The Forgotten Hours

by Katrin Schumann

  The padlock on the door hung open on its rusted hook. Katie kicked aside some matted leaves and inched the door open. Inside, her father had nailed metal grips along the walls and painted the outlines of his tools on the rough boards so he’d know where everything went. They were empty now, faded ghosts. She switched on the overhead. No bikes, just a push mower and a broken bookcase. In the back corner stood a plastic trash can and a bunch of cardboard moving boxes from when they’d sold the West Mills house, including a midsized wooden box that she recognized as David’s old treasure chest. Stenciled on the lid in fading black was the image of a pirate wearing an eye patch and a hat.

  She crouched down beside the box, ran her finger over the dusty lid, and then lifted it open. A tiny black spider with long, articulated legs scuttered away. The box wasn’t filled with children’s toys anymore, nor did it hold photos; instead there were a bunch of spiral-bound notebooks and a manila folder full of loose papers. There were bills and old bank statements and some scraps of drawing paper. With a start she realized the folder held paperwork from the trial. Letters from lawyers, a huge envelope marked “bills.” There was a thin pack of letters in there, too, held together with elastic bands. Just as she was about to shove the letters and the paperwork back into the box, a name caught her eye, and her head flooded with static.

  Jack Benson.

  She puzzled over his name, written on the left-hand corner of an envelope that was addressed to her. The date on the stamp read May 2010, shortly before her father’s trial. The letter seemed a relic from another era, one that dated from long before her time; she couldn’t remember when she’d last received a bona fide, handwritten letter—maybe from Grumpy, who didn’t use a computer. The envelope was thick, creamy, good paper stock. Jack had written her name in ballpoint pen, chicken scratch for letters. Larger K and G. She turned it over and over, handling it gently as though it might disintegrate. It had been opened.

  Jack had tried to reach her . . . he had written her a letter! She’d had no idea. They hadn’t been on Facebook back then, but she’d definitely had email . . . and then she remembered that her mother had made her change her email account. When had that happened?

  It was in the spring of 2008, when the lawyer first started coming around to the house. Her mother had forbidden her to use the computer, and Katie had grown to like the isolation, the sense of protecting herself from a world that gave not one shit about what she was feeling.

  To calm herself, she laid one hand on her stomach. Her body seemed to ache all over, her muscles pulsing and sore. Yesterday she’d had to stop twice in the middle of her run to catch her breath.

  All this time she had thought Jack had turned his back on her. The letter was radioactive in her fingers.

  10

  Sometimes it’s the voices that break through—the varying timbres. Her father’s, always laughing, teasing, cajoling. Her mother’s British cadence, clipped and precise.

  And Lulu’s—full, deep, yet feminine. Breathy and rooted at the same time; a contradiction. So lovely in song, making the hairs on Katie’s arms shiver. There’s something powerful about it, even in regular conversation.

  “You know, Katie, I love this place. I do,” Lulu says as Katie comes back toward her. She’s sitting in the darkness beneath the maple that leans out over the water. “But please? If I ever turn into one of those old cronies in there, wearing dress-up clothes when I’m forty fucking years old and getting drunk on vodka and soda, just shoot me, okay?” She makes a gun with thumb and forefinger and points it at her forehead.

  “Jack’s back,” Katie says, toeing the grass at the water’s edge. “He’s inside.”

  “Oh!” Lulu cries, jumping up. “We’d better go in—he might think I’ve already gone home.”

  “Why do you assume that he’s . . .” Katie starts and falters instantly. This is ridiculous; she should just come out with it. But there is something unspoken between them, a fact they both accepted long ago: Lulu is the pretty one, with her burnished skin and wide-set eyes. The contagious energy. The brown belly boys can’t drag their eyes away from. That strong voice, daring you to challenge her.

  Dad. His green polyester pants glow in the dark. In the heat, he smells of musk and sweat. “Hot as Hades in there,” he says, emerging from the clubhouse, where the country music pulses. But it’s hot outside too.

