by Merry Jones
“Is this for real?” Annie shrieked. “Oh my God.”
She looked at Craig, and they both exploded into knee-bending, thigh-slapping laughter.
“Can I have them back now?” Nora tried to sound cool, like she didn’t care much. She reached slowly and casually for the pictures and almost got them, but at the last second Annie moved them away. Nora stepped back, stung, and let her arms drop helplessly to her sides.
“Are you kidding me?” Annie choked on her words, she was laughing so hard.
“This is—That’s who I think it is, right?” Craig bellowed.
“Annie. Give them back.”
They ignored her.
“Yo, Donny, you gotta see these.” Craig pulled his friend over and Annie handed him the pictures.
“Stop, no!” Nora reached for them but Annie played keep-away, passing them to Craig who held them in the air.
“You want ‘em back, Nora?” Craig’s eyes glowed. “Come get them.” He taunted her, ready to pounce if she came too close.
Her lip still throbbed where he’d bitten it. “Just give them to me. Please.” Her voice trembled.
“Don’t be a party pooper,” Annie scolded.
“She’s right, Nora.” Craig spun around and went inside with Annie right behind him.
Nora watched in silence while events spun out of control, as if she’d lit a match and a house had caught fire. No, not just a house, a whole forest. And not just a fire, a disaster, a
conflagration.
In the rec room, Craig flipped on a light and turned down the music. His voice boomed, “Yo, boys and girls. Wait’ll you see what Nora brought.”
Bobby Baxter was there, quieter than the others. What did he think of Nora for bringing pictures like those? Did he know that the photographer, the subject of the photos, was her brother? Weirdo. Freak. Creep.
Annie helped Craig pass the photos around the room. She couldn’t stop giggling, and danced around with Craig, gleeful at the reactions, lots of oh-my-god’s and you’re-shitting-me’s. The party-goers slapped foreheads, and their eyes bugged out as they gradually identified the heavily rouged woman posed dramatically in a frilly negligee, then a long floral frock, lingerie, high heels, a swimsuit, and finally, that new black cocktail dress Marla had recently bought. Drunk and stoned, the other kids hooted and whistled, shouting out sex acts they’d like to see performed on the pervert in the pictures, finally deciding to plaster the photos all over their high school, to share Tommy’s secret unappreciated glamour with the world. Weirdo. Creep. Freak.
Nora didn’t fight them, didn’t demand that they stop. Family comes first. Your brother is your blood. She faded into the shadows, silent, passive, and ashamed. Stunned at how drastically out of control events had spun, how her intentions had gone so wrong.
Tuesday, August 21 – Wednesday August 22, 2018
D
ays went by, not one at a time but as a continuous, rolling motion of waking and sleeping, motion and stillness, noise and silence, anxiety and calm. Nora held on, riding the cycles, letting them carry her through time.
On Tuesday, the mailman brought packets from school telling the girls which classroom they’d be in and who their teachers would be. Calls went back and forth between friends to see who was in the same room. Trips were made to buy final school supplies and more school clothes. Haircuts were scheduled at the salon. Nora met with the other room mothers to plan decorations, events, and healthy snacks for the first day of school.
Dave went to work, following routine with clients and cases, coming home on time for dinner. The conversations he and Nora had about Paul were cautious and late at night.
“Have you heard anything?” Or, “Any news?”
“No,” and “No.”
But late Wednesday afternoon, when the girls were coloring in the family room and Nora was unloading groceries, her phone rang. The screen said Patty was calling. Nora answered with the phone in one hand and a bag of frozen peas in the other.
“Nora? God, have you heard?”
Nora’s throat clamped shut. She dropped the peas on the counter. Hugged herself. They must have found Paul. But how? She pictured him on the floor of that secret room. Had he begun to rot? Was his belly bloated? Were maggots eating him?
Patty continued, “It’s Barbara’s husband—Paul Ellis. He’s missing!”
Missing? Not dead? Not found murdered? Nora relaxed a tad. Allowed herself to breathe. “What?”
