me like love.
The plane I take goes right over Butler. Fifty miles out of Pittsburgh, the pilot drops down under the clouds and I can find the city. It is not much, the downtown clumped around the Main Street section of Route 8, then the bridge, the train tracks snaking with the Connoquenessing, the blue blocks of the Armco mill. Cars crawl up the long hill. I am looking for the aqua dot of the water tower, though it is always some other landmark that jumps out. The mall that used to be new. The post office depot with its rows of Jeeps. The Home for Crippled Childrenânow the Rehabilitation Centerâwhere my mother still works. Roads crisscross and connect; woods neatly part to let the power lines through. This high up, I feel as if the place I was raised is not such a mystery. Looking down at the farms and fields, the two schools separated by the interstate, the black bean of Marsdenâs Pond, I think that, like my sister putting Russia together piece by piece, if I concentrate on the details I will be able to make sense of the whole, that I will finally understand everything that happened back then, when I know that I canât.
T WO
G LENN M ARCHAND SLAPS HIMSELF in the mirror, watches the nick fill with blood. Heâs already shaved once today, for church, and still has on his good shoes and best dark slacks. His good white shirt and the maroon paisley tie Annie gave him for Christmas last year hangfrom the bathroom doorknob, safe from the Barbasol and splashing hot water. The Hai Karate was a gift from her too, a birthday, he canât remember when, but itâs safe, she likes it. It stings like a bugger in the cut. Trying to be too fine, Glenn thinks. He tears off a corner of toilet paper to stanch the bleeding.
âDonât want to be late,â his father calls from the bedroom doorway. Glenn finds him in the mirror and waves over his shoulder.
Frank Marchand rests against the jamb and watches his son leaning over the sink, mouth open, trying to position the tiny triangle with his fingers. Glenn has been home for three months now, and isnât working. He goes to the fires but otherwise Frank has no idea what he does with his time. Drives around the county. Drinks with his buddy Rafe. Sleeps. The bedroom is a mess, like a childâs; shirts and shoes and 8-track tapes cover the hardwood floor along with bits of Bomberâs chew toys and rawhide bones, all drifted with clumps of dog hair. The room smells of Bomber, who right now is outside in his new house, banished since this morning, when in a frenzy of gratitude he knocked Olive against the kitchen table and spilled everyoneâs juice. Frank goes to the window. Bomber seems comfortable enough, paws crossed, his huskyâs face split with a perpetual grin. A cold October rain drips from the trees, the light painting the sheets of the unmadebed gray. A Bible lies open on the night table, passages underlined in red pen. On a chair in a dark corner sits a plush bunny Glenn has bought for Tara, a red ribbon around its neck, its arms open as if ready to hug someone. It is nearly the size of Tara, and Frank does not want to think what it cost.
Every other Sunday itâs the same thing. Frank is not Glennâs natural father, but that does not stop this from hurting him. Tara is their only grandchild who lives in the state, and Glenn is their youngest. Our baby, Olive still calls him, and itâs true, Glenn has never taken to the world like Richard and Patty. He has a talent for both finding and, lately, losing jobs. Part of it is his charm, the utter optimism he projects. He has a gift for ingratiating himselfâlike his natural father, Frank thinks, a pleasant, truly harmless man who the last they knew was doing five-to-fifteen in Minnesota for bilking retired couples out of their pension money. Frank has tried to help, lining Glenn up with people he knows. They all like Glenn at first, and then he starts coming in late and
The plane I take goes right over Butler. Fifty miles out of Pittsburgh, the pilot drops down under the clouds and I can find the city. It is not much, the downtown clumped around the Main Street section of Route 8, then the bridge, the train tracks snaking with the Connoquenessing, the blue blocks of the Armco mill. Cars crawl up the long hill. I am looking for the aqua dot of the water tower, though it is always some other landmark that jumps out. The mall that used to be new. The post office depot with its rows of Jeeps. The Home for Crippled Childrenânow the Rehabilitation Centerâwhere my mother still works. Roads crisscross and connect; woods neatly part to let the power lines through. This high up, I feel as if the place I was raised is not such a mystery. Looking down at the farms and fields, the two schools separated by the interstate, the black bean of Marsdenâs Pond, I think that, like my sister putting Russia together piece by piece, if I concentrate on the details I will be able to make sense of the whole, that I will finally understand everything that happened back then, when I know that I canât.
T WO
G LENN M ARCHAND SLAPS HIMSELF in the mirror, watches the nick fill with blood. Heâs already shaved once today, for church, and still has on his good shoes and best dark slacks. His good white shirt and the maroon paisley tie Annie gave him for Christmas last year hangfrom the bathroom doorknob, safe from the Barbasol and splashing hot water. The Hai Karate was a gift from her too, a birthday, he canât remember when, but itâs safe, she likes it. It stings like a bugger in the cut. Trying to be too fine, Glenn thinks. He tears off a corner of toilet paper to stanch the bleeding.
âDonât want to be late,â his father calls from the bedroom doorway. Glenn finds him in the mirror and waves over his shoulder.
Frank Marchand rests against the jamb and watches his son leaning over the sink, mouth open, trying to position the tiny triangle with his fingers. Glenn has been home for three months now, and isnât working. He goes to the fires but otherwise Frank has no idea what he does with his time. Drives around the county. Drinks with his buddy Rafe. Sleeps. The bedroom is a mess, like a childâs; shirts and shoes and 8-track tapes cover the hardwood floor along with bits of Bomberâs chew toys and rawhide bones, all drifted with clumps of dog hair. The room smells of Bomber, who right now is outside in his new house, banished since this morning, when in a frenzy of gratitude he knocked Olive against the kitchen table and spilled everyoneâs juice. Frank goes to the window. Bomber seems comfortable enough, paws crossed, his huskyâs face split with a perpetual grin. A cold October rain drips from the trees, the light painting the sheets of the unmadebed gray. A Bible lies open on the night table, passages underlined in red pen. On a chair in a dark corner sits a plush bunny Glenn has bought for Tara, a red ribbon around its neck, its arms open as if ready to hug someone. It is nearly the size of Tara, and Frank does not want to think what it cost.
Every other Sunday itâs the same thing. Frank is not Glennâs natural father, but that does not stop this from hurting him. Tara is their only grandchild who lives in the state, and Glenn is their youngest. Our baby, Olive still calls him, and itâs true, Glenn has never taken to the world like Richard and Patty. He has a talent for both finding and, lately, losing jobs. Part of it is his charm, the utter optimism he projects. He has a gift for ingratiating himselfâlike his natural father, Frank thinks, a pleasant, truly harmless man who the last they knew was doing five-to-fifteen in Minnesota for bilking retired couples out of their pension money. Frank has tried to help, lining Glenn up with people he knows. They all like Glenn at first, and then he starts coming in late and