Thinking of You

by Rachel Kane

  “Oh!” he said, surprised. “Would you have done anything I’ve seen, or…?”

  My mind raced. I wasn’t prepared to dig in deeper, I was still kind of shocked to hear myself lying to him.

  “Probably not,” I said nervously. “Very avant-garde. Only a few shows here and there.”

  He nodded, and I felt so guilty. How could I just sit here and lie like this?

  And hell, what was I going to do if Val bumbled into the conversation and told the truth?

  I had to get off the subject, and fast. “It’s not going to change the world or anything,” I said, “not like you, saving the owls, and the deer, and the fish.”

  He glanced up from his drink, his cheeks coloring. “Oh. I don’t do that.”

  “You’re not a lawyer? I thought—”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m a lawyer, just not an environmental one.”

  “No saving the owls?”

  He shook his head. “Not saving much of anyone, really. It’s cool that you’re still an artist, though. You mentioned being avant-garde, does that mean you don’t try to do portraits anymore?”

  See, this is why you shouldn’t lie to a lawyer.

  I swallowed and looked down at my empty glass, as though whiskey might magically appear at the bottom of it.

  Of course, if my mother had proper staff on-hand, my glass would be magically filled.

  “Portraits, ah, I… Yes. Yes indeed. Portraits. Pictures of people.”

  I could kick myself for how the words stumbled out.

  “I remember—” he began, then his voice fell silent.

  I know what you remember, I thought. I remember it too. A world I left behind, a world where you stretched before me, the light falling on you.

  If there had been a pencil handy, I could have sketched his face right now. The line between his eyes as he half-scowled, a battle between politeness and memory, and the smoothing of that line as politeness won, as he forced himself to realize we weren’t going to sit here and reminisce. That too many things had happened, too many years had gone by, for us to share those memories.

  “I remember that you used to enjoy portraits,” he said simply. “I’m glad you still do.”

  I wondered how my own face looked right now. When we were in meetings, Val and I, I spent much of my time looking at faces, ignoring the words, ignoring the presentations, just studying the brows and cheeks and mouths, how they moved, how they expressed acceptance, disbelief, anger and resignation. Sometimes, pretending to jot down notes, I’d sketch out one of their expressions in as few lines as possible. The protruding petulant lower lip of a man who had been promised the world, and was now having it taken away. The confused half-smile of a man who wasn’t sure he was getting the better end of a deal.

  You learn, after watching these people for long enough, to keep your own face perfectly still. To give nothing away. Their eyes search you for clues, trying to figure out what you’re going to do next, but you can’t hint at your own thoughts.

  I tried to summon that now. Tried to keep my face still, like a statue.

  Micah couldn’t know how I felt right now. How his arrival had cast me into confusion and doubt. Why was I even lying? Why was I suddenly ashamed of what I did for a living? He wasn’t out there saving owls, he didn’t have the ethical upper hand. We were just two men who wore suits all day. In a lot of ways, we were more similar now than we had been back then.

  Then why did he make me so nervous?

  When Val came out onto the patio, I breathed a sigh of relief. Thank god. Val would take over the conversation, reciting the facts in that way he had, and everything would be fine. I could get myself another drink, hide in silence, and wait around until we could go back to the airport. Suddenly I didn’t care whether Mother sold the house or not. Suddenly I wasn’t interested in any of it.

  I just had to get away from Micah, and the memories that he brought with him.

  The problem was, Val’s face looked somber when he stepped out. “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

  6

  Micah

  I know people who got into law because they thought it was orderly. They thought of the rules, policies and traditions as ways to keep the universe in line, to organize the chaos of daily life. They were always disappointed, because law isn’t about calmness and order. It’s more like a boxing ring; it’s there to pin in two fighters, so they can’t get away from each other. But what happens inside the ring is totally up to the boxers, luck and physics.

  All of which is to say I was used to chaos. When your phone rings a hundred times a day, when multiple cases are in different stages of readiness, when you have to keep in mind the needs of clients and opposing counsel and judges, all with their own personalities, histories and prejudices…well, you either learn to deal with the mayhem, or you don’t.

  I would not have thought I had a single neuron left for more crises, and yet when Val came to talk to us, I found myself very curious what he’d found out.

  Of course I was. It gave me a way to hide from my reaction to finding Theo here.

  Because if there was one thing I could not think about right now, one thing I absolutely forbade myself from thinking about, it was Theo.

  In particular, I couldn’t allow myself to wonder why he had just lied to me.

  I wasn’t sure what part of our conversation had been a lie. But my instincts were seldom wrong about this. Lawyers get lied to a thousand times a day, and not just by the guilty who want to appear innocent. Witnesses who are afraid of looking complicit. Experts who don’t want to be challenged on the stand. Jurors who are desperate to be declined for the case. You have to learn the signs, the hesitations, the backtracking, the false confidence.

  Theo was lying to me, and I didn’t understand the point of it. Yes, we’d been thrust together in a way neither of us had asked for, but soon enough we’d never see each other again. That’s what he wanted, right? To go back to his fabulous artistic life.

  So why bother lying?

  I couldn’t think about it right now. I had to focus on something else.

  Unfortunately, I then found myself focusing on how he looked.

