Sugarhouse: Turning the Neighborhood Crack House Into Our Home Sweet Home (29 page)

“It is,” he said. He glanced at me, still a wink of trouble left in him. “And it would be pretty racy stuff, let me tell you what. But I don’t expect you’re interested in writing something like that. Something that would involve, say, a gentleman, a hot young lady, and some trouble.”

“We’ll see,” I told him, giving him one last hug. “I just might.”

By the time we got back to my mom’s condo, we were all ready for a cocktail—except Jenae. She just wanted to head upstairs to crash, she said. She was so tired she couldn’t think of eating or drinking anything else today.

“Not even cottage cheese?” I said, tucking her in.

“I hate you,” Jenae said. “Don’t make me hurt your face parts.”

I kissed her on the forehead and went downstairs.

My mom and Bob were sitting in their easy chairs, and I told them about Jenae, hoping they wouldn’t be too sore about her absence.

“What,” Bob said, hoisting his half brandy, half crème de menthe, “is she
prejke?
”

I didn’t know if the word was Czech or Polish or what, but I knew what he meant, and in my gut I knew he was right.

“Oh, Bob,” my mom said, blushing, embarrassed but hopeful. “Goodness gracious.”

My watch says it’s eight and a half months later, and now we live in Minnesota, waiting for our little package to be delivered any minute. Even though she’s about six hours away, my mom is so relieved we’ve come, more or less, home.

We’re tucked in a little house half a block from a small lake, but in trade for its great location, the place needs a little TLC. We looked at houses that were readier to go, eighty-six of them to be exact, but none nearly as close to a place for Maggie and our muffin-in-the-oven to romp and run. There’s so much more to say, but now that the drywall’s finally hung, taped, sanded, and prepped, it’s time to finish tiling the bathroom before our sarcastic plumber comes back to install the “sophisticated” toilet Jenae picked out, and by then the primer I threw on the walls upstairs this morning should be dry enough so we can paint what will be our bedroom—and, of course, the biscuit-cute dormered room that will be the nursery for we know not who but are sure going to find out soon.

I would like to thank all of the people without whom this book would not have been possible: Jim Rutman, my agent nonpareil, and his outstanding assistant, Adelaide Wainright; Larry Cooper, my supremely kind and patient manuscript editor; and everyone at HMH, but especially Adrienne Brodeur, my resplendent editor. I will need to learn several new languages to adequately thank you.

My heartfelt gratitude goes to all my teachers, but foremost: Robin Hemley, Bill Roorbach, Lee K. Abbott, Paisley Rekdal, and the beatific Melanie Rae Thon.

To all my classmates, my deepest thanks. From The Ohio State University: Mike Løhre, Kirk Robinson, Dan O’Dair, Tom Moss, Juliet Williams, Mark Steinwachs, and Bryan Narendorf. From the University of Utah: Nicole Walker, Erik Sather, Pamela Balluck, Steve Lehigh, Julie Pagel, Steve Tuttle, and Susan Goslee.

I am greatly indebted to my colleagues near and far who have helped in myriad ways: Christine Butterworth-McDermott, John McDermott, Matt Ramsey, Mike Martin, Lon Otto, Leslie Adrienne Miller, J. C. Hallman, Todd Lawrence, Andy Scheiber, Liz Wilkinson, and Ray MacKenzie.

This book would not have been completed without the generous and kind support of the National Endowment for the Arts. I also want to thank Michelle Wildgen at
Tin House
and Michael Cyznejewski at
Mid-American Review.

To Jacob Paul, my dear friend who has literally saved my life more than once, not to mention been a patient and stupendous reader of several drafts of this book; suffice it to say, I owe you.

To Bruce Machart, and to sweet Marya, and to Bruce’s dear parents, Allen and Bobbie Gay, well . . . where am I gonna find enough thanks to put on your table? In many ways, this book wouldn’t exist without you, your literary mentorship, and your inestimable friendship.

I could not have done any of this without the support and encouragement of my grandparents, Jeanne and Robert Tucker, and their wondrous daughter, my mother, my hero, Patti Ann.

Jenae, it’s going to take me a lifetime to thank you. Allow me to begin by saying simply this: I may have written this book, but you are its ink, its white space, its binding, its cover. Tell Emory,
You’re the names of things.