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A l l G o o d C h i l d r e n
Advance Reading Copy
in Pepper’s closet between dozens of empty hangers. There
are some T-shirts in the drawers, but no socks or underwear.
I’ve never thought about her panties before, much as I’ve
thought about getting them off. But now that I’m searching
her dresser, I wish I knew what they looked like.
I sit on her bed and feel her absence like a ghost. There’s
a thin layer of dust on her night table, with bare spots where
picture frames might have stood.
She’s gone. I lie back on the pillow and think those two
words over and over.
Before I leave, I peek behind her bedroom door in hope
of a flimsy nightgown I could fantasize with. Instead I find
a thin strip of wood—sawn-off window trim—that holds the
tiniest painting I ever made. It shows Pepper in a skimpy elf
costume up on her toes beside a stack of presents, one leg
high in the air behind her, her pointed shoe sparkling like
a star. I sketched it at the Christmas production last year,
worked on it through the holidays, gave it to her on New
Year’s Day.
I’m happy that she hung it here. Every time she closed
her door, she was reminded of me. But then she packed her
frames and panties and left my painting behind.
I lift it off its mount. It’s not really stealing. She’s never
coming back for it.
Ö
Someone’s crying in the tent on Sunday morning when I get
back from cross-country. I pull apart the front flaps and find
my mother on the couch bawling like a baby, her face twisted
