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“Surf and turf medium well with a baked potato,” the waitress announced, presenting him with a heaping platter of steak and lobster claws. In the middle of the table was a red plastic basket containing the metal tools used for cracking open the
shells of lobsters, a plastic bib, and a pile of Handi Wipes. He was going to need them.

It was Saturday night and the restaurant was busy. “I just need to sit down!” a guy yelled from across the room. Patrick looked up from his dinner. It was Shipley’s boyfriend, with Shipley and two middle-aged people who must have been the boyfriend’s parents.

“D
rink some water, Tom,” Mrs. Ferguson told her son. “You’re probably dehydrated.”

“He’s drunk,” Mr. Ferguson countered. He raised his hand to signal the waitress. “I’ll have a scotch on the rocks, and my wife would like a glass of white wine. Chardonnay, or Pinot Grigio, or whatever you have.” He glanced at Shipley. “Make that two. And a glass of milk for the boy.”

Tom put his head down on the table. “Oh wow,” he moaned. “Wow!”

“Let’s get some food in you,” Mrs. Ferguson said as she perused the menu. “You always love a nice big lobster.”

“Why don’t we share one?” Shipley suggested, placing her hand on Tom’s knee. She and Tom hadn’t seen each other since before Thanksgiving. It was a relief just to be near him, even if he wasn’t quite himself.

Tom flinched at her touch. His pant legs were damp with sweat. “I’m not really hungry,” he slurred.

Mrs. Ferguson sniffed her wine and took a gingerly sip. “What is that dreadful smell?”

“It’s fish, dear,” Mr. Ferguson said, tipping back his glass. “This is a fish restaurant.”

“No. It’s a chemical smell,” Mrs. Ferguson argued as she sniffed the air. “Like formaldehyde or paint.”

Shipley could smell it too. She’d smelled it on the way over, in the backseat of the Fergusons’ Audi. It was coming from Tom. She wondered if it were possible to do so much ecstasy that your sweat smelled like chemicals. In fact, she’d been so distracted by Tom’s odor, and by his behavior in general, that she hadn’t even noticed her car parked outside the Lobster Shack.

Tom’s parents ordered two lobsters for everyone to share, a basket of fries, garlic bread, and fish chowder to start. Tom’s head was still on the table. He appeared to be asleep.

“Tom?” Shipley leaned down to whisper in his ear. Her lips brushed his hair. “We’re in a restaurant.”

Tom turned his head and kissed her on the mouth. His lips tasted terrible, like salt and rubbing alcohol and bleach. Shipley pushed him away, blushing. “I think he’s okay,” she told his parents.

“Drink your milk, son,” Mr. Ferguson commanded and gulped down his scotch.

Tom sat up and stared at the tall glass of cool milk. Milk had always seemed so appealing to him before—he couldn’t get enough of it—but now the idea of drinking it seemed completely foreign to him. The idea of doing anything except breathing in more ether vapors did not excite him at all. The bottle was in his coat pocket, with Grover’s bandanna. He could just slip off to the men’s room and—

“I mean it now,” Mr. Ferguson said firmly.

Tom did as he was told. The milk was lukewarm and felt furry going down. The waitress brought their chowder. Chunks of white fish floated in a gelatinous creamy stew.

“Now eat your soup,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “It looks delicious. I don’t know what they feed you up here, but you’re wasting away to nothing.” She shook her head. “We used to worry about putting on weight at college.” She smiled at Shipley and took a
sip of wine. “Just be sure to get your vitamins, both of you. You’re still growing.”

Shipley picked up her spoon and tasted the soup. “It’s very good,” she confirmed. She tied a plastic bib around Tom’s neck, dipped her spoon into the bowl, and offered it to him. “Here, taste.”

Tom’s trembling lips parted and he allowed her to feed him the soup. It was salty and hot and he hadn’t eaten in days. “More,” he murmured, leaving his own spoon untouched. “Please?”

F
rom across the room, Patrick watched his sister spoon-feeding her boyfriend like he was some kind of overgrown baby. It was sort of hypocritical of her to write a poem about how nutso
he
was when her own boyfriend couldn’t even hold a spoon. The guy was like a giant version of a doll she used to have, the one that ate applesauce and then crapped it out into its little doll potty. Real Live Baby, or whatever the hell it was called. She looked happy, feeding him. So happy she had no idea she was being watched. Once he’d decided to veer off the usual get-up, go-to-school, play-sports, eat-dinner, watch-Carson, Monday-through-Friday,
A.M.-P.M.
path, he’d become completely invisible, at least to most people, most of the time. Definitely to his sister.

