by Tess Little
“The river incident?”
“Wait—you haven’t heard this? Christ.” Tommo pulled himself onto the counter. “How have we never told you before?”
He began the tale: how the two boys had been walking through the school grounds one November morning on the way to their first lesson. I had seen one of Richard’s class photos, and I could picture them now: little men in their uniform suits, black leather shoes crunching frosty grass. I had not forgotten Richard’s most recent deception—the co-opting of Lillie into his master plan—but it was difficult to hate this child, abandoned at boarding school by heartless parents, tufts of chestnut hair and a skip in his step.
“We were messing around,” Tommo continued. “We were always seeing who could run the fastest, arguing about who was better at cricket…”
Yes, I could see it. The boyish bragging and gap-toothed grins—the cold red noses.
“…and then Dicky threw his weight sideways, plunging me into icy water.”
I gasped. “What did you do?”
“Clambered out,” said Tommo, grinning. “Made my way back to our dorms so I could change my uniform. Unfortunately, I was caught by a prefect and marched to the headmaster in my frozen clothes.”
“Oh god, you poor thing.”
“I had to write a five-page essay on Hardy’s poetic exploration of nature, which cost me hours of homework time and dashed my grades in several subjects. It became school legend. The other boys swapped my pillows for inflated armbands and put river water in the glass I kept by my bed. Thankfully I noticed the stench before I took a sip—and it was all good fun, all jokes. Never did tell on Dicky.”
“You should have.”
“Call it an Englishman’s honor.”
My stomach sank as I remembered Richard’s earlier lie. I would have to talk with Lillie in the morning. I pushed her from my mind and asked, “Do you know why he did it?”
“I kept trying to rationalize his actions,” began Tommo. “Had I said something to offend him? Had I taken our schoolboy rivalry too far?”
He took the drink from my hand and began mixing another before I could protest. I hadn’t planned on drinking much, but I could always call a taxi.
“I couldn’t recall anything. Nothing that would justify his actions. After the event he acted as if it had never happened at all. So I was left to wonder. Maybe it was a random, uncontrollable impulse. Maybe it had been a test—to find out whether he had gained my loyalty—or maybe he simply wanted to assert his dominance.”
Tommo handed back the replenished drink.
“Perhaps he just thought it was funny,” he said.
“You could have died.”
Tommo shrugged.
The kitchen flurry had died down—leftovers piled neatly, clean glasses on one side and dirty on the other.
The waitress was outside now, joining the chefs for a cigarette. There was something jarring about the scene. I didn’t know her at all and yet I was certain the habit didn’t suit her. Smoke soaking her ponytail, tar yellowing her teeth: It seemed wrong.
Of course, I imagined her saying, as she lent a lighter to one of the chefs. Of course.
Tommo was watching the group too.
He said, “We did a lot of stupid things, Elspeth. We were schoolboys.”
“There’s stupid and there’s spiteful,” I said. “Why on earth would you remain friends with him?”
“You know as well as I that Dicky’s far too charismatic to abandon. We’ve had a lot of fun together. Cheers.” He clinked my glass. “And he never pushed me into a fast-running body of water again, so…”
A peal of laughter snatched our attention.
“We should probably return to the atrium,” said Tommo. “But we’ll make a pact. If either of us needs rescuing, sneeze, then scratch your right ear twice.”
He looked at me, hopeful, desperate. How could I have left, at that exact moment, after hearing his story?
We shook on it.
* * *
—
I left the police station, trembling—abandoned my car and called a cab. When the driver asked for my destination, I told him I had none, that I wanted him to drive and drive until I needed to stop. His brow furrowed in the rearview mirror, but he asked no further questions. The car rumbled into action. I let my head fall against the vibrating window.
I will admit that since that terrible morning, I had entertained an involuntary thought on more than one occasion: that Richard had known exactly what he was doing. That if his death was not planned, then it was also not prevented. Either he had deliberately overdosed, or he had measured out the powder with reckless abandon. If true, I wasn’t sure what it would mean—to imagine Richard carefully orchestrating his last night on earth, selecting me for a front-row-center seat. And the other guests—why those seven? Had he chosen us for a loving farewell? Or did he detest us, blame us, all?
But now…the notion that this was an act committed by another—moreover, someone at the party—this was unthinkable.
As I watched stores and motels and apartment buildings glide by, the words of the female officer dripped incessantly.
(The wounds; the bruises; a long, blunt object.)
I pinched my left forearm again and again: stupid, stupid. I should have called my lawyer as soon as I discovered the body. And now I was embroiled in this mess, an investigation into the murder of my ex-husband, when I needed to be caring for our grieving child.
My Lillie. How would I tell her when I barely understood it myself? How would I string the words to an explanation? How could I say that I was there, right beside her father, as somebody suffocated him to—
I could not breathe. I could not breathe.
A mall materialized in the distance. I asked the driver to pull over. I needed the noise and the lights and all the ugliness. I unclipped myself as fast as I could, pushed a twenty into the driver’s hand. Threw open the door, gasping.
