An Arsonist's Guide to Writers' Homes in New England_ A Novel - Brock Clarke [77]
He was in New Hampshire, or at least his house was, for the time being, and so I did the thing I knew to do, the thing at which I was getting expert: I walked outside and, through the fog, spied on my mother through the building's front windows, which were, like the rest of the building, massive. There she was, on the second floor. Hers was the only window lit, and my mother was sitting in front of it, at a table, with her chin in her hands, staring into space. The only thing lonelier than being by yourself in a room with nothing to look at or do or hold except your chin is watching someone else be that person. I wanted to run back in side the old Masonic lodge and snatch a copy of that famous book out of one of the faux witches' or wizards' hands and throw it up to my mother through her window, which I'd have to get her to open first, the way Juliet opened hers for Romeo, and Rapunzel for the guy who so desperately wanted her to let down her hair. If only my mother had a book to hold, she wouldn't have looked so lonely. And maybe this was another reason why people read: not so that they would feel less lonely, but so that other people would think they looked less lonely with a book in their hands and therefore not pity them and leave them alone. Did this not occur to the wizards and witches: that their kids read books so that their parents would think them not lonely and leave them alone? Maybe I'd tell them so while I was snatching a copy of their book to give to my mom.
"Sam Pulsifer," said a voice behind me. I turned and faced the voice and the person it belonged to: Detective Wilson.
He looked more like a detective this time: he still was wearing khaki pants and work boots but had ditched the hooded sweatshirt in favor of a blue button-down shirt and a blue sport coat that had probably been his father's or maybe an older detective's. The sport coat would have fit Detective Wilson if he hadn't tried to button it. But he had tried to button it, inflicting unnecessary punishment on his stomach and the coat and its buttons. Plus, someone had obviously told him that he couldn't be a detective without drinking way too much coffee. He was holding a large Styrofoam coffee cup, and he was blowing at the smoke drifting out of its vented top.
"What were you doing in there for so long?" he asked. "Visiting your mother?"
"Eavesdropping on the wizards," I said. "Witches, too."
"What?"
"I think I took the road less traveled," I told him.
"Speaking of the road," he said, trying to get the conversation back to a place where he could understand and control it, "I was behind you on the drive over here. You're a terrible driver."
"I was following my mother."
"You can't follow worth shit."
"I know that."
"I could have given you a ticket," he said.
"I'm glad you didn't," I said, especially since if he'd given me a ticket, then he would have asked to see my driver's license and I wouldn't have been able to show it to him. Because I'd never gotten my driver's license back from Lees Ardor ― I had just realized that. I could see her in the classroom holding it and then not giving it back to me, and, like not getting the letter back from Mr. Frazier, this was another mistake I'd regret. But then again, I was pretty certain I'd make more mistakes, so I didn't dwell on the one I'd just made for too long. This is another thing I'll put in my arsonist's guide: if you make a mistake, don't dwell on it for too long, because you'll make more of them.
"If you'd tried to give me a ticket," I said, "I would have asked to see your badge." I was remembering a few things about Detective Wilson,