  “Anyone want to swim?” Mum’s eyeliner is smudged. Her purple linen dress has fallen off one shoulder, revealing a lacy bra strap, and her big brown hair is a tangled nest. A beaded necklace swings between her breasts, and she carries a glass of rosé.

  “No!” Katie says. They are talking about skinny-dipping, which is humiliating and awkward and far, far worse whenever grown-ups get involved. “Mum, no, really, please. It’s too crowded.”

  Lulu laughs so loudly that Katie is irritated. Sometimes it seems like Lulu understands her mother better than she does.

  “Oh, lighten up, will you,” Dad says to his daughter. He is laughing too.

  Katie looks away. Over the lake, steam rises in a thick, levitating curtain. Thin clouds are blotting out strips of the star-studded sky, and the heat of the evening has an edge to it, as though it might suddenly drop. When Katie licks her lips, salt floods her mouth. The heat presses into her, but it’s not unpleasant.

  “Hey,” comes another voice. “You’re all out here.”

  Katie spins around: Jack, walking toward them.

  “Hiya,” says Lulu, jutting out one soft hip: both Don’t mess with me and Come hither. Katie studies her, wondering how she does it. She is so womanly, her skin, those curls, her lips bright red and luscious, almost black now in the darkness. She checks to see Jack’s reaction, but she can’t really tell what he’s thinking.

  “Come out here to flirt with the girls, eh?” Katie’s father asks the boy. John concentrates on taking a sip of his beer. His hand is unsteady.

  “Of course, sir,” Jack says.

  “Of course, sir,” Dad repeats. When he tilts his head back to laugh, the creases in the tan lines on his neck yawn open. “You in the marines or something? Quit with the ‘sir’ business. Makes me feel old.”

  Charlie finishes her wine. She runs a finger under each eye and pushes her damp hair out of her face. “Come on, John. Leave the kids to their fun. Let’s go get some water.”

  But he hesitates. What is he waiting for? Is he waiting? Eventually he turns, and Charlie follows. In the silence left behind, Katie takes a shallow breath. Jack’s front is cast in darkness, his messy hair haloed.

  And then, suddenly—a blinding burst of light, bleached of warmth. The spotlights on the diving board have been turned on. They light up the air, wildly exaggerating every tiny rupture in the water’s surface: snakes, snapping turtles, spiders skating on tremulous legs.

  Lulu shields her eyes. “Dammit,” she says. “Can’t we have any privacy around here? Why does Tommy do that?”

  “Will you go ask him to cut it out?” Katie says to Lulu, blinking rapidly. “He’ll listen to you.”

  “Why me? You go,” Lulu says, glancing sideways at Jack, who has been so quiet. (So very quiet it makes Katie wonder if he has maybe changed his mind about her.) Then Lulu bunches her hair in one hand and rubs her lips together, seeming to reconsider. “Never mind. I’ll go. Back in a few. Wait here.” She storms away.

  “So. Yeah.” Jack says this as though the two of them have been having an ongoing, entirely silent conversation already.

  It is time for Katie to say something clever or, at the very least, something that doesn’t make her sound like an idiot. She opens her mouth and closes it again.

  “You know,” he continues, “my dad wanted me to go straight back to New York, after tennis camp? Get ready for school and stuff. It’s all about college prep now. That’s all I ever hear anymore: college, college, college.” He sighs. He has a plastic bottle tucked under his left arm, and he holds it out toward her. “Want some?”

  They sit down faci
ng the water. She takes a swig and screws up her face; it is lukewarm vodka. “You missed a boring week. Tons of rain.”

  “I wanted to stay.” He pauses, considering something. “I gotta head back tomorrow. My parents already left.”

  “Yeah, I’m going too.” The vodka burns in her chest like gasoline. She doesn’t really like the taste of alcohol, but she is getting used to it. “I wish we didn’t have to,” she adds, and that admission knocks something loose inside her. When Jack takes the bottle back from her, their fingertips touch. He is cautious, but behind that reserve something is brewing. He is staring at her, his face bright now in the klieg lights. He lays his hand on top of hers on the broad arm of her chair. His fingers are long and tapered. He traces her bones with his thumb. They sit in silence, and she turns her hand over. With his index finger, he traces the life line in the hollow of her palm. Back and forth, back and forth. It tickles, but she doesn’t move at all. Frozen in the heat.

