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By Root 990 0

him, but that she hoped once she'd killed him, things would change and she would stop loving him so much, stop hating him so much, stop missing him, stop feeling so lonely, and she hasn't. But my mother never talks about my father, and I don't ask her about him, either. And for that matter, my mother has never asked me about Deirdre. She knows that Deirdre killed herself. But she's never asked me for details, never asked me why I was with Deirdre that night in the first place. She's never asked how I feel about Deirdre's being dead, about my not saving her. You never ask your son how he feels about the suicide of his father's lover, just as you never ask your mother how she feels about killing your father, just as you never answer your mother when she asks whether she looks her age.

"You never answer your mother when she asks whether she looks her age," I told her.

"I suppose that's going in the arsonist's guide, too," she said.

Because my mother knows about the arsonist's guide, and the other book, too. I've told her all about them, let her read the rough drafts of some of my chapters, too, and already she's started giving me advice: about what in the books seems softhearted and softheaded; about whether I'm as big a bumbler as I say I am, or whether I'm an even bigger one. But mostly she doesn't seem to know what to say about the books. Maybe that's why she's started reading books in general again, so that she'll know what to say about mine.

"I have to go," she said, getting up from her chair. "My bus leaves in a half hour."

"OK."

"Are you behaving yourself?"

"I am."

"Please behave yourself, Sam," she said. "I want you to come home to me." Then my mother stood up, kissed me on the cheek, and left me sitting in the visiting room until, maybe, my next birthday.

Because this is what my mother seems to want, more than anything: she wants me to come home to her. My mother knows that if I behave myself I'll be out in a little more than thirteen years. And when I do, she wants me to move in with her, into her new and my old apartment. There is a job waiting for me at the Student Prince ― she's already cleared it with Mr. Goerman and Mr. Goerman's son, who was the bald, mustachioed bartender, apparently. I have a job washing dishes and busing tables, if I want it. My mother tells me that I could drink for free, which I admit, after twenty years of not drinking, would be a plus. I've made my mother no promises, but who knows? I'll be finished writing my books by the time I get out of prison, and maybe then I will be done telling that story for all time. And after you're done telling your story for all time, then who knows what happens next? Maybe I'll do what my mother wants: maybe I'll move in with her and take that job at the Student Prince. Maybe then we'll be happy. Maybe we'll live our lives quietly, and maybe we won't ever need to talk about the past, about the loves we've lost or the people we've killed or the fires we've set. Maybe we'll be like normal people, people who, after a long day's work, want to do nothing else but have a drink and read a book. And maybe, then, I'll be able to tell that story.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to the following people, places, and things:

The very helpful and superbly titled A Guide to Writers' Homes in New England by Miriam Levine.

The great Student Prince Restaurant on Fort Street in Springfield, Massachusetts.

The Giustinas of Springfield and the Clarkes of Mashapaug, wherever you happen to be and under whatever aliases you happen to be traveling.

The Taft Fund, the Ohio Arts Council, and the University of Cincinnati for their financial support.

The editors of and at New England Review, Vermont Literary Review, failbetter, and Sarabande Books, who first published sections of this novel, often in dramatically different form.

Rupert Chisholm, former bond analyst.

Chuck Adams, Brunson Hoole, Michael Taeckens, Craig Popelars, and the rest of the good people at Algonquin, and my agent, Elizabeth Sheinkman.

And finally, to all my usual aiders and abetters: you know who