The New Yorker - USA (2022-05-16)

THENEWYORKER,M AY16, 2022 65

his relief, a relief that washed over him
and drenched him with defeat, he knew
that he would be gone, that, mere min-
utes hence, he would be fleeing, and
this place, his place, so familiar, would
be lost to him, his no longer.

W

hen Anders arrived at his fa-
ther’s house, his father took him
inside and drew the tattered curtains,
and then parked his son’s car, the car
that had been his wife’s car, behind the
house, on the narrow sliver of land that
his wife had called her garden, where
once grew flowers and tomatoes and
snap peas and thyme, but which now
was a patch of dirt with tufts of weeds,
weeds dry and dead at the onset of win-
ter, and Anders’s father checked to make
sure the car was not visible from the
street, moving weakly and stiffly, but
also with purpose, and after that, spent
beyond reckoning, he sat himself next
to his son in the living room, the tele-
vision on and their rifles at their sides,
and they waited there for someone to
show up and demand that Anders be
given over, but no one did, no one came,
no, not on that first night at least.
Anders’s father was not yet used to

Anders, to how Anders looked, and in

a sense he had never been used to him,

not even when Anders was a child, si-

lent for so long, struggling to tie his

laces or to write in a handwriting that

people could read, for Anders’s father,

though not a particularly good student,

had always been competent, competent

at the tasks he was given, and not just

in school, outside it, too, but his son,

his son was different, a difference the

boy’s mother took to naturally, and so

the boy became her boy, and there were

walls between them, between him and

his son, and Anders’s father could un-

derstand the bullies who had picked on

his son when his son was small, and he

could understand those who wanted

Anders gone from town now, who were

afraid of him, or threatened by him, by

the dark man his boy had become, and

they had a right to be, he would have

felt the same in their shoes, he liked it

no better than they did, and he could

see the end his boy signalled, the end

of things, he was not blind, but they

would not take his boy, not easily, not

from him, the boy’s father, and what-

ever Anders was, whatever his skin was,

he was still his father’s son, and still his

mother’s son, and he came first, before

any other allegiance, he was what truly

mattered, and Anders’s father was ready

to do right by his son, it was a duty that

meant more to him than life, and he

wished he had more life in him, but he

would do what he could with what lit-

tle life he had.

In the morning the power went out,

and the house was gloomy, with the

curtains drawn and no lights, but still

there was illumination enough to see

by, and Anders’s father judged it best

they save their candles for nightfall, and

so they managed, in the dimness, and

then Anders discovered that his phone

no longer had reception, and neither

did his father’s, and Anders wondered

if the service had been cut off inten-

tionally or if the backup batteries at the

cell towers had died.

Anders was alone, lying propped up

in his old childhood bed, far more alone

without access to the online world, or

if not literally more alone then more

alone in how he felt, and yes the chat-

ter online had been grim, not just in

town but all over the country, but it had

been something, and now it was taken

from him, and time itself slowed, un-

winding, like the minutes were tired,

were reaching the finish, and then

around midnight the power returned

without warning and his phone caught

a signal and time spooled back up again

and continued.

Days passed, and although they heard

the crack of gunfire on occasion, one

night right outside, they were not them-

selves confronted, and Anders should

have been relieved to have escaped the

militants, temporarily, but if he was it

was a fraught relief, for living again in

close proximity to his father he was

shocked to discover the degree of phys-

ical pain his father was enduring, pain

his father could mask for a beat or two,

but not for an entire evening, not for

hours at a stretch, and Anders could

see it in his father’s face, and in his

movements, and though his father tried

to spare him, and often retired to his

bedroom, Anders could hear his muf-

fled grunts and his low-pitched swear-

ing, the battle being waged inside, the

battle his father was losing, and it made

Anders guilty for not being a better

son, for having left his father so aban-

doned, even if he knew his father would

Was that when the trouble began?

Does it date to the Summer of Catching Up?

The writhing and moaning

over the multiplication tables?

I was seven. He was my babysitter.

I wasn’t injured. No one knew.

I knew. He was a friend of the family.

It had nothing to do with math.

To me, the geometry’s simple.

You dismantle a body’s measurements

into shapes traced on featherweight vellum:

the sleeve, the bodice, the skirt.

The parts of the body reunite

when the garment is sewn,

and the dress or the pants appear,

held together only by thread.

—Chase Twichell