The Heights
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ONE
KATE
TIM
BEA MYERLY
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
TIM
TWO
KATE
BEA MYERLY
TIM
KATE
ABIGAIL HOSFORD
TIM
KATE
JEFF SLADE
TIM
KATE
TIM
THREE
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
BEA MYERLY
KATE
BEA MYERLY
TIM
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
FOUR
TIM
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
KATE
ABIGAIL HOSFORD
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
FIVE
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
KATE
TEDDY
TIM
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
BEA MYERLY
KATE
JEFF SLADE
KATE
TIM
KATE
TIM
BEA MYERLY
TIM
KATE
BEA MYERLY
KATE
TIM
KATE
BEA MYERLY
ALSO BY PETER HEDGES
What’s Eating Gilbert Grape
An Ocean in Iowa
DUTTON
Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.); Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England; Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd); Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd); Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India; Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd); Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First printing, March 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Peter Hedges
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA Hedges, Peter.
The heights / Peter Hedges.
p. cm.
eISBN : 978-1-101-40454-6
I. Title.
PS3558.E3165H45 2010
813’.54—dc22 2009020781
Set in Palatino with Trade Gothic
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
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The list of those who have descended from the heights is long, and only a few need be mentioned.
—JOHN KENNETH GALBRAITH
ONE
KATE
THAT MORNING WE WOKE TO FIND OUR STREET BURIED IN SNOW. THE STOOPS, THE sidewalk, the row of parked cars were a blanket of white; the trees looked as if they’d been dipped in frosting, and the whole of Oak Lane—with its impeccably preserved century-old brownstones—had the look of a vintage photograph. Only the loud scrape from an approaching snowplow betrayed what Tim, my history-teaching husband, would like to believe: Erase the plow, remove the light poles and the telephone wires, toss out all electrical appliances, and it could be any other Brooklyn Heights morning, circa 1848 or 1902.
Staring down from our fourth-floor apartment, I made out the faint prints from Tim’s boots. Before sunrise, he’d crossed between two parked cars and trudged with his backpack full of graded papers toward Montague Street, where he’d climbed the steps to the Montague Academy. During the night, the thick flakes had fallen gently, but now it was morning, and the wind blew in gusts that rattled the windows of the living room/dining room/toy room where I was standing. I felt a chill.
Sam came running down the hall, his diaperless pants at his knees, crying, “Mommy, pee-pee! Pee-pee!” Teddy, newly four, followed, saying, “Sam made a mess!” Minutes before, I’d abruptly left the kitchen because, between the repeated calls of “More milk, Mommy” and “I’m hungry, Mommy” and “Mommy, Sam’s hitting me,” I knew either they’d stop, as asked, or I would snap.
With few places to look, it took no time for them to find me.
Teddy had been up early due to a bad dream, and Sam had eaten hardly any breakfast, feeding himself only the brightly colored minimarshmallows from his favorite sugared cereal. “This will not do,” I announced grandly. But, of course, it would. It did.
When Tim phoned from school, I had to shout over Sam, who was shrieking, while Teddy kept pushing the button that made the phone go on speaker. Tim asked, “How’s it going?” more out of habit, I suppose, because one little moment of listening, and he’d know.
“Good, it’s going good,” I said, choosing not to tell him about a mysterious smell in the bathroom (the toilet was clogged and would not flush); the bar of oatmeal soap half-melted in the empty bathtub; the growing stack of unpaid bills; the clothes strewn, a Hansel and Gretel trail of little boys’ pants and shirts and underwear; and how when I finally made it to the sock drawer to finish dressing Sam, no socks matched. I made no mention of how the winter wind was sure to shatter our front windows, nor my prediction that this was going to be the coldest day of the year. After all, Tim was hard at work. Better to spare him.
Later, in the vestibule of our building, I managed to open the stroller and carry it down the stoop, all the while coaxing the boys to follow. I belted Sam in, lowered Teddy so he could ride standing in back, and we began our walk. Both boys were practically smothered under sweaters and coats and scarves and hats, gloves, boots—only their eyes could be seen. Beneath it all, I could hear them crying, and when I leaned forward to ask what was the matter, Teddy sobbed, “My eyes are cold.”
