5

Should efforts be made to contact life on other planets, or do the risks of contact outweigh the rewards?

We live only a mile and a half from campus, but school policy prohibits students from leaving school without a parent or guardian. When Rory tried on his first day, he was stopped by a mom wearing a neon-yellow T-shirt and visor. Several such moms keep watch after final bell every afternoon. The Visor Brigade, Rory calls them.

When I pull up to the curb, Rory is standing with a girl. He opens the front door and drops his backpack into the passenger seat. “Okay if Caroline comes home with us?”

“Of course.”

Rory shuts the front door and the two of them climb into the back seat. I glance into the rearview mirror, noticing a look of fascination on Caroline’s face, as if she has heard of old, clunky Jeeps but has never before experienced one firsthand.

“Hi, Caroline.”

“So nice to meet you,” she says in a pronounced French accent.

Well done, Rory. I’m impressed. I only gave him the task last night. Perhaps he’s cut out for the family business after all.

Caroline is an awkward girl. Glasses, long brown hair arranged in a complicated braid. I surmise she isn’t popular, something of a loner, quirky but confident in her tastes, still trying to find her place in the elaborate hierarchy of an American high school. As we pull out of the traffic circle and approach the intersection, we pass one of the neon-shirted moms keeping watch over the sidewalk. “What’s with the Visor Brigade?” Rory asks Caroline. “Why aren’t we allowed to walk home from school?”

“This is because of Gray Stafford,” Caroline explains. “Last year he disappeared, but now he is back.”

“What do you mean, disappeared?” Rory asks.

“He claimed he was kidnapped,” Caroline announces. “But no one believed his . . . comment dites-vous . . . tel?”

“Tale?” I offer.

“Yes, his crazy tale.”

“How long was he missing?”

“About two weeks. After he returned, his parents started giving him school at home. No one ever explained what happened. And now, he is back. Before, he was a friend to everyone, you know? Always talking, laughing, big personality. Now, it is like he is not there anymore, like he has been—” She pauses, searching for the right word. “Efface?”

“Erased?” I suggest.

“Yes,” she nods. “Erased.”

I make a mental note to ask Officer Kyle what the real story is behind Gray Stafford. Sounds like a runaway or perhaps a secret stint at drug rehab.

When we get home, the kids dump their backpacks in the entryway and head for the stairs. Rory stops midway up. “Mom, can we have grilled cheese?”

Of course, Rory is old enough to feed himself, but at his age, there’s so little I can do for him, this small task feels like a gift—not to him but to me.

From the kitchen window, I can see the kids crossing the breezeway. My father’s house is set on a hillside and shaped like a barbell, with the bedrooms, living room, and movie room on one side, the kitchen, dining room, office, and more rooms on the other. The breezeway connecting the two ends of the barbell is made of concrete and glass. If the house weren’t so secluded, surrounded by trees and shielded by an imposing front gate, the glass breezeway would be uncomfortably exposed. It bothered me when we first moved in, the same way that having my back to a room bothers me.

But this is Northern California, not New York City. I’ve left my work behind. I should do the same with the paranoia.

When I bring the grilled cheese sandwiches to the movie room, Rory and Caroline are sitting on opposite sides of the sectional. It’s the episode of Seinfeld in which George introduces himself as the architect Art Vandelay. When Fred and I first met, we watched Seinfeld every night on the only channel his television could pick up in his tiny cabin in the Hudson Valley. Before Fred died, he and Rory had been watching reruns together. Every night, I’d hear them laughing, pausing the TV to get snacks or to talk. They’d made it halfway through the fifth season when Fred died. Rory hasn’t watched it since.

The night of the funeral, I heard Rory swearing and slamming his fists against the coffee table. I found him on the couch in front of the broken table, tears pouring down his face, his eyes wide open in shock and disbelief. When I tried to comfort him, he pulled away. “Who am I going to watch my show with?” he wailed. I felt helpless, so ill equipped to meet the fact of Fred’s profound and inescapable absence.

I’m surprised to see Rory watching it now. It feels like forward momentum.

At five past seven, Rory and Caroline come downstairs. “Stay for dinner?” I offer.

“Thank you, but I have to study.”

“Need a ride home?”

“No, thank you. Our driver is on his way.”

Rory waits outside with his new friend. Gray clouds have moved in, and from the kitchen I can see the kids standing in the rain, their backs to me, their body language already so much more familiar than it was a few hours ago. Headlights appear, casting the two of them in a halo of light. Another black Peugeot, diplomatic plates, bigger than the one I saw at the Royal Donut Shop, rolls into the driveway. Rory steps toward the car, reaching out to open the door for Caroline. She kisses Rory quickly on both cheeks before disappearing into the vehicle.

Maybe this isn’t such a good idea. I’m happy that Rory has befriended Caroline, impressed that he made such quick work of my request, but worried that, given time, she just might break his heart.