I lingered. Suddenly I didn’t want to be away from him. We waited and watched the others arrive. He shifted in his seat. I could smell his cologne. I can smell it still.
“Did I ever tell you,” he said, a thin smile forming in his beard, “how the coal hole got its name?”
What he referred to was a hollowed space in the wall of our house, under one of the eaves. When the house was originally built, a hidden panel was installed in the wall so that the space could be used for storage. When I was a little girl, I liked hiding myself away in there. I felt safe in that cramped triangle of space, which seemed like it fit me but no other human on earth. When my father saw I liked it, he cleared out the boxes of old photographs he had stored in there and set it up as a hiding place for me, with a light and a tiny bookshelf and an assortment of throw pillows I could arrange however I liked. I would stay in there for hours at a time, and he would bring me crackers and cheese. We called it the coal hole, and it had never occurred to me to wonder why.
“It’s from Silas Marner,” he said.
“I never read it,” I said.
“I know. It’s about a grumpy old man who has to raise a little girl all on his own. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He doesn’t know the first thing about children. He’s all on his own.”
My father paused. He looked away from me and was quiet for a while. I wished I could see his eyes, but I was also afraid of what I’d find in them.
“Anyway,” he went on, taking a deep breath, “when she starts to act out, he doesn’t know what to do. So to punish her, he shuts her in the coal hole of his house all by herself. Except here’s the thing. This girl, she’s not like other children. She’s got a spirit in her—brilliant, mischievous. And it turns out she likes the coal hole. It’s no punishment at all to her. Once she discovers it, she climbs in there all the time.”
“So…” I said, though there was a catch in my throat. “So what does Silas Marner do?”
My father smiled.
“What else is there to do with a girl like that?” he said. “He lets her do what she wants. And he sits back and watches her grow up. And he is amazed.”
I leaned over and embraced him, my head against his chest, and I felt small and safe with him as I have never felt with anyone else in my life. He kissed the top of my head and stroked my hair.
“But sometimes a father worries,” he said.
“I know,” I said, and I did not like to think of what I was doing to him by becoming the person I was.
“I know,” I said again. “I’ll be there when you get home. I promise.”
*
I promise.
I don’t like to think about it. I don’t like to write it. Outside, our neighbor’s sprinklers just switched on by automatic timer. It must be nearing dawn. He has told us that early morning is the best time to water your lawn. There is no other sound to be heard. I have been listening to silence for so long.
I promise.
I would erase it if I could. They say you can’t hide from truth. But you can’t hide from lies, either. You can’t hide from anything, really.
So why do we keep trying?
*
Helena, my husband’s pretty colleague who jogs around the park, discovers me behind the school, where I watch Jack through his office window.
“Ann? What are you doing here?”
“Oh,” I say and smile too widely in deference to her. “I just came to drop something off with Jack.”
“Ugh. I know,” she says. “Everybody’s been so preoccupied preparing for the parent night tonight. Isn’t this a nice place just to sit and contemplate? I like it, but nobody ever comes out here.”
“It’s very nice.”
“Say, what do you think about that woman, Marcie Klapper-Witt, and her brownshirts cleaning up the neighborhood? I’ll tell you something—I’m not sure I like it. When people get zealous, I keep my distance. That’s my policy. Oh—but you’re not close with her, are you?”
“My son bit her daughter,” I say, shy and proud.
Helena laughs and touches my arm.
“Ann, I’m making a prediction—you and I are going to be best friends. Mark my words.”
I would like to be best friends with Helena, but I’m afraid I don’t know how. I don’t know if I’ve ever been best friends with anyone—especially someone like her, who is so merry about life, whom people enjoying being around. I worry that I don’t possess the spirit required to uphold the friendship of someone so vigorous. What manner of research is required for such a prospect?
That night, while she and my husband are occupied at the parent event at school, I drop my son off with Lola and walk through the neighborhood. It’s empty and quiet, and a dog barks somewhere, and somewhere else a peal of distant laughter escapes from an open window. I am aware of the sound of my own feet shuffling against the sidewalk, so I walk differently—heel, toe—so that I add no noise to the night. When a car comes, I move quickly aside and hide behind a tall bush, compelled by some instinct I shut inside myself a long time ago.
Overhead the night is cloudy, and there are no stars. If it weren’t for the street lamps on every block, you could get lost on these lanes. Everything is a jungle when the light is gone. Something in my chest longs for a blackout. And then my eyes would readjust to the night, and then I could see all the helpless residents wandering, lost, feeling their ways. And I could watch them and be unafraid.