It was a 1970s abomination of mirrored escalators and flecked-linoleum floors. Mobility scooters cruised by, their drivers barely visible beneath plastic bags piled on handlebars. The echoes of misbehaving children; riffs of chart-topping pop. I busied my mind as best I could, browsed the colorful bottles in Sephora, tried to anchor myself in the world. I tried on shades at an illuminated kiosk and settled on a blue pair, Chanel. And then I found myself on the fourth floor, where the scent of buttered popcorn lured me to a movie theater.
I waited in line for a ticket with white-haired seniors and kids cutting class, but then Richard’s movie was still showing—of course it was—and a glimpse of Sabine’s face on the poster, Charlie in her shadow, warned me away at the last minute. My dread was a sickness. I needed to scream it, vomit it out. I wanted to claw it from my stomach.
I breathed.
(To each and every one of you. To each and every year.)
My fingers trembled.
(To all days of glory, joy, and happiness.)
My head was aching. I entered the nearest store to distract myself again.
This was impossible. The detective’s words had lodged a cold blade of suspicion into my heart. I couldn’t help but run over my memories of that night again, again and again, with a growing sense of unease, as I moved the plastic limbs of baby dolls in Target and fingered the cheap fabrics of last season’s coats.
* * *
—
A silent spectacle had seized the guests. Even the staff were staring.
Persephone was crawling across the aquarium on the tips of her tentacles. The white suckers moved rhythmically with each twist and wave, bulbous head dragging behind.
“She looks like an alien,” said Kei.
“Well”—Sabine raised an eyebrow—“she belongs to another realm, no?”
The creature’s skin was a bright brickish-red, lumin
ous against the blue.
“It’s funny you should say that”—Richard was standing behind them, arms resting on the back of the couch—“because zoologists describe them as aliens. They evolved in an entirely different way to other intelligent animals. Fascinating beasts.”
Her limbs were continuously unfurling and curling as slowly, as delicately, as silk tumbling through water.
“They can navigate mazes,” Richard continued, “recognize individuals, use tools, camouflage their skin. You should watch her hunt. Majestic. She might look gentle, but her soft flesh conceals a sharp, bony beak.”
“What does she eat?” asked Sabine.
“She’s a carnivore.” He downed his champagne and placed it on the table. “Her favorite’s crab. You should have seen her as a baby. She was smaller than a saucer, but she could calmly wrap her arms—”
“Her tentacles?” asked Miguel.
“Her arms, they have arms, not tentacles—wrap her arms around the shell until it stopped struggling. And she has a paralyzing venom. Countless weapons in her arsenal. She’s the largest species of octopus. Possibly one of the most intelligent too.”
“Octopi—” began Miguel.
“Octopuses,” corrected Richard.
“Keeps me on my toes.” Miguel laughed. “Always the intellectual. As I was saying, octopuses can escape through the smallest gaps. I swear, it’s like nothing you’ve seen. So last summer one of my golf buddies caught one—like, fifty pounds—on his yacht in Cabo, but it squeezed itself through a pipe this big.” Miguel held up forefinger and thumb in a neat little ring. “This big, back to freedom. I watched the video on his cell. Unbelievable.”
“Spineless.” Richard was nodding.
“All I can say,” Jerry said, “is they taste fucking delicious. Calamari? Yes. Carpaccio? Fuck yes.”
“Calamari is squid, you cretin,” Richard said.
Sabine tapped the glass of the aquarium. “Can you eat this one?”
Kei shuddered.
“You can, actually.” Richard became animated. “I found this oyster farm—”
“No,” Kei said. “No, you fucking didn’t.”
“I found this oyster farm in Washington State that does tinned—”
“No, no, please.” She covered her face with her hands.
“—tinned giant Pacific. In organic olive oil. I could get some from the kitchen if you just hold tight for one minute.”
He was already leaving the room.
“This is disgusting, I can’t.” Kei looked to Sabine. “You’re not going to eat it, are you? I mean, I’ve had octopus before, but fucking look at it. It’s right there. It can see us.”
Sabine shrugged.
“I’ll try,” piped Charlie. “I don’t care.”
Kei scowled at him. “It’s fucked up.”
He shrugged, pouted.
“Come on,” she said. “Like you’re not full after that meal? Don’t do it, Charlie. It’s sick.”
A strange quiet settled on the rest of the room as we considered the creature before us. Her skin was suede-like beneath the water, but on land I could imagine it slick, mucous. Who would eat such a thing? I couldn’t fathom holding an animal’s gaze while chewing on its flesh.
“Ma’am?” A waiter was holding out another glass of champagne.
I declined. “Thank you, I already have a—” I looked for my gin and tonic; it had disappeared from the table beside me.
“I can get you another. What was it?”
“Actually, I’m fine for now, thank you.”
“Bon appétit.” Richard had returned, open can in palm. He flashed a grin at Kei.
Charlie looked at her, then leaped up. “I’ll go first.”
Nobody raced him.
