Poppy had sex with Brad in every room of the house except her parents’ bedroom, and on every surface: the dining room table, against the refrigerator, in the foyer. They came together quietly and without discussion. Their lovemaking—the naturalness of it, and the urgency—frightened and confused her. She’d been with enough men to appreciate his straightforward approach to intimacy. He didn’t think about what he was doing, didn’t try any tricks. Their sex was natural and grown-up, and it was also scary because it wasn’t just for fun, and that’s how she was conditioned to think about sex. She tried to keep her emotions separate, tried not to worry about commitment, tried not to feel that deep connection when she’d reflect on the sound of his laughter or the current that ran through her when he placed his hand on her hip.
She tried to keep it casual. That wasn’t a problem for the other men she’d been with, but Brad wasn’t like that. She could tell by the way he kissed her, and the way she caught him watching her when he thought she was sleeping. Casual sex might become a problem for Brad. It might become a problem for her, too. Maybe it already was.
Poppy gave up her bedroom and started sleeping in the basement with Brad. It all happened without discussion, as natural as a change in the weather. They planned meals together, cooked, and spent long hours at Boswell Books, the neighborhood bookstore, leaning against each other as they read on the big, comfy canoodling couch. They laughed as they stumbled home from drinking at Von Trier, the neighborhood German bar, and talked constantly when they went on long walks.
He was smart and confident, and he didn’t smell like a wet suit. She liked that he didn’t put pressure on her to be any different from the way she was. Most unsettling was her feeling that they were becoming her parents. They lived together in the house with the same closeness, the same ease. They were spread out on his bed, lit by the dim green light of her father’s antique desk lamp. His foot bent inward at the ankle. He wasn’t self-conscious of his foot anymore, or anything else, which made her wonder if he’d had lots of lovers or just one who had been particularly accepting. She liked the softness of his red chest hair, the rough calluses on his fingertips, and his sturdy presence. She felt he could absorb her.
Poppy said, “Don’t you ever want to leave?”
“Leave where? Your house?”
“No, Milwaukee. I spent my whole childhood wanting to get out of here, and you’ve never left.”
“I like it. Besides, where would I go?”
“Anywhere. There are lots of places.”
“Yeah, but my business is here. My parents. My friends. People know me, I know people. Beer’s cheap. I make a point of seeing the lake every day. The people are nice. This is a great city. I can afford to live here, and Chicago is just a train ride away. It’s home. It’s easy.”
“Isn’t that the problem?”
“What?”
“That it’s easy.”
“Why make things hard?” He slowly ran his finger down the bridge of her nose.
“It’s hard to explain.” Poppy tried not to think of Brad’s complacency as a problem. Was it really so bad to feel that way, to be released from the restless energy she felt?
Brad said, “I don’t feel like I need to run around the world chasing after something I’ve already got.”
“I’m not chasing anything.”
“Chase me.” He kissed her. “I’m all the adventure you need.” He eased his hand down the elastic waistband of her pants and started to work his magic. Her back arched and, before she knew it, their mini argument was all but forgotten. Sweaty and relieved, they lay side by side. Poppy put her hand in front of the bare lightbulb in the lamp and waved her fingers around, casting shadows on the far wall. A rabbit, a fox, a bird. Animals in motion, running away. She remembered the game she and Ann and Michael used to play where they’d put all the animals together. What did they call it? Ani-something. Bird, rabbit, fox: a “babbitox.”
Poppy said, “So when you hung out with my dad, what did you guys talk about?” She couldn’t look at Brad when she asked. It was too hard; she was afraid she might start to cry.
“I don’t know, we shot the shit about a lot of stuff.”
She laughed. “He was good at talking about a lot of stuff.” She found a path in the hair on his chest, and ran the tip of her finger through it, along the dip in his sternum, over the gentle mound of his emerging beer belly. “Can you be more specific?”
