentric than others.”
Milwaukee, Rebecca. Order and sobriety and a devotion to cleanliness that scours out the soul. Decent people doing their best to live decent lives, there’s nothing really to hate them for, they do their jobs and maintain their property and love their children (most of the time); they take family vacations and visit relatives and decorate their houses for the holidays, collect some things and save up for other things; they’re good people (most of them, most of the time), but if you were me, if you were young Pete Harris, you felt the modesty of it eroding you, depopulating you, all those little satisfactions and no big, dangerous ones; no heroism, no genius, no terrible yearning for anything you can’t at least in theory actually have. If you were young lank-haired, pustule-plagued Pete Harris you felt like you were always about to expire from the safety of your life, its obdurate sensibleness, that Protestant love of the unexceptional; the eternal certainty of the faithful that flamboyance and the macabre are not just threatening but—worse—uninteresting.
Is it any wonder Matthew got out of there two days after he graduated from high school, and had sex with half the men in New York?
No, don’t do that, it’s poisonous, it’s wrong, Milwaukee did not kill your brother.
Rebecca said, “If you grew up here, you’d probably feel a little less romantic about it all.”
“Then I want to feel romantic about it all for as long as I can. Mizzy told me the story of Abraham Lincoln, before dinner.”
“He tells everybody the story of Abraham Lincoln.”
“Which he seems to have mixed up with Superman and Johnny Appleseed.”
“I know. He has to make a lot of it up as he goes along. We’re all gone, and Mom is a little, I don’t know. Over it. She loves him to death. But she could barely manage the maternal bit the first time around. When I was little, it was Rose and Julie who read me stories and helped me with my homework and stuff like that.”
“Julie doesn’t like me, does she?”
“What makes you say that?”
“I don’t know. A feeling, I guess.”
“She’s protective, is all. Which is funny. She’s the wild one.”
“She is, huh?”
“Oh, probably not so much anymore. But in high school …”
“She was wild.”
“Uh-huh.”
“How wild?”
“I don’t know. Regular wild. She had sex with different boys, that’s all.”
“Tell me a story or two.”
“Is this turning you on?”
“A little.”
“This is my sister we’re talking about.”
“Just tell me one story.”
“Men are such perverts.”
“And you’re not?”
“Okay, Charlie. One story.”
“Charlie?”
“I have no idea why I called you that.”
“One story, come on.”
She lay on her back with her head cradled in her hands, slim and tomboyish. They were in what the Taylors called the junk room, because it was the only room except Cyrus and Beverly’s that had a double bed. It had once been a guest room but, the Taylors having more use for junk than they did for guests, had long been devoted to storage, with the understanding that the occasional guest could always be installed there, with apologies. At the room’s far end, wan Virginia moonlight partly illuminated a shrouded sewing machine, three pairs of skis, a pile of cardboard cartons marked “Xmas,” and the Taylors’ collection of objects that would be repaired whenever someone had time: an improbably pink bureau missing its drawer pulls, a stack of ancient quilts, a chipped plaster St. Francis meant to stand on a lawn, a mounted marlin (where in the world would that have come from, and why would they want to keep it?), and, sitting on a high shelf, like an extinguished moon, a world globe that would light up just as soon as someone remembered to pick up the special bulb it required. There was more, considerably more, waiting like a troop of souls in purgatory, in the deeper dark beyond the window’s tentative beam.
Some—many—would have found this room disheartening, would in fact have been unnerved by the Taylors’ whole house and the Taylors’ entire lives. Peter was enchanted. Here he was among people too busy (with students, with patients, with books) to keep it all in perfect running order; people who’d rather have lawn parties and game nights than clean the tile grout with a toothbrush (although the Taylors’ grout could, undeniably, have used at least minor attention). Here was the living opposite of his own childhood, all those frozen nights, dinner finished by six thirty and at least another four hours before anyone could reasonably go to bed.
Here was Rebecca, lying next to him. Rebecca who inhabited this house as unthinkingly as a mermaid inhabits a sunken treasure ship.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s see … One night, when I was a sophomore …”
“And Julie was a senior.”
“Yeah. One night Mom and Dad were out, and I was off with Joe …”
“Your boyfriend.”
“Mm-hm. He and I had had a fight …”
“Did you and Joe have sex?”
She said, with mock indignity, “We were in love.”
“So you did.”
“Yes. Starting the summer after freshman year.”
“Did you discuss it with your girlfriends before you slept with your boyfriend?”
“Of course I did. Would you rather hear that story?”
“Mm, no. Back to Julie.”
“Okay. Julie thought she had the house to herself. I have no idea what Joe and I had fought about but it seemed huge at the time, I’d stormed off, I thought we were really and truly breaking up and that at sixteen I had already wasted the best years of my life on this moron. And I let myself in and right away, I heard this noise.”
“What kind of noise?”
“Like, this thumping. Coming from the garden room. Like somebody stomping his foot.”
“Really?”
“I wasn’t an idiot, I knew what sex sounded like, and if I’d thought I heard Julie