“He hasn’t been heard from since right after the funeral. The nanny and the kids got back this morning from his parents’ house down at the shore, but the house was empty. They said on the news that the mail was piled up. Paul’s car was there, but no sign of Paul.”
Patty paused. Nora knew it was her turn to say something. “My God.”
“I know. No one’s seen or heard from him. His campaign must be going nuts, explaining his no-shows and canceling events. His campaign manager’s been making excuses for him. I guess he thought Paul was going off script because of Barbara’s death and he kept things quiet, expecting him to show up
eventually.
“Rumors are flying. Some say he killed himself out of despair about Barbara. Another theory is that he’s been kidnapped by terrorists or political extremists.”
“My God,” Nora said again. It seemed to be all she could
manage.
“It’s crazy, right? Go put on the news. It should be on the five o’clock. What time is it? Five. I want to go watch. Talk to you later.”
Nora thought about watching the news, instead she continued to unpack groceries. Apples, avocadoes, arugula. Two percent, American cheese, whole wheat bread.
Minutes later, Dave came home with his eyes wild, his skin gray. She didn’t need to ask if he’d heard. His face was as clear as a newspaper headline.
“Have you…” His voice was hoarse and full of whispers.
“I already know.” Nora kept her answer balanced, unshakeable. “Patty called and told me that Paul’s missing. It’s shocking. They’re saying he might have been kidnapped.” She continued putting away groceries, reminding Dave through her actions how they were going to handle this development. They were going to go on as usual.
Dave stood near the stove, arms at his sides, staring at
nothing.
“Okay, fine,” she said. “Tell me what’s going on.”
Her words seemed to revive him. He blinked, cleared his throat. “It was on the news.”
For a heartbeat, Nora panicked. Reaching to put the corn flakes on the highest cupboard shelf, she flashed back. Had she forgotten anything in that secret room? Had she left behind an identifying eyelash or fiber? A fingerprint? A micro-drop of blood? Would their presence be discovered? No, not possible. She’d been thorough, had gone over every inch of the place twice, three times. No, there was no evidence. They were fine. Besides, Paul was missing. Nobody had even found him.
“Homicide knows I was working with his wife.” Dave had that pasty look again, as if his face lacked structure and could be remolded at the slightest touch. “They know I despised him. They’ll want to talk to me.”
Sophie appeared then. Her little hands and forearms were splotched blue and green from the markers. She wanted to go to the playground and complained that Ellie wasn’t fun. Ellie trailed in behind her, somber, biting her fingernail. She asked when it would be time for supper and whether they could have hot dogs.
Nora juggled groceries and girls, handling both. She assigned tasks so that her children would help put away the remaining food, fold the bags, and take out ketchup, mustard and hot dog buns. Nora proceeded to fix dinner. Hot dogs? Yes, why not? Grilled, with melted cheese on top. And cut up melon. And potato salad. The girls scampered around: getting paper plates, napkins, paper cups from the cupboard. All the while, Dave’s eyes remained flat and aimed out the window, his hands flaccid on the counter, like slabs of a quartered chicken.
/> “Okay. So, they’ll talk to you.” She wanted to prepare him, help him rehearse what he would say. “You know nothing.”
He gave the slightest of nods, continued to stare outside. What was out there? A deck that needed restaining. A lawn that needed mowing. Bushes that needed trimming. What did he see?
“Dave. It’ll be all right.” A huge fly buzzed around the kitchen window. It banged its body against the screen, like a messenger from Tommy.
“What’ll be all right, Mommy?” Sophie asked.
Oh God. Why did Sophie hear everything? “Everything, honeybunch.” Nora smiled, but Sophie tilted her head, looking doubtful.
Wednesday, August 22, 2018, 11:50 p.m.
T
hat night, long after the girls were asleep and the lights were out, Nora lay next to Dave, listening to him worry. Dave’s breathing was quick and shallow. She could almost hear the flapping of his eyelids, the clenching and unclenching of his fists, even the troubled pounding of his heart.
