I can’t imagine how I could have. At some point during that long, boozy evening, it all became clear to me—but not in a dazzling flash that had to be acknowledged and dealt with right away. It was rather more like a dull, echoing thud, almost a groan, that could be ignored for the time being, because, after all, it wasn’t going to go away. No, it certainly wasn’t going to go away. I had to go home. Home was where I had to be in order to figure out what to do next. I needed a place where someone would cook me things to eat without my asking for them or deciding what they should be. I needed a place where someone would open the drapes in my room in the morning and close them at night while I sat there slack-jawed, staring into the middle distance. It took me a day and two nights to come up with a solution. It was a solution that seemed almost ridiculous, though it did (or might do) what it had to do, and I could ask for no more than that. After breakfast I invaded Mother’s study, interrupting the writing of one of the dozens of charmingly intelligent letters she seemed to produce every day.