“I don’t know what to do about your eyes.”
Never enough. Never enough. A parent can never, ever do enough.
I had the makings of a song.
Gloveless, scarfless, with my down jacket still unbuttoned up top—I’d forgotten about me.
Soon after we set off, it became clear that, because of the snow, our stroller wasn’t going to work. So, with the wind whipping and the need to think fast, I turned us around. Back home, I left the stroller in the vestibule and hurried to our storage closet in the basement to fetch Tim’s childhood sled. Outside, I wrapped the boys in an old blue blanket, set them on the sled, and pulled them behind me.
We were halfway down Hicks Street before I noticed other parents dragging their kids by the wrist, slipping and sliding, or struggling with strollers. Men and women, dressed for work, leaned into the wind as they headed toward the subway station on Clark Street, stepping gingerly, hoping not to fall. And here I came, pulling Teddy and Sam, the only children in the Heights riding to school on a sled. Glancing back, I could see them squinting in the way that comes only when they’re smiling. And suddenly, that great unreasonable distance we traveled each morning to R Kids Count Learning Center became a blessing. Some children were getting rides in carpools, and others would be arriving by car service and taxi. But the boys and I were envied—one stiff parent, Chad the Wall Street whiz, surprised me by shouting from the corner of Pierrepont and Hicks, in a manner half amused, half in awe, “Now, that’s the way to travel.”
For once I was the clever mother, the only mother with this rather terrific idea, and my boys, Teddy and Sam Welch, were content.
These are the moments, I wanted to sing. These are the moments.
“Canceled,” Maria (always perky) Spence called out from her Range Rover on the corner of Pineapple Street.
“But why?”
“Boiler. Broken. Call me. Playdate sometime.” She had to go, her cell phone was ringing, and she drove on.
Teddy didn’t understand why we were turning around.
“The school has no heat, sweetie,” I said. “You’ll freeze, and we wouldn’t want that.”
“But I wanna go!”
With my promise of hot chocolate, Teddy calmed down. As I pulled the sled up Henry Street to Montague, Sam said, “Daddy, work,” and pointed toward the neo-Gothic ex-German Lutheran church that housed most of Montague Academy. On nice days, I often took the boys to the courtyard garden, where they climbed on the lower school’s playground equipment. This was not to be one of those days.
Instead, we turned right on Montague and headed down to Muffins and More. Across the street, Starbucks was doing impressive business. I preferred, as did the other mothers in my circle, the locally owned Muffins and More, which, rumor had it, was in danger of going out of business, but not if we could help it.
Handfuls of rock salt had been scattered on the pavement outside Muffins and More. The ice and snow had begun to melt. I tied the sled to a parking meter and held Teddy and Sam by their mittens as we walked carefully toward the door.
Inside, sitting at a corner table—which they managed to commandeer every day at this time—Tess Windsor, Debbie Beebe, and Claudia Valentine drank their espressos and cappuccinos and decaf lattes.
“Kate will have an opinion,” Tess said, picking up her parka, which had been lying across the only available chair. “Come over here, Kate.”
Tess usually packed a child’s activity ideal for bad weather. So it was no surprise to see her daughter, Maddie, who also went to R Kids Count, doing an origami project at a nearby table. Without prompting, Maddie offered to teach Teddy, who wanted to learn, and Sam, who seemed happy just to watch.
Debbie volunteered to go to the counter and get whatever the boys wanted. I gladly fished out a crumpled five-dollar bill, handed it to her, and plopped down in the open chair. Debbie was expecting her first in September. She often helped us with our children. “Practice,” she claimed, although on this particular morning, I thought it may have been to escape the conversation I was about to join. Claudia said, “We were hoping you’d come by, we want your thoughts.” Claudia has the throaty, smoky voice of a sultry movie star. “Tess and I don’t agree. Debbie won’t take sides.”
“Because what do I know?” Debbie called from the counter before turning to order.
While Tess considered how best to phrase the question, Claudia blurted out, not whispering, because she never whispers, “What is it with little boys and their assholes?”
