Trophy House Read Online Free Page A

daughter. But that same day I’d received an e-mail from David Lipsett, the book’s editor, asking me when I thought I would have the drawings finished—in order to keep to their schedule, they had to go into production ASAP. Beth went down the hall to her old room. I could hear her taking stuff off the bed—I had started to use it as a storage place for some old jackets and sweaters and things like that—and opening and shutting drawers I had filled with some overflow clothes, mine and Tom’s.
    I spent about three hours doing dogs and little girls, suggesting a park with a zoo, animals and hard-to-read figures. I thought an impressionistic style would let the book’s readers fill in whatever was wanted, from their own imaginations. I climbed into the box that was my work and shut the door behind me so no one could disturb me. I was alone with the silly characters of someone else’s story and I felt like I was swimming in happiness.
    Around five o’clock Beth said, “You have nothing to eat in the house—no wonder you look so skinny.”
    I suggested we drive out to the A & P in Provincetown and restock the refrigerator and cupboards. The shortcut I take goes close to the water in North Truro, a road not very much used, as off-Cape people don’t seem to realize it’s there. On this one short stretch there are two brazen new houses, twice as big as their neighbors. Beth said, “I can’t look. What sort of people have this kind of money? Why would they want to live here? Why don’t they go to the Hamptons if they want to show off?”
    I told her she’d been away so long she didn’t realize what was going on; this wasn’t your ordinary secret Eden any longer; it was the Hamptons of New England. “Real estate prices have gone sky-high. We could easily get more than a million for our house.”
    Beth didn’t respond to this, and I figured she must be chewing over the double-edged business of enjoying your plump cushion of money while recognizing, at the same time, how unfair it is to have so much when so many people are poor beyond anything we’ve ever experienced, poor enough not to eat more than one meal a day and not own one pair of shoes. Maybe it was better to be like the Brenners and not have a clue about the suffering in other parts of the world—or, better yet, not caring. Just being blithe about your appetites and your comforts. Dividing the world’s wealth—one of the less successful solutions to unfairness.
    The slim arc of Provincetown, resting on the water like a baby alligator, came into view as we rejoined 6A. The sun had spread a film of reddish-gold over the town, and houses along the beach were small enough at this distance to look charmed, like a landscape in an animated film trying not for ominous but for romance. “Wow,” Beth said. “It never fails to get to you, does it?”
    â€œI’d like to stop in at Raymie’s for a minute after we finish our grocery shopping.” Beth didn’t say anything. I could tell she wasn’t all that eager—probably thinking about how she’d have to explain about the missing Andrew. We had a good time at the A & P, fingering tomatoes, sniffing melons, spooning imitation crabmeat salad into plastic containers from the salad bar. Beth seemed surprised to see a Japanese sushi guy at the fish counter, rolling up rice and kelp. I told her this was simply another indication of the way things were headed. We bought some sushi for Beth. And a boneless lamb leg—for Tom, who likes lamb done outside on the grill.
    In the parking lot, Beth said, “It’s late, Mom, do we have to go to Raymie’s?”
    â€œI haven’t seen Raymie in a couple of weeks and since we’re here…” Here meant Provincetown. “I promise we won’t stay long.”
    We stowed our bags of food in the trunk and then headed back toward