It was obvious Dave was suffering, wrestling with guilt. Still blaming himself for not saving Barbara, then for killing Paul. How long would it last, this self-blame, the sorrow and dread? Couldn’t he see that he’d done everything he could for Barbara? That Paul had left him no alternative. If Dave hadn’t killed him, he’d have killed Dave—and probably her as well? And even if Paul’s body were found, Nora had made sure that his killer wouldn’t be?
Dave sighed and tossed, tossed and sighed. She reached over, put her hand on his shoulder.
“Am I keeping you up?” Dave started to get out of bed. “I’ll go downstairs.”
“No.” She took his hand, stopping him. “Stay. We need to talk.”
“About what? Unless—do you think someone saw us at the scene?”
A witness? How long had he been worrying about that? “No one saw us, Dave. There’s only one other house on the cul-de-sac. Plus, it was raining. Plus, the house is surrounded by foliage.”
“I hope you’re right.” His breathing was still short. “You’d think I’d feel some closure now that he’s dead. But I don’t. Killing him didn’t fix anything. Didn’t bring Barbara back. It just made me a killer, the same as Paul.”
“You’re nothing like Paul.”
Dave sat for a moment, then stood and walked out of the room. She heard him going down the stairs.
“Dave,” Nora kept her voice low so she wouldn’t wake the children and followed him. “Wait.”
Dave didn’t wait. He turned on the lights and took the Bulleitt Rye and two glasses from the liquor cabinet. Poured a few fingers in each and handed one to Nora. Then, slumped on the wingback chair, he lifted the glass in a toast.
“Here’s to me for fucking everything up.” He drank, then stared into his glass.
“You didn’t.” Nora gulped anyway, savoring the burn as the whiskey flowed down her throat.
“God, I am so fucked.”
Nora sat in the chair next to him. When he finally looked at her, she was close enough to see little red capillaries in the whites of his eyes, striping them like a barber pole. Dave looked thin, fragile, and exhausted. He was angry one minute, sad the next. His shoulders sagged constantly. She needed to convince him that they were, and would be, fine. But how?
Maybe she should go all in and prove that she understood how he was feeling, that he wasn’t alone. That life would go on. Did she dare?
They sat silent, drinking. Dave finished his glass and poured another, topped off Nora’s.
“I keep seeing him go down.” He swallowed more rye. “I hear the gunshot, again and again.”
“I get that you feel bad.”
“Bad? Fuck, no. I’m glad he’s dead, the son of a bitch. If I had the chance to do it over, I’d kill him again.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“Just that… I can’t stop reliving it. He’s alive. Then he’s dead.” He stared at his hands.
“You were traumatized. You’ve probably got what soldiers get—post-traumatic stress.”
“Nora, stop. You don’t get it. You don’t have a clue what it’s like to take a life.”
Nora picked up her glass and downed the contents. It felt so smooth, warming her insides, softening the edges of walls and windows, time and truth. How about fear? Did it soften fear? What would happen if she told him?
Don’t look for trouble. Don’t rock the boat. Leave well enough alone.
“I know more than you can imagine.”
“No, Nora. You don’t.” His tone cut the air, swiped at her.
A heartbeat passed. Another.
“I have something to tell you.” Nora refilled her glass and focused only on the amber tones of the rye. That way, she wouldn’t see Dave’s revulsion when he heard about Tommy, and the truth of what she’d done.
Monday, November 2, 1993
L
ong after her parents had gone to bed, Nora was still awake, unable to sleep. She sat up in bed, picturing and re-picturing and picturing again what had happened Saturday night. Her so-called friends, the people she wanted most to impress, had become a wild-eyed mob as they passed around the pictures of her brother in drag—all of them, except for Bobby Baxter. Bobby Baxter, in his soft wool sweater and Old Spice, had watched it all. What had he thought of Nora for sharing those pictures of her own brother? He must have understood something about her intentions though—she’d kept insisting that the pictures were meant for Annie’s eyes only. But maybe Bobby couldn’t have cared less about her or her intentions. Maybe he’d been disgusted with everyone and just wanted to stop the bullying. After all, he’d stood up for Tommy, shouting above the riot of voices in the rec room.
