Family of Liars(60)

But here she is, bringing up the subject.

“Did you?” says Mrs. Pfefferman, her hand on her throat. “Oh, Tipper. I am so sorry.”

“No, no. It was a long time ago. Pfeff—I mean, Lor—he was just here. You’ve had a terrible shock. I don’t mean to talk about myself.”

My father puts his hand on Tipper’s shoulder. I’m not sure if he means to console or quiet her.

“It is the worst thing in the world to lose a child,” says Mrs. Pfefferman. “They are meant to outlive us.”

“She was so little,” says my mother, choked. “She loved to swim. We let her swim and no one was watching her. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.”

“We miss her every day,” says Harris. “That never goes away.”

“You miss her?” I blurt.

“I do.”

I stare at his face, as familiar and weathered as always, but now etched with grief he almost never shows.

“I can’t believe Lor is gone,” says Mrs. Pfefferman, a tear sliding down her cheek. “I keep expecting him to walk in the door. Look, he was the fattest baby who ever lived.”

I know I should leave, but the emotion in the room pulls me in like a whirlpool. I stand behind my mother and watch as Mrs. Pfefferman turns through the pages of her album—pictures of baby Lor, becoming kid Lor, then becoming Pfeff, the boy I knew. Drinking milk from a bottle. Hugging a stuffed animal. Sitting proudly on a tricycle. Reading a book of fairy tales. Eating a doughnut.

My mother cries, low-key and continuously, while she bends over Mrs. Pfefferman’s book and makes thoughtful remarks. “Oh, he looks so happy.” “I can see how much he loved you.” “My goodness, he was handsome.” “He got so tall!” “He had a good sense of humor, didn’t he?” She asks questions. “Where were you all in this one?” “This must be seventh or eighth grade, am I right?”

Mrs. Pfefferman cries less but seems hungry for every photograph to be witnessed and appreciated. “You’re very kind,” she says to my mother.

My father sits next to us with his face in his hands. Mr. Pfefferman remains on the porch.

The last picture is Pfeff grinning in his high school graduation gown, laughing at a party with one arm around George’s neck. “He had run away,” Mrs. Pfefferman says softly.

“Pardon?” asks Tipper.

“He left home and didn’t tell us where he went,” Mrs. Pfefferman explains. “We— My husband and I are divorcing.”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

“How could you? But it has been a hard year. At home. And Lor was—well, a boy gets angry when his world shatters, you see. My husband, he wouldn’t let me have the house. And I refused to move out.” She twists the napkin in her lap, still speaking low. “Lor didn’t want to spend the summer at home, with us in so much conflict, but his father got him a job in the law office. Very official, answering phones and the like while different secretaries took their vacations. We felt it would be good for him to learn some responsibility before college. And then one night, we had—I shouldn’t tell you this, but we had a big argument, my husband and I. And the next morning, Lor was gone. He didn’t even leave a note.”

“Oh no.”

“He didn’t call me for a whole week, and when he did, he said he was at George’s girlfriend’s summer house. And he wasn’t coming home. He said he was staying forever and didn’t give a phone number or anything. He was so unhappy with us, he just—he ran away,” she says. “We hadn’t heard from him since that one call.”

“I’m sure he would have come home to you,” says my mother. “He was just having a break, that’s all. Finding himself. A good boy like that wouldn’t really run away.”

Mrs. Pfefferman wipes her eyes. She puts the book back in her satchel. “You girls are very lucky,” she says to me. “You have a wonderful mom.”

I smile. “I know I do.”

“Don’t make her sad, you hear me?” Mrs. Pfefferman says. “You be sweet to her, always. When she’s old and her hair is gray, you be good to her then, as well as now. When you go to college, always call and write.”

“Okay.”

Harris stands up slowly, as if waking from a dream.

“Look at the time,” says Mrs. Pfefferman. “I’m sorry I took up so much of your evening.”

“Oh, it was lovely to see the pictures,” says Tipper. “I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Let me help you wash up.”

Tipper laughs and puts her hand on her chest in mock horror. “I would never let you,” she says. “After all you’ve been through.” Her voice is suddenly bright and hostessy. “Go on, the two of you. Head up to Pevensie. The coffee maker is loaded and there are some breakfast things in the fridge, but you come see me around seven and I’ll have the muffins out of the oven by then, juice and all that. Or come later, if you need to sleep in. The police promised to visit before noon.”

The Pfeffermans depart. Tipper gives herself a shake and heads to the kitchen.

“I’ll do it,” I tell her, following. “Let me do it. You go to bed.”

She pauses. “Is this because she told you to be sweet to me?”