Half his surf and turf remained on the platter, untouched. That was the thing about eating a big meal when you’re not used to eating much. He just couldn’t get it all down. He signaled the waitress and requested a doggie bag. He thought about getting up and asking the boyfriend’s parents for directions, pretending he didn’t know his sister, that he was just some visiting dweeb from Connecticut. But then he chickened out. Spying on her was only fun when she had no idea he was there.

Or maybe she did know and she just wasn’t letting on. He’d
found a whole bag of men’s clothes from the Darien Sports Shop in the front seat of the car. He was wearing some of them right now. Not that he needed them. That girl who’d brought food and clothes to him in that big tent over Thanksgiving had pretty much set him up, although the stuff from the Darien Sports Shop was nicer.

He reread his sister’s poem. What if she knew he was around and the poem was supposed to be some kind of message? He stared at her over the top of the journal, sending out telepathic messages the best way he knew how.
I’m right here, can you see me?
Without a glance in Patrick’s direction, his sister wiped off her boyfriend’s mouth, removed a drinking straw from its wrapper and stuck it into his glass of milk. Doggie bag tucked under his arm, Patrick stood up, put on his new black hat and gloves, and left the restaurant, brushing past the back of her chair as he went.

M
rs. Ferguson was trying very hard not to let Tom’s odd behavior ruin the meal. “So how do you like school?” she asked Shipley.

Shipley wiped the chowder drool off Tom’s lower lip and then offered him another spoonful. She took a sip of wine, wishing she could smoke.

“It’s funny how you come to college and just sort of fall in with people,” she mused. “People you never would have expected to fall in with.”

“And have you two fallen in with a good crowd?” Mrs. Ferguson asked, frowning at her son.

Shipley crossed her legs and then uncrossed them again. She wouldn’t exactly call Tom and Nick and Eliza a crowd. They were
more like a focus group, although she wasn’t sure what they were supposed to be focusing on.

“Yes. I have some nice new friends.” She crossed her legs again and ate a spoonful of chowder with the same spoon she was using to feed Tom. It was hearty stuff. She licked her lips, gaining courage. “I just think it’s strange how you wind up getting involved with people and, you know, pursuing different avenues than you ever would have otherwise, because of these early connections, the friends you make your first day here. I mean, what if I hadn’t even signed up for orientation and met Tom that first day? Or what if I lived in a different dorm or was a day student?” She thought of Adam.

Mr. Ferguson had finished his drink and was trying to get the waitress’s attention.

“But you’re happy with the way things are?” Mrs. Ferguson asked. She seemed genuinely to care.

Shipley smiled at Tom. His eyes were closed, but he was still eating. “So far so good.”

Mr. Ferguson had two more rounds of scotch. Then the fries and lobsters arrived with the nostril-penetrating odor of hot, fishy grease. Tom had eaten Shipley’s entire bowl of soup and half of his own, although he still had not uttered a word.

“How about some claw meat, son?” Mr. Ferguson suggested. “You love the claws.”

Shipley picked up the cracking tool and wedged a lobster claw inside it. She squeezed the tool between her fingers, cracking the shell. A geyser of clear juice spattered her plate. Using the tiny fork provided, she fished the meat out of the shell and dipped it into a bowl of melted butter. She held the fork up to Tom’s lips. He opened his eyes and stared at the dripping, quivering, coral-colored meat with a dazed expression.

“It looks delicious,” his mother said encouragingly.

“Just a little bite?” Shipley said.

Tom furrowed his eyebrows and wrinkled his nose, as if he were about to sneeze. Then he opened his mouth and vomited all over the table.

Mr. Ferguson pushed back his chair. “Jesus Christ, son,” he sputtered.

Mrs. Ferguson ripped open a Handi Wipe and dabbed at her sweater. “Maybe he has food poisoning. We’d better get him out of here.”

Shipley was already on her feet. “I think he’s just really tired.” All Tom needed was a glass of water with some Alka-Seltzer and some sleep. It occurred to her that once she got him tucked safely into bed she could drive out to Adam’s party and spend the rest of the evening making connections with people she’d never had a chance to meet because she’d been too busy with Tom. And of course Adam would be there.