There was something about Charlie that unnerved me. He’d clearly thought himself too important to speak to me throughout the meal—but that wasn’t it. I think it was the eyes. Although his features were perfect, magnetic, and although he smiled and laughed and joked with the other guests, his eyes seemed expressionless: always a little too serious, a little too composed. As though there were nothing behind them, as though he were never himself.
When Charlie was bored, that lack of life only made him seem more indifferent—a blankness that I’d suffered each time I tried to converse with him. But when I watched him smiling with the others, the effect was disconcerting, somewhat incongruous—verging on sinister, in fact, as he contemplated the can, looked back up at Richard, and grinned.
“Would you like a fork, sir?” asked the waitress beside him.
Charlie ignored her. He delicately pinched out a piece of the meat, held it aloft for us to inspect. I was not too near—and, unlike Sabine and Jerry, did not creep closer to peer—but I could see it was almost cylindrical. A cross-section of limb, pinkish-tinged. He squeezed it between his fingers; the oil dripped down.
Charlie held Richard’s gaze as he opened his mouth, wide, and dropped the pink flesh in.
* * *
—
Another car was pulling away from Lillie’s house as my cab turned in, but I didn’t catch a glimpse of the driver. As I unlocked the front door, my cell vibrated—two missed calls from friends. Three messages. Ten emails. So news of the death must have finally broken, but was the murder public knowledge? I should have come straight back from the police station. What the fuck was I doing wandering around a fucking mall? I threw my phone in my purse, praying to god Lillie had stayed away from the internet.
She did not greet me.
“Who was that I just saw leaving?” I asked.
She was rinsing two cups in the sink.
“Did you have a visitor?”
“A friend.”
“Well, that’s nice, sweetie.” My voice was too high; I was sweating. I put my purse on the counter. “I’m glad people are looking out for you. I know you don’t always like to talk about things, but it can be good…”
Her shoulders tensed.
“…to share.”
I was irritating myself with this blithering—but how to begin?
Lillie stopped the water and placed the cups on the drying rack. She did not face me.
“Have you eaten anything today?”
No answer.
“Sweetheart, you need to eat something. How about a—”
“I’m not hungry.”
She turned around, crossed her arms. Her eyes were puffy and raw but stony, dulled to my words. She wiped her nose on the palm of her hand.
“Lillie…”
I tried to hug her. She pulled away.
“We need to talk,” I said.
Lillie shut her eyes. Sighed. Whispered, with great effort, “Please. I can’t talk now. I can’t talk.”
“You need to hear this.” I sounded too desperate. I slowed my words, chose them carefully: “There’s something the police just told me and it’s going to be out there, in the public, soon. I think you should hear it from me. Your father—”
“I know, Mom,” she said, beaten. “I know somebody killed him.”
I was so shocked I did not pause to wonder how she knew—I just pulled her in tight. This time she let me. Her body was stiff, neither of us spoke.
My cell buzzed again. I let it ring.
* * *
—
When I called my lawyer back, there was no hint of exasperation in his voice; Scott was far too professional for that. But with the firm and swift directions he gave, it was clear he believed someone needed to take control of the situation.
“Elspeth,” he said before hanging up. “In the future, please don’t hesitate to call. I can only take care of your interests when I’m aware of those interests, and you do, after all, pay me a handsome retainer for that very purpose.”
Yes, I ha
d chastised myself many times for not calling Scott sooner. In hindsight, I could tell that the other guests had been phoning their lawyers as soon as the cops descended on Sedgwick, but I hadn’t been paying attention at the time. I had been trying to get through to Lillie. And then I had been cooperating with what I thought would be a straightforward investigation. It was foolish. It was reckless. What kind of person, possessing the means, ever entered a police station without their lawyer? When illegal substances were involved? When they were present as their ex-husband lay dying?
Scott liaised with the police and then reported back: I wasn’t needed at the station for another week; he’d fly in from the East Coast the day before. In the meantime, he wanted me to document my memories from that night as well as my communications with Richard and general activities in the preceding months. And how well did I know the other guests?
A little, some of them, I told him. Old friends.
He was unflinching in his response: “Okay, here’s what I want you to do, Elspeth: Don’t see them, don’t speak to them. No contact at all. Don’t even read their messages, if possible.”
This was no challenge: Neither Jerry nor Tommo had tried to get in touch. They had probably received the same advice from their own lawyers.
I barely noticed this, however. I wasn’t thinking of the other guests at all and for the first few days forgot Scott’s instructions entirely: Taking care of Lillie was far more important than reconstructing my recollections of that night. If I ever thought of Richard—if I saw his limp body, if I recalled the detectives’ words—that memory was swiftly followed by concern for Lillie. The murder was horrific, yes—and how could my daughter cope?
She had begun to lock her bedroom door, was ignoring my tentative knocks. I’d hear TV shows faintly, through the wall, for hours, for entire days.
Sometimes I paused by my bedroom door for the sound of her emergence. I would wait two seconds, then walk down the hallway casually, carrying an empty glass to refill.
“How are you doing today?” I asked, having cornered her in the kitchen a couple of nights after we’d learned of the autopsy report.
