The Companion

by Katie Alender

  I went in and flipped on the gallery lights aimed at the walls, and the portraits were suddenly illuminated. They went from left to right, oldest to newest, featuring each successive generation of Copeland heirs and their children.

  The leftmost one was Jerahmeel, who was thin and unhappy looking, his face strangely birdlike with a small chin and heavy brow. His wife, next to him, looked just as unhappy, but stockier in her wide-skirted and bell-sleeved dress; her mouth was set grimly. Their five children, three boys and two girls, all looked like they’d just realized how unfun their parents were.

  The next painting was of Jerahmeel’s oldest son and his wife, who was rather pretty and looked familiar to me—and then I realized that she was the future Widow Copeland, whose portrait hung upstairs in the hall. She was already wearing black, even before she was a widow—a high-collared blouse and a high-waisted skirt. At first, I thought they had only two children, boys. Then I realized that Mrs. Copeland held something in her arms—something that was the size and shape of an infant, but draped in gauzy black fabric.

  I hurried onward.

  The next guy and his wife looked bored, which could hardly have been possible considering the sheer volume of children seated around them—I counted eight. The youngest was a boy, and the rest were girls. The girls all wore dull-colored, shapeless dresses that reminded me of paper lunch bags.

  I was about to pause before the next picture when a familiar face caught my eye in the final painting in the row. This one contained exactly two people: Laura and a man who must have been her father. Laura looked rather grown-up, wearing an off-the-shoulder black top and a string of pearls around her neck. She stood in front of her father, who was staring into the distance, with his hand resting on her shoulder. Laura stared directly out at the room. It was a lovely likeness of her.

  Her mother would have been long dead by that point. But where was Lily?

  The next spot was empty, waiting for the next generation. I wondered if they would continue the tradition. Maybe they were waiting for Agatha to get better first.

  I stared at Laura, feeling the emptiness of her loss, and finished my tea.

  “Can’t you sleep?”

  I managed to hold on to my teacup, but only barely. I turned around and found Laura, in her old-fashioned high-necked nightgown, standing in the doorway watching me.

  I shook my head. “Sorry, I just came down to heat up my tea.”

  “I can make you a fresh cup,” she said, reaching for the cup.

  “I finished it,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize,” she said. “This is your home, too.”

  It was a lovely sentiment, although I didn’t completely believe her. But why ruin the mood?

  She stared at the portrait of herself. “I felt so grown-up when it was time to have this painted. I guess I had some old-fashioned idea that Dad and I would spend a few weeks posing for the artist . . . it turns out we weren’t even in the same room. He came and took our photos. It felt like cheating.”

  “But it’s a nice painting anyway,” I said.

  “Oh yes,” she said, leaning a little closer. “I’ve always liked it. Dad and I were quite a team.”

  “It was just the two of you?” I asked.

  My question hung in the air.

  “Yes,” she said. “My mother had passed away years before.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Right.”

  She walked back to the previous picture. “Grandfather and Grandmother—Matthew and Edna. My grandfather passed in a car accident when I was a baby. It was very sad for my father.”

  Matthew and Edna stood with two young children, a boy and a girl. The whole family looked serious, like they knew what was coming.

  “This is the one who cried at the wedding?” I asked.

  Laura laughed, a sweet, surprised laugh. “I mentioned that? Yes, Edna, bless her heart. This painting makes her look well-behaved, but she was a terror. And here are David and Maude—although her given name was Agatha, can you imagine deciding to go by Maude?—my great-grandparents. I don’t know that she ever forgave herself for having seven girls and only one boy. The kings of Europe couldn’t have been less interested in turning their empires over to a female. And she only married into the family! She came from some high-society old-money family who ran out of money. Thank God Matthew came along at last.”

  At first I thought she was joking, but there was almost a little too much sincerity in her voice.

  “And over here is the designer of the gardens.”

  “The Widow Copeland?” I asked.

  “Yes, very astute! Loretta Copeland. She married Jerahmeel’s oldest son, Abel. He passed away quite young—probably right around when this painting was finished. Loretta took over and ruled the house and the railroad with an iron fist until my great-grandfather came of age. Then she managed the house for him, hand-picked Maude to be his wife, and conveniently dropped dead three days after my grandfather was born.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  Laura’s gaze swept over the wall. “It seems so impressive . . . until you look at all of them as individual people. They were all flawed. None of them was very much fun, I’m afraid. I guess I’m not, either.”

  “You’ve been through a lot,” I said.

  “I have,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean you have to turn hard, does it? Look at you. Think what you’ve lost, and you still seem so . . .”

  Her voice sank to nothing. The tone had turned sad.

  She straightened her shoulders. “Still, they all did great things. And the family will continue to do great things. Even after my generation. And my children’s generation.”

  She sounded like she was trying to convince both of us.

  I nodded.