  She thought boys would be rough, fast, but Jack isn’t, and though he does no more than touch her hand, there is a roar in her ears like when you’re in an airplane, taking off.

  “Double dare,” Lulu is saying to someone as she approaches Katie and Jack. Katie can hear from her voice that she’s excited. “Bet you won’t do it!”

  Katie snatches her hand from Jack’s. When she lets go, the night air whooshes over the skin of her palm. Her heart begins pounding. The lights are still shining full blast, and some boys begin emerging from the clubhouse, punching each other in the arms. Lulu is carrying a couple of red plastic cups. She has high color, and her eyes are bright.

  “Tommy says he has to keep the lights on. Safety when people leave the club, yada yada,” she says, putting the cups down on the arm of the chair, where seconds earlier Katie’s fingers had been intertwined with Jack’s. “Dance is almost over. So, you know, whatever.”

  “What’s this?” Jack asks. “Nectar of the gods?”

  “Don’t you know it.” Lulu grins at him. “I sweet-talked Tommy into pouring us a couple of beers.”

  The party is about to wind down; people who’ve been drinking and talking on the deck are heading back inside as the square dance caller announces the last dance. “Now grab a little lady and go, gents, go!” he roars, and the music starts up again. A fiddle sawing away. Thumping bass. Hoots from the crowd. The music is very loud, and she feels it in her bones. Jack, standing, reaches out for her elbow, taking her by surprise. He raises his eyebrows at her, an invitation to dance; she stands and slips her hands in both of his. She doesn’t resist—she can’t. It’s all in good fun, after all.

  They lean away from each other and then thrust toward each other in an exaggerated way as though it’s a joke, though it isn’t. They swing their arms around their heads wildly. Neither of them knows any of the steps, but they make it up as they go along, exaggerating their movements and snorting with laughter. The song goes on forever, and finally she trips over his feet, and they topple over onto the grass. But instead of stopping, they roll along the ground, laughing and laughing, and his body is so powerful and long against hers that she feels as though the hours they’ve spent joking around as friends all summer have been a prelude to this exact moment when they are sandwiched in each other’s arms. They roll to a stop, and he kisses her again, and this time it is another real kiss, less gentle than before. They are invisible to everyone.

  But they aren’t invisible. Lulu stands, openmouthed, not two feet away. Her face is naked, shocked; she takes a clumsy step back. “You bitch,” she says. “You fucking bitch.”

  11

  Dear Katie,

  I found an email for you in the old directory from Eagle Lake. Is it still Katiemeaowmix@aol.com? I’ve tried writing to you there but it bounces back. I know it’s been a while. I also tried calling but the phone rings and rings. Maybe you moved?

  It’s hard to know what to say, but I really need to say something. I still can’t believe what’s happened. Where are you? I want you to know that I think about you all the time.

  Are you angry at me?

  It was too much; she stopped reading and sat back on her haunches. Her curiosity had gotten the better of her, and she’d dragged the box into the kitchen. Lovely, earnest Jack. She didn’t understand why he’d thought she was angry at him. He’d tried to reach out to her, and she hadn’t known that. Would things have been different if she’d known? Would she have gone to see him, after the conviction?

  I can’t forget when you left. I didn’t even realize that you were saying goodbye! You looked so pretty in the rain and then I tried to find you again and I couldn’t. I just feel so bad about the trial. Now I can’t reach you. I don’t know if you’ve had enough of me or if you don’t know I’ve been trying to get in touch.

  The other letter had also been torn open. Who had intercepted them—her mother? Her father? Why would they have kept them? A small bud of fury lodged in her chest: How dare they. She wondered how she would have reacted if she’d received the letters, if she would have felt less alone. In her gut she knew that things would have, somehow, turned out differently. Or was that just the flimsy yearning of her teenage self?

  The second letter was dated five weeks later. It was written in ballpoint pen on lined paper torn from a notebook.

