The Book of Joe

the kitchen, my cell phone rings. I consider ignoring it, but then think the better of it. Like Owen said, it’s time to start living again, to throw myself into the mix and begin sorting things out. Feeling suddenly and irrationally renewed, I pull the phone off its charger and flip it open.
    “You’re a fucking asshole,” Nat says.
    Owen has left a huge box in the kitchen. I open it to find a brand-new Dell Inspiron laptop, a handful of discs, and a hastily scribbled note from Owen. Don’t think about it. Just turn it on and get to work. Fifteen minutes later I have the machine up and running on the desk in my bedroom, and I’m sitting pensively in front of it, its blank screen taunting me, daring me to try to fill it with something worthwhile. The idea of starting over from scratch is daunting, but not without appeal. I remind myself that I’ve done this before - to critical acclaim, no less - and allow my fingers to gently brush the smooth plastic keys of the laptop.
    Over the last few days an idea has been forming, the bare skeleton of a story, and now I turn it around in my head, searching for the entry point that will get me started. No one was more surprised when Matt Burns came home for his father’s funeral than Matt himself, I type, then pause for a moment before continuing. The sentence appears small and insignificant against the white expanse of empty screen, an unlikely springboard from which to launch an entire novel, but something in its conversational simplicity reassures me, and I begin to type some more, at first tentatively and then with greater confidence. Within two hours, I have three chapters done. It’s a lyrical mystery I have in mind, about a son who returns home to investigate the suspicious circumstances surrounding his estranged father’s death, excavating clues and his own troubled past as he goes. That’s the basic idea, and even as I write the initial pages, I know that I’m onto something, that this is a book I can write from beginning to end. It’s after nine o’clock when I finally stop typing and save my work, resisting the impulse to reread everything I’ve just written. It occurs to me that it’s been over two days since I last showered, and I stink. I strip out of my sweats and head into the bathroom. For the first time since I returned to the Falls, things are starting to feel attainable again. I know this feeling is nothing more than the illusion of control brought on by my newly galvanized writing effort, but for now, all things being equal, I figure I’ll take it.

Twenty-Six
    There’s something about being wet and naked that always makes things seem eminently doable. I shower energetically, vigorously scrubbing off two days’ worth of accumulated grime, and as I do, I am a congress of one, making sweeping resolutions by the handful. I will write my new novel. I will make amends with my family and work on becoming something resembling a brother and an uncle. I’ve already made some promising headway toward that end with Jared, even if it has involved some felonious activities. I will find a way to get past the awkwardness between Carly and me, and will find out if there’s anything there to salvage. I will be a friend to Wayne and offer all the comfort and support I can. I am baptized in the faintly green foam of Irish Spring and Herbal Essences, ensconced in a lather of possibility.
    I’m just stepping out of the shower when the doorbell rings. I quickly wrap a towel around my waist, the air invigoratingly cold against my wet skin, and run downstairs, still feeling a sense of elation at my newfound direction. And then I open the door and it’s Lucy, looking flushed and somewhat breathless in a short skirt and a tight scoop-necked sweater, and things take a bit of a left turn.
    “Hi,” I say, stepping back to let her in.
    “I’m sorry to barge in on you like this,” she says. “I thought maybe you’d gone back home already.” She pulls at a loose strand of hair that has become ensnared in her lip gloss.
    “Nope,” I say. “Still here.”
    She smiles awkwardly. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to the funeral. I don’t go out very much these days, and I just ... ”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    Things seem to be moving in slow motion, because I have time to dwell on her every detail: the smooth lines of her face, the way her full, impossibly red lips seem to crush against each other where they meet, becoming an entirely new and delectable