  Then she turned to me, her eyes shining with a strange intensity. “Do you like it here, Margot?”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. Because I would no sooner have expressed ambivalence than I would have stuck my hand into a lion’s cage.

  “What if you stayed?” she asked.

  “I—” I stared at her, baffled. I thought I was staying.

  “No, no,” she said, like she’d read my mind. “I mean . . . the Albrights have always worked for us. For generations. But Tom—Mr. Albright—his daughter, Colleen, has decided to do something else. Art school.” She said art school like the words themselves were coated in a thin layer of acid. “And so . . . there is no next generation of Albrights. That’s sad, but it’s not about the name as much as it is about the idea of it. The loyalty. And so what if you went to business school and then apprenticed with Mr. Albright? What if you stayed? Stayed with us?”

  “Oh, wow,” I said. “That’s so generous.”

  Was it? I had no idea. I was all muddled, and growing painfully sleepy.

  Laura’s smile seemed blindingly bright. The points of her white teeth gleamed.

  “It would be perfect,” she said. “Then, when Barrett takes over, you—”

  “Or Agatha,” I said.

  She didn’t speak.

  “If Agatha gets better,” I said.

  “Yes—of course.” She tightened the silky sash around her waist. “Yes. Agatha. Or Barrett. But the important thing is that the affairs of the family would be in the hands of someone we trust implicitly.”

  This was strange. This was overwhelming. How could Laura trust me implicitly? She’d only known me for a month. The room seemed too warm.

  She put her arm around me and her thin fingers wrapped around my shoulder. I could feel the pressure of each individual fingertip through the fabric of my pajamas.

  I began to feel slightly queasy.

  “Oh, Margot, think how nice that would be,” she said. “Think—”

  * * *

  I OPENED MY eyes.

  I was in bed.
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  How did I get here?

  The last thing I remembered was talking to Laura in the drawing room. What had we been talking about? What was the last thing she said?

  What on earth was happening to me?

  It was still dark outside, which was good because I wanted to go back to sleep. I felt like I could sleep for ten more hours. But as I turned over and began to shut my eyes, I saw, written on the wall:

  GO

  CHAPTER

  16

  “GOOD MORNING,” LAURA said, her voice a happy singsong.

  And then—to my utter amazement—she stood up from the breakfast table and hugged me quickly.

  “Agatha has an appointment with her specialist in Chicago today, so I need to scoot if we’re going to be ready to go.” She glanced at her watch, and her eyes popped almost comically. “Oh, goodness, it’s later than I thought.”

  “Do you need help with Agatha?” I asked.

  Her smile was so warm that it made me slightly uneasy for a moment. Who was this version of Laura?

  “I was telling John this morning, before he left, how thoughtful you are. How is it possible for a sixteen-year-old to be so thoughtful? But no. I’ll be fine. Agatha ate already, so it’s just a matter of getting her dressed and doing her hair.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Her gaze lingered on me. “But thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  She looked like there was something she was dying to say, but then she thought better of it and started to leave the room.

  I headed for the table, a little relieved. The unfamiliar brightness of her energy was a little too much for me this early in the day.

  Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. It made me jump, and Laura let out a tinkling little laugh.

  “I startled you,” she said. “I apologize. I just wanted to say, Margot . . . I hope you know how much you mean to us. To me.”

  What was I supposed to say to that?

  Her eyes were searching, pinning me in place. Her voice got lower, whispery, excited. “And the thought that you’ll always be with us . . . that you’re really one of the family now . . . I’m thrilled.”

  Then she scurried out, as if trying to save me from having to come up with a reply.

  I stared after her, openmouthed, like a cartoon character who’s just seen a cartoon alien appear out of a cartoon flying saucer.

  What was she talking about? Always with them? One of the family? I racked my brain, trying to remember our conversation. I remembered looking at the paintings with her the previous night. I remembered her saying something . . . What was it?

  For a panicked moment, I was afraid I had agreed to be adopted. I had no interest in being adopted by the Suttons—none.

  But that didn’t feel right.

  No, it was something else.

  Art school? No. What did art school have to do with anything?

  Something to do with Mr. Albright? Working for Mr. Albright?

  No . . . working for the Suttons. Being Mr. Albright.

  An absurd image of myself flashed into my head, me in one of Mr. Albright’s suits, with a necktie and a briefcase, sweeping into the house with his robotic good cheer.

  That was it, I was sure of it. Laura had asked me if I wanted to take over for Mr. Albright . . . someday.

  And I said yes?

  I plopped down into a chair, staring at the plate of pastries. Suddenly I wasn’t hungry anymore. I felt like I’d already had breakfast—something made of dust, that had left a dry coating over the inside of my whole body.

  I said yes?

  I couldn’t have said yes. I would never have said yes. Living here with the Suttons for a couple of years while I finished high school was one thing. But living with them—being part of this world forever—no, I couldn’t do that. I knew it without thinking about it. I’d go crazy. I’d lose my mind.