“Okay, everybody. You had your laugh. Now give them back to Nora,” he’d yelled.
Craig had stared at him, amazed that a mere seventh grader would challenge him, even a tall, preppy one like Bobby.
“You talking to me?” Craig faced Bobby, nose to nose.
“Give them back to her,” Bobby repeated, not backing down. “That kid’s not hurting anybody, so let him alone. What he does in private is his own business.”
Craig had flicked Bobby’s shoulder and turned back to his raucous friends, as if Bobby hadn’t said a word. But Bobby had spoken up for Tommy even when no one had listened, even when Tommy’s own sister had abandoned him.
But what could she do? Nora punched her pillow.
Had Craig and his band of bullies really done what they’d threatened, tacking up the photos of Tommy all around the school where everyone would see them?
Probably. Because when Tommy had come home, he’d locked himself in his room and hadn’t come out for dinner. Hadn’t answered Marla’s, or even Philip’s knocks on his door. So she was pretty sure Craig had done what he’d promised.
Nora fell back onto her mattress and stared at the ceiling, tears sliding down her temples into her ears. Tommy Tommy Tommy Tommy. Why should she feel so bad? It was Tommy’s own fault for withholding the pictures he’d taken of her with Annie. He’d given Nora no choice but to search his dark room, and besides, he shouldn’t have taken those pictures of himself in the first place. For sure, he shouldn’t have been wearing their mother’s clothes. She hated him for dressing up like a girl. She hated the kids at the sleepover for laughing at him. She hated Annie for having the party to begin with. And most of all, she hated herself for having her life, for being trapped in it.
At some point, the floor creaked. A door opened. She got out of bed and stood just inside her door, listening. The stairs to the attic shifted, groaning under Tommy’s—it had to be his—weight. She should go after him.
But hell, what would she say? Sorry, I messed up? What good would that do? He’d probably had, by far, the most unimaginably unbearable day of his entire miserable life. No wonder he hadn’t come to dinner. Everyone he knew, kids he didn’t know, his teachers, the principal, the janitors—they’d all found out his secret. They’d seen hi
s glossy red lipstick and wavy blonde wig, his flirtatious poses as he’d flashed a thigh or puckered up for the camera lens. And it was all her doing.
Pity and shame rushed through Nora. She hurried out of her room and whispered to him as he trudged up the steps to the attic.
“Hey.”
He stopped but didn’t turn or answer.
“Tommy, wait.” She wasn’t sure what else to say.
When he finally turned around, she saw the wreck that his face had become. His eyes had both been blackened, one so puffed up that it was nearly closed. His nose was bruised and swollen, caked with scabbing. His bottom lip bulged and made his whole mouth crooked.
“Your friend was supposed to call Craig off.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I doubt that.” His swollen lips didn’t enunciate very well. “Since you’re the one who gave out the pictures.”
“No, they took them from me. I didn’t mean to. I found them while I was looking for the pictures of Annie and me, and I thought you’d swap—”
“They’re under my mattress. Take them.”
Nora couldn’t stop staring at Tommy’s brutalized face. “Who beat you up? Was it Craig?”
“What do you care? You hate me too.”
“I don’t hate you. You’re my brother.”
“Like that matters to you. I told you, Nora. I warned you about those people, that girl Annie. You made your choice.”
“That’s not fair.”
“I got suspended.”
Why? “For what?”
“Who knows? Maybe fighting. Maybe the pictures. Maybe just because they all hate me.” His chin quivered as if he were about to cry. He paused, controlling it, forcing a harsh laugh that sounded like a bark. “That asshole vice principal acted like I was the one who put the pictures up. He blamed me. Warned me about being a degenerate. Doesn’t matter. I learned my lesson.” His eyes wandered, looked distracted.
