She crosses back. The receiver goes on the hook. I’ve just gotten home from work. Once again, the emptiness of the house of dashed dreams is magnified by the lack of TV background noise. Before Alan left for camp, I didn’t know if I’d miss him, but I do. A lot. He’s the glue that’s held this family together. Our concern for his well-being was the only thing left that we had in common. Without him, there’s nothing to keep us from splintering into small pieces.

Mom’s wearing a pale-blue housedress. Her face and arms seem thinner than I remember. Her eyes are red rimmed, and she looks drained, white as milk, beyond weary. She tells me that Alan left the camp without permission, setting off a search that included the state police until he was found walking along the road five miles away. When they asked why he’d left, he said he wanted to watch TV.

“Got a cigarette?” Mom asks. This from the mother who leaves newspaper articles on my desk about why I should quit.

When I give her a Marlboro, she clasps my wrist and frowns disapprovingly at my gnawed fingernails. “When did you start doing this again?”

“About the time you started smoking again.”

She smirks, then starts toward the patio behind the kitchen. When I begin to follow, she holds up her hand. I watch her go out and stand in the sunlight with her back to me, her arms crossed. She brings the cigarette to her lips and exhales a plume of smoke into the air.

Why does this make me think of Robin? Unless it’s because everything makes me think of her. It’s like looking at the world through Robin-colored glasses: “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes” comes on the radio, and tears force their way into my eyes. I think of Odysseus and there she is, sitting beside me. Or I notice my copy of The Stranger on the bookshelf and recall that magical day last fall when we sat in the school courtyard and talked for an entire period.

And sometimes the tears seem to come for no reason at all.

Once again I feel the urge to write. Another letter to Robin, even if I don’t send it? A poem? All I know is that more and more, writing feels like an antidote for the emptiness.

On my desk is an application for a library card from the Bay Shore Public Library with a paper-clipped note: “Fill out immediately.” There’s also a new driver’s license with my address now listed at Penataquit Avenue, Bay Shore, New York. A note from the paterfamilias clipped to the license says I should throw out my old license and replace it with this new one.