  But if I hadn’t said yes, Laura wouldn’t have said any of what she’d said just now.

  If I hadn’t said yes, she wouldn’t be happy—she would be hurt.

  She would be angry.

  * * *

  I DIDN’T USUALLY go looking for Barrett during the day. I knew he spent part of the day in his room, doing summer homework. Sometimes he went out for a jog around the perimeter of the property— presumably to stay in shape for lacrosse. And he spent another part of the day with his father. The rest of his time was a mystery to me, and it had never occurred to me to find him.

  Now it occurred to me. Because I was restless and bored, and Agatha and Laura would be gone until dinnertime. Reading was okay, but after I finished a book, I had trouble getting up the motivation to immediately pick up another one.

  I would have done some tidying, but there was nothing that needed to be tidied.

  I stood outside the nursery, freshly showered and dressed, and wondered whether he was in his room thinking about me and wondering what I was up to. Probably not, right?

  No matter how lonely I was, it wasn’t my style to stand around waiting for a boy to remember my existence. So I picked up another book, stationed myself in the library where I would hear him come down the stairs, and waited. I mean, read. I read so much that I fell asleep almost instantly.

  I was awakened later by a sound, a rolling peal of music that reverberated through the halls. I stood up, feeling like a rat following the Pied Piper, and went to find its source.

  I had seen the music room a couple of times—a cozy tucked-away space at the far end of the hall, where the music wouldn’t dominate the house—but I’d never seen a human being in there. But now I followed the sound of the piano and rounded the corner to see Barrett sitting on the piano bench, his face frozen in concentration.

  For a few seconds, he didn’t notice me, and then he glanced up toward the door—maybe he’d sensed a change in the light. When he saw me, his frown softened, and he gave me a faint smile, but it didn’t break the fluid rhythm of his playing. He went back to the keys, and I stood leaning against the doorway and watched and listened.

  The piece he played was quick and light, but with slower, meditative parts. I was embarrassed by my lack of musical knowledge and hoped I wouldn’t be called on to say something intelligent about it.

  But that wasn’t really what I was focused on.

  I was focused on the absolute tension of his body, the way his hands and fingers always seemed to be playing the next notes before I even took in the last ones. I couldn’t keep my eyes off the angles of his shoulders, the way he held his head.

  He loved this. It was important to him. And he was so good at it. I held my breath, as if that could keep his fingers dancing, help push him along the lines of the melody. As if I was part of it.

  Finally, the song ended, and he plucked out a playful little flourish and then turned and grinned at me.

  Oh, help.

  “What . . .” I began. “What is this?”

  “This,” he said, standing up and giving the keys another little twizzling riff, “is called a piano.”

  “No, but seriously,” I said. “How did I not know you played? Where do you practice?”

  “In my room, mostly,” he said. “I have a keyboard and a pair of headphones. Mom doesn’t like the noise.”

  “How could she not like that?” I asked. “I could listen to it all day.”

  A soft smile curved his lips. “That’s sweet,” he said.

  “I don’t understand.” I couldn’t stop myself from moving closer.

  He shrugged. “She just doesn’t like music very much. I don’t get it, either, but it’s her house.”

  “Do you play at school?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m starting in the conservatory program this fall.”

  “Wow.”

  “Well.” He shrugged. “It’s not hard to get
into, but it should be fun.”

  “Does Agatha like to hear you play?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. She used to. But she hasn’t heard me for a while.”

  “We should try sometime,” I said. “I’ve been wondering about music. Whether it helps her.”

  He sighed. “Like I said, Mom’s kind of into silence.”

  “We could get a headphone splitter.”

  His expression suddenly got a little brighter. “Yeah, actually. We could. That’s a great idea.”

  I stared at the piano, which was gleaming black and six feet long. “I've never seen a piano this big.”

  “Do you play?”

  I shook my head. “I took lessons until third grade, but I complained so much I broke my mother’s will.”

  “I was the opposite,” he said. “She finally gave in and let me take lessons in town. And Dad bought me the keyboard.”

  “Play something else?” I asked.

  “I will, but I’m starving,” he said. “Did you have lunch yet?”

  I shook my head.

  We went to the kitchen and, without discussing it, made lunch together. Just sandwiches with sliced apples on the side, but standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him, working in quiet, intimate silence, made me almost breathless.

  I took my plate and started for the breakfast room, but he said, “Let me show you something,” and headed back through the kitchen into a dim, plain hallway. Near the end was a door leading to a set of stairs in an almost pitch-dark stairwell. We took them up and then went out the door at the top into the light of the afternoon.

  It was a cloudy day, but the light was still comparatively blinding. It took a minute for my eyes to adjust, and then I looked around.

  We were on the roof of the house, but it wasn’t a normal part of the roof. It was fancy, with black-and-white-tile flooring and old patio furniture strewn about, shoved into irregular pairings.