I
t was getting colder. Mrs. Ferguson drove them back. Adam’s party must have been a success because the Dexter quad was deserted. Even Tom’s dorm was quiet. A lone exchange student from Japan sat in the common room watching a videotaped episode of
Northern Exposure
. Everyone else, it seemed, was off campus. It was a good thing too, because Tom’s trip from his parents’ car to his dorm room was not a pretty sight.

Tom staggered and wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist. Despite the bib, the front of the white dress shirt his mother had brought for him to put on after the play was tie-dyed with vomit.

“I love you, Mom,” he mumbled.

“We’ll have to throw his clothes away,” Mrs. Ferguson commented as she staggered under her son’s weight.

Shipley took hold of Tom’s elbow. “Come on. Let’s get you to you room.” She reached inside Tom’s pants pocket for his key.

“Hey, stop it. That tickles!” he gasped.

Mr. Ferguson held open the door. “You get him settled. I’m just going to buy him a cola from the vending machine. And I think I’ll make a quick phone call while I’m at it.”

The room was a mess of old paint tubes, coffee cans full of dirty water, empty milk cartons, and lolling paintbrushes. Nick’s bed was still upended and the linoleum floor was tacky with spilled paint. Tom collapsed onto his bed. Shipley removed his sneakers while Mrs. Ferguson peeled off his soiled black pants.

“I’ve been to the zoo,” Tom murmured with his eyes closed.

“Now your shirt,” Shipley instructed.

“Come on,” Mrs. Ferguson coaxed. “Help us out a little, Tommy.”

They succeeded in stripping him down to his underwear and tucking him under his quilt.

“I’m glad to see he’s using the bedding I ordered,” Mrs. Ferguson said, standing back to watch her son sleep.

Mr. Ferguson pushed open the door and grimaced at the sight of the messy room. “I spoke to that professor. She said he’s just plain exhausted. Said he’s locked himself in his room all week trying to get that damned painting done.”

He stood in the doorway, unwilling to walk all the way into the room. His mouth was drawn down at the corners, and his usually neat gray hair had sprung up on one side. He looked tired and disoriented, like someone who’d been through an ordeal—a storm at sea or a car accident.

He looked at his watch and then back at Tom. “We were
planning on waking up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to head back,” he went on. He shook his head and stamped his loafered foot on the linoleum floor. “I’ve got to get back to the office, dammit. I don’t know, darling,” he sighed. “What do you think? Maybe we should stick around tomorrow and check up on him.”

Mrs. Ferguson was that particular breed of Westchester mother who was not easily fazed. She’d raised two rambunctious, strapping sons and was married to a man who, on more than one occasion, drank so many martinis with his cronies at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central that he came home, passed out, and wet the bed.

“Oh, he’ll be all right.”

She went over to Tom’s desk and sorted through the discarded paintings of Eliza’s naked body parts. Frowning, she picked up the paint-smudged Polaroids of Shipley with the red Macy’s bag over her head. “I’m certainly ready to hit the hay,” she announced, placing the nude snapshots facedown on the desk.

Shipley stepped away from the bed and rummaged around in her bag for her cigarettes. “I think we should let him sleep,” she said, leading the way out of the room.

She escorted Tom’s parents out to their car and kissed them good-bye. Despite Tom’s behavior, it was nice to have gotten to know them a little better.

“We’re at the Holiday Inn,” Mrs. Ferguson said. “Tell Tom to call if he needs anything.”

“I will,” she said, and waved them good-bye. It was only nine o’clock. Adam’s party would just be getting going. She could drink a beer, maybe smoke a few cigarettes, maybe talk to Adam for a while. She might even try a game of horseshoes.

She walked across the quad to retrieve her car and found that it was gone. Tears sprang to her eyes as she stalked across the
road again and into her dorm. Just inside the door was a white campus phone. She picked up the receiver, scanned the laminated campus directory that was nailed to the wall, and dialed the extension she was looking for.

“Dexter Security,” a gruff voice answered.

“Yes,” Shipley said evenly. “I’d like to report a theft. It’s my car. It’s been stolen.”

18

T
he sun had set at five o’clock and the air was seized by the balmy stillness of an approaching storm. By seven the temperature had dropped to forty-five degrees. Now that it was past nine, it hovered just above freezing. Adam sat in the yellow rocking chair on his front porch, hands stuffed into the pockets of his ski jacket. That afternoon Eli had bought three kegs and put them on ice in the oversized watering trough in the barn. Hoping to keep their visitors away from the house, Tragedy wrote “KEG” in black marker on a fence slat, with a big arrow pointing to the barn.