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know?”
    Gamblers Anonymous. Alcoholics Anonymous. “You okay down here by yourself?” I asked.
    â€œOh, puh-leeze.” Lily rolled her eyes. Relieved that at least she and I had been able to talk, I retreated upstairs as the TV yelled, “Good boy, Scooby! You unmasked the ghost!”
    I don’t know when Julia or Vic got home.

CHAPTER 8
    T hree or four weeks went by. I did my schoolwork more or less diligently, but could not make myself actually show up for cross-country practice. Instead, I began running by myself every day after school. I chose a five-mile route that circled through North Cambridge and then looped around the Fresh Pond reservoir. While I ran, I wore headphones and thought about nothing. It felt good. Sometimes I ran the loop twice.
    Yom Kippur came. I didn’t intend to fast; I had not fasted since my bar mitzvah year. But somehow or other I forgot to eat until just a few hours before sunset, and then I thought, why not hang on? So I did. It was just a test of will. It meant nothing. I didn’t go to synagogue. I didn’t feel cleansed. I didn’t feel forgiven.
    One October afternoon I came home after my run to find Vic stacking a half cord of wood in the backyard against the house. He nodded at me, and I took off myheadphones and joined him, ignoring his protests. We went back and forth from the base of the driveway, where the wood had been dumped, to the back of the house. I found myself glancing at Raina Doumeng’s first-floor windows for signs of her presence. Nothing.
    â€œHard to believe this’ll be needed,” I said idly, nodding at my armload of firewood. It was a perfect Indian summer day, about seventy degrees.
    Vic shrugged. “Believe it. It gets plenty cold around here, though we haven’t gotten a lot of snow the past couple of years. Thank God. I hate shoveling.”
    â€œI’ll do it this year,” I said.
    â€œI didn’t mean—”
    â€œI know.” I finished stacking my current load. “Don’t worry about it. Least I can do.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œThink of what my mother would say if I didn’t pull my weight around here.”
    â€œEileen.” A smile lightened Vic’s eyes for an instant, and then disappeared. “Okay. You do the shoveling.”
    We continued working in silence, and as the stack neared completion, I wondered if my mother would consider this a bonding experience. She had called regularly every Sunday morning with her pick for Congressional Idiocy of the Week, a list of books I ought to read, gossip about my father’s activities, and a few carefully worded questions about my life. Then, just before hanging up, she’d ask, as if casually, “And Vic? What’s new with Vic and Julia?”
    Each week I considered telling her to leave me alone and call Vic herself. But I never did.
    â€œâ€¦ been thinking about installing a woodstove upon the third floor, too,” Vic was saying. “But I’m not sure if there’s enough clearance.”
    â€œNo, I don’t think there is,” I said. There was nothing wrong with a conventional heating system. “I’m sure it’ll be warm enough without one.”
    Vic adjusted the last few logs on top of his stack. “Well, yes, I put in insulation, but a home needs a fire. I’d always planned—”
    I interrupted him. The last thing I wanted was Vic cozying up the apartment for me. “Vic, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
    Vic blinked. “What?”
    â€œMy mother says they’re thinking about driving up here for Thanksgiving.”
    For a moment, he didn’t seem quite able to take it in. “Eileen and Stuart? Here?”
    â€œYeah.” I watched his eyes slide away from mine, back to the woodpile. His left cheek twitched. “She says she’ll roast a turkey in my oven,” I said. “Invite you and Julia