The Hotel New Hampshire

stagecoach lessons!” Then she saw Sorrow. “Wow!” she cried. And why did we all wait so quietly for what Franny would say? Even when she was not quite sixteen, my whole family seemed to regard her as the real authority—as the last word. Franny circled Sorrow, almost as if she were another dog—sniffing him. Franny put her arm around Frank’s shoulder, and he stood tensed for her verdict. “The King of Mice has produced a fucking masterpiece,” Franny announced; a spasm of a smile crossed Frank’s anxious face, “Frank,” Franny said to him sincerely, “you’ve really done it, Frank. This really is Sorrow,” she said. And she got down and patted the dog—the way she used to, in the old days, hugging his head and rubbing behind his ears. This seemed completely reassuring to Egg, who began to hug Sorrow without reserve. “You may be an asshole in an automobile, Frank,” Franny told him, “but you’ve done an absolutely first-rate job with Sorrow.”

Frank looked as if he were going to faint, or just fall over, and everyone began talking at once, and pounding Frank on the back, and poking and scratching Sorrow—everyone but Mother, we suddenly noticed; she was standing by the window, looking out at Elliot Park.

“Franny?” she said.

“Yes,” Franny said.

“Franny,” Mother said, “you’re not to drive like that in the park again—do you understand?”

“Okay,” Franny said.

“You may go out to the delivery entrance, now,” Mother said, “and get Max to help you find the lawn hose. And get some buckets of hot, soapy water. You’re going to wash all the mud off the car before it dries.”

“Okay,” Franny said.

“Just look at the park,” Mother told her. “You’ve torn up the new grass.”

“I’m sorry,” Franny said.

“Lilly?” Mother said, still looking out the window—she was through with Franny, now.

“Yes?” Lilly said.

“Your room, Lilly,” Mother said. “What am I going to say about your room?”

“Oh,” Lilly said. “It’s a mess.”

“For a week it’s been a mess,” Mother said. “Today, please, don’t leave your room until it’s better.”

I noticed that Father slunk quietly away, with Lilly—and Franny went to wash the car. Frank seemed bewildered that his moment of success had been cut so short! He seemed unwilling to leave Sorrow, now that he had re-created him.

“Frank?” said Mother.

“Yes!” Frank said.

“Now that you’re finished with Sorrow, perhaps you could straighten up your room, too?” Mother asked.

“Oh, sure,” Frank said.

“I’m sorry, Frank,” Mother said.

“Sorry?” Frank said.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t like Sorrow, Frank,” Mother said.

“You don’t like him?” Frank said.

“No, because he’s dead, Frank,” Mother said. “He’s very real, Frank, but he’s dead, and I don’t find dead things amusing.”

“I’m sorry,” Frank said.

“Jesus God!” I said.

“And you, please,” Mother said to me, “will you watch your language? Your language is terrible,” Mother told me. “Especially when you pause to consider that you share a room with a seven-year-old. I am tired of the ‘fucking’ this and the ‘fucking’ that,” Mother said. “This house is not a locker room.”

“Yes,” I said, and noticed that Frank was gone—the King of Mice had slipped away.

“Egg,” Mother said—her voice winding down.

“What?” Egg said.

“Sorrow is not to leave your room, Egg,” Mother said. “I don’t like to be startled,” she said, “and if Sorrow leaves this room—if I see him anyplace but where I expect to see him, which is right here —then that’s it, then he’s gone for good.”

“Right,” said Egg. “But can I take him to Vienna? When we go, I mean—can Sorrow come?”

“I suppose he’ll have to come,” Mother said. Her voice had the same resignation in it that I’d heard in her voice in my dream—when Mother had said, “No more bears,” and then drifted away on the white sloop.

“Holy cow,” said Junior Jones, when he saw Sorrow sitting on Egg’s bed, one of Mother’s shawls around Sorrow’s shoulders, Egg’s baseball cap on Sorrow’s head. Franny had brought Junior to the hotel to see Frank’s miracle. Harold Swallow had come along with Junior, but Harold was lost somewhere; he’d made a wrong turn on the second floor, and rather than come into our apartment, he was wandering around the hotel. I was trying to work at my desk—I was studying for my German exam, and was trying not to ask Frank for help. Franny and Junior Jones went off looking for Harold, and Egg decided against Sorrow’s present costume; he undressed the dog and started over.

Then Harold Swallow found his way to our door and peered in at Egg and me—and at Sorrow sitting naked on Egg’s bed. Harold had never seen Sorrow before—dead or alive—and he called the dog over to the doorway.

“Here, dog!” he called. “Come here! Come on!”

Sorrow sat smiling at Harold, his tail itching to wag—but motionless.

“Come on! Here, doggy!” Harold cried. “Good dog, nice doggy!”

“He’s supposed to stay in this room,” Egg informed Harold Swallow.

“Oh,” said Harold, with an impressive roll of his eyes to me. “Well, he’s very well behaved,” Harold Swallow said. “He ain’t budging, is he?”

And I went to take Harold Swallow down to the restaurant, where Junior and Franny were looking for him; I saw no reason to tell Harold that Sorrow was dead.

“That your little brother?” Harold asked me, about Egg.

“Right,” I said.

“And you got a nice dog, too,” Harold said.

“Shit,” Junior Jones said to me, later; we were standing outside the gymnasium, which the Dairy School had tried to decorate like a building of parliament—for the weekend of Junior’s graduation. “Shit,” Junior said, “I’m really worried about Franny.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Something’s bothering her,” Junior said. “She won’t sleep with me,” he said. “Not even as just a way of saying good-bye, or something. She won’t even do it once! Sometimes I think she doesn’t trust me,” Junior said.

“Well,” I said. “Franny’s only sixteen, you know.”

“Well, she’s an old sixteen, you know,” he said. “I wish you’d speak to her.”

“Me?” I said. “What should I say?”

“I wish you’d ask her why she won’t sleep with me,” Junior Jones said.

“Shit,” I said, but I asked her—later: when the Dairy School was empty, when Junior Jones had gone home for the summer (to whip himself into shape for playing football at Penn State), when the old campus, and especially the path through the woods that the football players always used, reminded Franny and me of what seemed like years ago (to us). “Why didn’t you ever sleep with Junior Jones?” I asked her.

“I’m only sixteen, John,” Franny said.

“Well, you’re an old sixteen, you know,” I said, not exactly sure what this might mean. Franny shrugged, of course.