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Back Man of the Year Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. 1.
  5. 2.
  6. Jonah
  7. 3.
  8. 4.
  9. Luna
  10. 5.
  11. 6.
  12. 7.
  13. 8.
  14. Emily
  15. 9.
  16. 10.
  17. 11.
  18. 12.
  19. 13.
  20. 14.
  21. 15.
  22. 16.
  23. 17.
  24. 18.
  25. 19.
  26. 20.
  27. Alexis
  28. 21.
  29. 22.
  30. 23.
  31. 24.
  32. Naomi
  33. 25.
  34. 26.
  35. 27.
  36. 28.
  37. 29.
  38. 30.
  39. Simone
  40. 31.
  41. 32.
  42. 33.
  43. 34.
  44. 35.
  45. ONE MONTH LATER
  46. 36.
  47. Elizabeth
  48. Jonah
  49. Acknowledgments
  50. Readers Group Guide
  51. About the Author
  52. Copyright

It makes sense, finally, why some people clock out early. How the fight stops being worth it. How faith and sorry stop being enough, and explanations start being mandatory. I’m sick of hearing about angels, when what I need to hear are answers. Hard to talk of heaven when the last flicker in my life has gone and died, and I don’t know why.

25.

“She’ll be okay,” I assure my wife and son as we load the car in the morning.

Elizabeth says, “No she won’t.”

“Stop being a pessimist,” I tell her. “That lady’s a survivor. It’ll just take time.”

She shakes her head and lets it go. We’re all tired. Bad beds. We don’t wait in line for breakfast at Naomi Miller’s favorite diner. We don’t buy pie to-go. Before antique shops open, without taking in views or fresh air, we’re on the road. Nick’s duffle bag is no longer with us.

My son insists on driving. Says it’ll relax him, and I’m here to support. Believing she’ll get carsick otherwise, Elizabeth takes shotgun, leaving me to play carpooled kid in the back. I ask Jonah about his curriculum, trying and failing to make conversation. He says he’s not in the mood to talk about school. I tell Elizabeth we should return upstate to see the foliage in the fall, and she nods and smiles but hides her teeth. No suggestions for better views, better trips. She reclines her seat and closes her eyes, leaving me to stretch out in the backseat, to consume as much room as possible, rejecting the smallness of my position. Sunlight catches Elizabeth’s stray hairs, igniting a fiber-optic halo around her head, and all of the tension from recent weeks—anxieties snagged on parties and sins, remedies and consequence, task and duty and choices made or lost—all of it dissolves. There is only air between me and the people I love, and it feels uncharged, alpine-thin. There is only space and a shimmering halo.

I break our silence to offer my son quality time. “Why don’t we head to the marina when we get back. Take the boat out for a bit.”

He grunts. “I don’t think I can manage today.”

“Come on. The water will be good for you.”

“Not today.”