Tess winced. Debbie pretended not to have heard.
On that day, as far I was concerned, any of these women could say anything—talk nonsense, gibberish, even, and just so long as none of them called me Mommy or asked me to tie her shoes, I’d be positively giddy and, in no time, reborn.
Claudia continued, “Both my boys love to drop their pants, bend over, spread their butt cheeks, and say, ‘Look, Mom!’ I mean, what is that all about?”
Meet Claudia Valentine: loud talker, blunt thinker, eager playdate maker. I hadn’t liked her at first—too brassy and needy, or so I thought—but after two of my favorite other mothers moved away last year, Claudia and I found ourselves increasingly the only ones left at what she called the dwindling party that was our life. What I always liked about Claudia was that she was the kind of mother who would kill for her kids. What I loved about her was she’d also kill for mine. Or any kid, for that matter. And if her Homer (yes, Homer) and Olaf (yes, Olaf) were to mistreat some other child, her justice would be swift and firm. She didn’t tolerate unkindness or cruelty, and her children, while exposed to her many momentary lapses into volatility, had been given one of the true great parental gifts: They had been civilized. And if not, they wouldn’t be able to blame their mother, for no one tries harder to be fair. Her tendency toward salty language and her unabashed capacity to speak her mind may have been off-putting to the Heights establishment, but I found her refreshing.
“It’s a phase,” Tess said. “Boys grow out of it.”
“Do they?” Claudia countered.
“Yes,” Tess said, looking toward me, hoping I’d join in.
Claudia again: “I don’t think they do. I think it morphs. Their fascination with their own assholes evolves into their fascination with ours.”
Tess giggled as she pretended to cover her ears.
Still Claudia: “What is it with men that they all want to fuck us in the butt?”
Please understand: I am no prude. I enjoy the occasional tacky sex conversation. But it was morning, and this was bar talk. I did my best to ignore the question.
But Claudia kept on: “Lately, Dan has been begging me, whispering in my ear, pleading. He even bought a book, written by a woman, about the joys of it, the supposed pleasure. I’m not convinced!”
I glanced out the window of Muffins and More just as Frida Fabritz from Heights Realty hurried into the coffee establishment across the street.
Frida Fabritz was the Realtor who, years earlier, rented us our two-bedroom apartment. That’s a joke, considering one of the bedrooms is a small, windowless space, a glorified closet. Recently, we had one of the math teachers from Montague over for dinner. He admired how we managed in such “cramped quarters.” I asked him to do us a favor and calculate the square footage of our apartment. Frida had listed it at approximately twelve hundred square feet, but I’d always doubted the figure. He paced out the apartment and, after a grim silence, said, “Well, you’ve got close to nine hundred square feet here, if you include the boys’ room.”
“Room?” I said. “You call that a room?”
That morning, as I watched Frida Fabritz enter Starbucks, I had an urge to chase after her. No, I wouldn’t make a scene. I’d simply tell her what we’d discovered when a math teacher measured our apartment. I ached to make Frida buckle over with guilt. Luckily for her, she’d gone across the street for coffee. Luckily for her, I had both boys and was trapped in a conversation with my mother friends.
“Kate?”
I looked at Claudia. “What?”
“Where did you go?”
“I’m here, listening,” I said, turning to check on Teddy and Sam, who sat entranced, watching Maddie fold a series of swans with the colored origami paper. Debbie held a corn muffin between them, breaking off chunks for them to chew.
“You’re no help,” Claudia said.
“I know,” I said. “Sorry.”
Claudia said, “Whatever.”
“Where were we?” Tess asked.
“Assholes,” Claudia said. Then she leaned forward and bellowed, “Oh, for the record, do you know which of our neighbors likes taking it up the butt . . . ?”
I escaped before learning the answer. Outside, Teddy, the willful one, struggled with me, using his winter boots to kick at my ankles. Both boys had wanted to stay, but I had errands to run, and Sam, gentle Sam, needed a nap. We set off for Key Food but stopped at the M&O newsstand for a box of cherry Luden’s and a packet of tissues for the boys’ runny noses.