“I don’t know. You know what he was like. He’d go off on music, politics. One minute he’d talk about colonizing Mars, the next he’d tell you about some show he liked on reality television. He liked to hang out at the shop. He’d pick up old bike parts and bring them to me and I’d weld them for him. He has an awesome bike. You should check it out. I saw it in the garage.”
“Sounds like you knew him pretty well.”
“Yeah, I guess. But he was also one of those guys that could talk your ear off about anything without talking much about himself.”
“Did he…” Poppy smiled, embarrassed. “Did he talk about me?”
“Sure. Yeah, sure he did.”
She drew back a long slug of beer, bracing herself for what Brad might say. “And?”
“And he thought you were great, of course.”
She pounded his shoulder. “Come on, what did he really say?”
“I think he wished you and Ann lived closer. He was a teacher, he spent his whole life devoted to kids, but his own were pretty far away.”
“Ouch.”
“I didn’t mean for that to sound bad. It’s OK. He understood. I think he admired you for being so independent, like your mom. He was probably even jealous of your freedom to move around. He said he kept track of you on a map in his classroom, did you know that? He put a pushpin in every place you ever lived. It made him proud.”
“I should have called more. I should have visited more often.”
“You were living your life.”
“But I only came home once in over ten years. One time. And only for a few days.”
“He raised you to live your life. Besides, he didn’t want you to worry about your mom.”
“My mom? Why would I worry about my mom?”
Brad rubbed his hand over her shoulder as if she were a precious wood instrument he was about to play. “It was hard on him.”
“What?”
“You know.” Brad pointed at his forehead. “That she was starting to lose it.”
Poppy sat up and pushed Brad’s arm off of her. “What are you talking about? My mom wasn’t losing it.”
Suddenly, Brad’s face took on the expression of someone who’d accidentally let someone know about their surprise party.
“My mom was smart. Scary smart. She could speak four languages and play the viola. You should have heard her recite poetry. She read every book in the library. She wasn’t losing it.”
“I’m really sorry. I thought you knew.”
“There was nothing to know.”
“She got lost once, for two days. I helped your dad look for her. They found her under the North Avenue Bridge wandering the Oak Leaf Trail.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re making this up.”
“Why would I do that? God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think I would be the first person to tell you.”
Her mother, who knew every twist and turn of the Milwaukee River, who walked all over the East Side, couldn’t possibly have gotten lost there. No, no. “She was fine.”
“That’s why I moved in, Poppy. Your dad wanted me to help keep an eye on her. It came on fast.”
“No!” She wished she could cover her ears.
“Haven’t you noticed all the prescriptions lined up on the kitchen shelf? What do you think those were for? Donepezil, galantamine.”
Yes, Poppy had seen the prescriptions, but she hadn’t checked the labels, in case they were pills she’d be tempted to take herself.
“There are crossword-puzzle and sudoku books on every surface. Poppy, she hadn’t worked in almost a year.”
Poppy tried to recall their phone conversations, but her dad always said her mom was out on a walk or at book club or working in the garden. She thought of all her dad’s excuses for why they couldn’t come visit, tried hard to remember how long it had been since she’d spoken with her mom. She didn’t know, couldn’t remember.
“Hey, I know this is hard. My grandfather, he—”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t … I can’t…”
Brad was quiet, waiting for what he’d said to sink in.
“Why wouldn’t my dad say something?”
“What good would it do? What would it change?”
“Oh God. He’d asked me to come home last summer but I was in the middle of moving to Panama. Maybe he meant to tell me.” She rose onto her knees and sank back down into child’s pose as though she’d been dealt a body blow. Brad folded himself over her, and rocked with her as she cried. “Didn’t he know I would have come back to help if I’d known?”
“Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he was worried you’d feel obligated.”
“They were my parents!”
“What could you do?”
“Do you think Ann knew?”
Brad didn’t say anything. Ann did know, she could tell from Brad’s expression. How could she not have told her?
What else didn’t Poppy know?