Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant

fourth. And a full assortment of pajamas; but then, he always slept in his underwear. In the wardrobe, just a hanger strung with ties — his oldest, dullest, most frayed and spotted ties — and a pair of shoes so ancient that the toes curled up.

Cody’s brother and sister were staggeringly unobservant. They flitted in and out of the house like birds — Ezra playing his whistle, Jenny singing parts of jump-rope songs. Cody had the impression that musical notes filled their heads to overflowing; they left no room for anything serious. Auntie Sue got dressed in blue, Jenny sang, put on shoes and rubbers too … Her plain, flat voice and heedlessly swinging braids somehow reassured him. After all, what could go so wrong, when she skipped past with her ragged rope? What could go so very wrong?

Then one Saturday she said, “I’m worried about Daddy.”

“Why? “Cody asked.

“Cody,” she said, in her elderly way, “you can see that he doesn’t come home any more. I think he’s left us.”

“Don’t be silly,” Cody told her.

She surveyed him for a moment, with a composure that made him uneasy, and when he didn’t say any more she turned and went out on the porch. He heard the glider creak as she settled into it. But she didn’t start singing. In fact, the house was unusually quiet. The only sound was his mother’s heels, clicking back and forth overhead as she put away the laundry. And Ezra wasn’t playing his whistle. Cody had no idea where Ezra was.

He went upstairs to his mother’s bedroom. She was folding a sheet. “What’re you doing?” he asked. She gave him a look. He settled in a ladder-backed chair to watch her work. She was wearing a housedress that he very much disliked, cream colored with deep red streaks across it like paintbrush strokes. The shoulders were shaped by triangular pads that unbuttoned and removed when it was time to wash the dress. Cody had often thought of stealing those pads. With her shoulders broadened, his mother looked powerful and sharp and scary. On her feet were open-toed shoes and short white socks. She traveled rapidly between the laundry basket and the bed, laying out stacks of clothing. There was no stack for his father.

“When is Dad coming home?” he asked.

“Oh,” she said, “pretty soon.”

She didn’t meet his eyes.

Cody looked around him and noticed, for the first time, that there was something pinched and starved about the way this house was decorated. Not a single perfume bottle or china figurine sat upon his mother’s bureau. No pictures hung on the walls. Even the bedside tables were completely bare; and in all the drawers in this room, he knew, every object would be aligned and squared precisely — the clothing organized by type and color, whites grading into pastels and then to darks; comb and brush parallel; gloves paired and folded like a row of clenched fists. Who wouldn’t leave such a place? He straightened, feeling panicky. His mother chose that moment to come over and smooth his hair down. “My,” she told him, smiling, “you’re getting so big! I can’t believe it.”

He shrank back in his seat.

“You’re getting big enough for me to start relying on,” she said.

“I’m only fourteen,” Cody told her.

He slipped off the chair and left the room. The bathroom door was closed; he heard the shower running and Ezra singing “Greensleeves.” He opened the door just a crack, snaked one arm in, and turned on the hot water in the sink. Then he traveled through the rest of the house, from kitchen to downstairs bathroom to basement, methodically opening every hot water faucet to its fullest. But you couldn’t really say his heart was in it.

“Tull?” the man asked.

“Yes.”

“Is this the Tull residence?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Darryl Peters,” the man said, showing a business card.

Cody took a swig of beer and accepted the card. While he was reading it, he sloshed the beer bottle absently to get a good head of suds. He was wearing dungarees and nothing else; it was a blistering day in August. The house, however, was fairly cool — the living room dim, the paper shades pulled all the way down and glowing yellow with the afternoon sun. Mr. Peters looked in wistfully, but remained on the porch with his hat in his hand. He was way overdressed, for August.

“So,” said Cody. He nudged the screen door open with his bare foot. Mr. Peters caught hold of it and stepped inside.

“Would your mother be in?” he asked.

“She’s taken a job.”

“Well, then, your … is Ezra Tull your father?”

“He’s my brother.”

“Brother. Ah.”

“He’s in.”

“Well, then,” Mr. Peters said.

“I’ll go get him.”

Cody went upstairs and into Jenny’s room. Jenny and Ezra were playing checkers on the floor. Ezra, wearing shorts and a sleeveless undershirt full of holes, stroked his cat, Alicia, and frowned at the board. “Someone to see you,” Cody told him.

Ezra looked up. “Who is it?” he asked.

Cody shrugged.

Ezra rose, still hugging the cat. Cody went with him as far as the stairs. He stopped there and leaned over the banister to eavesdrop, grinning. Ezra arrived in the living room. “You want me?” Cody heard him ask.

“Ezra Tull?” said Mr. Peters.

“Yes.”

“Well, ah … maybe there’s been a mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?”

“I’m from Peaceful Hills Memorial Gardens,” Mr. Peters said. “I thought you wished to purchase a resting place.”

“Resting place?”

“I thought you filled out this mail-in coupon: Ezra Tull, your signature. Yes, I would like an eternal home for myself and/or my loved ones. I understand that a sales representative will call.”

“It wasn’t me,” said Ezra.

“You didn’t fill this out. You’re not interested in a plot.”

“No, thank you.”

“I should have known,” said Mr. Peters.

“I’m sorry,” Ezra told him.

“Never mind, I can see it’s not your doing.”

“Maybe when I’m older, or something …”

“That’s all right, son. Never mind.”

Cody climbed to the stuffy, hot third floor, where Lorena Schmidt sat on his bed with her back against the wall. She was new to the neighborhood — a tawny girl with long black hair, one lock of which she was twining around a finger. “Who was that?” she asked Cody.

“A cemetery salesman.”

“Ugh.”

“He came to see Ezra.”

“Who’s Ezra?”

“My brother Ezra, dummy.”

“Well? How should I know?” Lorena said. “You mean that brother downstairs? Blondish kid, good- looking?”