  My parents and the lawyers said I’m not allowed to contact you but I’m worried so I’m writing again. I need to tell you that I’m very sorry. I’m sorry about what I have to do and if I had a choice I wouldn’t do it. But I have to. I thought it was important to tell you that. I can understand if you’re angry. But I’m not the bad guy. I think if we could see each other again, I could explain things to you.

  My mom said I had to just tell the truth and I’m trying to focus on that and on knowing that the truth is always good, but it doesn’t always seem like that.

  He signed the letters with a flourish that betrayed his youth. What was it that he had done, and why were lawyers involved? She had always assumed that until the verdict was made public, he wouldn’t have known anything.

  The old pirate box was full of junk, but now that she’d started looking through it, she didn’t want to stop. A sense of resolve had built up inside her, and though it was uncomfortable, it also promised a kind of freedom—the freedom to stop running and to start facing the questions she still had. There were reams of handwritten notes on trial strategy, dry stuff that was hard for her to understand. A few photocopied articles about past cases that her father’s lawyer must have used to bolster his defense, the legalese impenetrable; she didn’t recognize the cases they referred to. There were a few business cards and a series of bills for tens of thousands of dollars; she suspected the trial had bankrupted the family, but she didn’t actually want to know the details. Had her mother kept all this because of the divorce and the settlement?

  Then she stumbled on two photos of Lulu, both taken around the same time and from a distance. In them, Lulu wore her dark hair short and was looking down at the sidewalk as she walked. In one picture, she was with her mother, Piper, and they appeared to be having an argument. Judging from the background, it was springtime, maybe outside their apartment in Blackbrooke. Katie guessed these might have been taken in the months leading up to the trial.

  Running her fingers through everything, she alighted upon a thick, cream-colored business card with raised black script on it that read Hugo Montefiore, 12c Elgin Crescent, Chelsea W12 9EU, with a London telephone number scribbled on the back. Odd, she thought, holding it close. The number 8 was made up of two circles, one on top of the other, just like her mother used to write them. Katie tucked it into her back pocket, figuring she would ask her grandfather if he knew what it was about. Over the years, they’d spent a lot of time together at the lake, of course, but she wasn’t aware of him playing any special role during the lead-up to the trial or afterward.

  There were other letters in the box too. Letters with her father’s spiky writing on the envelopes. The back of each of them
bore a faint stamp:

  THIS CORRESPONDENCE IS FORWARDED FROM A NEW YORK CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION. THE CONTENTS MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE BEEN EVALUATED, AND THE DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTION IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE SUBSTANCE OR CONTENT OF THE ENCLOSED MATERIALS. IF YOU HAVE RECEIVED UNWANTED CORRESPONDENCE FROM THIS INMATE, CALL 1-866-956-8745 TO STOP FUTURE CORRESPONDENCE.

  Love letters from prison, dozens of them, all addressed to her mother. Katie’s hands trembled as she slipped the papers from their envelopes. The first one was dated a week after they took him away.

  You looked back at me when you were leaving today, and I couldn’t read the expression on your face. What did you expect from me, to be superhuman like your father? One thing I am not is anything like your father.

  And then another letter, just one day later:

  I miss the kids so much it’s killing me. Give them both big hugs from me.

  A few months later, in December, he wrote:

  We need to talk about your father. I know you don’t want to, Charlie, but we need to. I could see it written all over your face yesterday. It’s going to kill us if we can’t talk about what he’s doing to us.

  Katie wondered what her dad could possibly have meant by that. How had Grumpy been involved? A disorienting sense of all that she couldn’t possibly know or understand overcame her again. It sounded as though her grandfather had done something to her parents, to his own daughter. It didn’t make sense.

  John wrote about his bunkmate, the books he was reading. He asked for crossword puzzles. Again and again, he wrote that everything would be all right. Katie’s head throbbed with an incipient headache. Her father had been so wrong about it all working out, but how could he have known? She felt caught in some way she didn’t fully understand, but it was a familiar feeling, like being in a very small room with one very small window. That window was high up, the walls were close in, and she could touch each wall with her hands. If only she could clamber up to the window, she could free herself from this feeling of claustrophobia.