  Some men wear suits like armor. You can practically hear them clanking around, uncomfortable but feeling protected, sleeves just slightly too long, collar too tight, the knot of the tie uneven. They wear suits because they’re told to, because it’s what one does, but they always remind me of little boys dressed up for Easter; you can tell all they want to do is get home and kick off their tight shoes.

  Other men wear suits like a second skin. It’s not just a matter of having their clothes tailored to fit their bodies, it’s almost as though their bodies were made for it.

  Just my luck, Theo was this second sort of man. If I’m honest, he didn’t look like a painter at all. He looked like he belonged on a Sexiest Bankers of the Year calendar. His vest emphasized the way his chest tapered down to a trim waist. His cutaway collar, his tie with its full Windsor knot, emphasized his delicate yet masculine features. His hair was glossy and still, the slight wave under absolute control, although you sensed that at any moment, a lock would fall down over his brow, bringing back that boyish look I had once loved. And when he’d been standing, earlier, and I’d seen his ass…

  You are not allowed to think like that. You are in the middle of a major crisis, your mother’s future is in jeopardy, and the last thing you need right now is to think about Theo’s hair.

  He left you, remember? Left you without a word, without a hint of what was happening.

  You heard it all second-hand, after you’d left for college.

  I scowled down into my drink. It was true. However Theo might appear now, he was still someone who had hurt me, and I had to be careful.

  He’d never have the chance to hurt me again, not if I had anything to say about it.

  “Tell us what happened,” I said to Val.

  “It went about as badly as I expected,” he said, sitting near me. I tho
ught that was interesting, that he sat closer to me than to his own brother. “She has every intention of putting the house on the market. She wants to close it down.”

  “And lose the staff,” I said.

  Before he could answer, the French doors swung open, and Consuela came out carrying a tray.

  “Look at you! All my boys came back to see me!”

  There was a tray of cookies, a pitcher of iced tea, an ice bucket, several glasses…and a bottle of whiskey, which didn’t even make it to the table before Theo grabbed it.

  “It’s just like old times,” she said. “But so sad.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” I told her. “Don’t you worry.”

  But the look she gave me said she’d already made her peace with the idea of leaving. She’d worked here nearly as long as my mom had. I felt a flare of defensiveness on her behalf. How could Mrs. Reynolds wreck so many lives?

  It was so selfish.

  Glancing over at Theo pouring himself another drink, I thought, Like mother, like son.

  Val thanked her, and waited for her to go back inside before resuming.

  “Mother’s argument is, why does she need staff, if she’s living up in New York with her boyfriend. He has his own staff, she says.”

  “Well, that’s a relief,” said Theo. “At least he’s not after her money. But why get rid of the house? We have a ton of properties we don’t live in. Why should this one be any different?”

  Val shook his head. “She wouldn’t say. It’s a mystery to me, but you and I have talked about it before. Memories? Maybe she doesn’t want to be confronted with thoughts of Father?”

  Theo grimaced. “What about our memories? Aren’t we allowed to have them?”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that,” said Val. “You haven’t been down here in years. Do you care about the memories here?”

  Theo loosened the knot of his tie, as though he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. “Jesus, Val, what a question.”

  I studied the hand still touching his tie. What was it that drew my attention? It wasn’t just his fingers. God knows, I wasn’t going to sit here and remember the way his fingers felt on my skin. There was no point in that. Useless nostalgia.

  No, it was the cleanliness of his hands.

  Back when I knew Theo, his hands were never clean. He would scrub them, but inevitably there would be flecks of paint under his fingernails, or he’d miss a stripe of charcoal on the back. He was a messy artist, so lost in what he was doing that he never paid attention to the paint on his shirt or the white dot of gesso on his nose.

  That doesn’t mean anything, I told myself. We were grown-ups now. He had simply learned to check his hands before he was done washing them.

  His cuffs were clean too, but that didn’t mean anything. This just wasn’t one of the shirts he painted in.

  No. Something wasn’t right. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it had to do with my sense that he had been lying to me.

  I shook my head, trying to dislodge all these pointless questions. Sometimes you have to learn to switch off the little lawyer inside your head.

  There was no question that he looked stricken by Val’s remark.

  “If you want to keep the house,” I said, to focus my attention on anything but Theo, “why not offer to buy it from her?”

  “That’s a great idea,” said Theo, looking at Val. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Val had taken a cookie from the tray, and was studying it. I laughed when I saw it, and when Theo laughed too, he looked at us, like he was wondering whether to be offended. “Yes, is there something about this cookie you find funny?”

  “Sorry,” I said, “just a flashback from when we were kids.”

  “He’s still the same,” said Theo. “Pathologically afraid of raisins.”

  “I’m not afraid of raisins,” said Val. “I do not like their texture.”

  “Was it Christmas?” I asked, trying to remember. “Consuela had brought a bunch of cookies out of the oven, and you thought they were chocolate chip—”

  “It’s very startling, the difference in texture,” said Val, blinking at us. “If you’re expecting a melted chocolate chip, and instead get the wrinkled chewiness of an old grape dried under god knows what circumstances… Surely we have more important matters to discuss?”

  He was right, but I couldn’t stop smiling at the memory. Do we ever grow up? Really?

  “Micah was saying we should buy the house,” said Theo.

  “That might solve our problem, but not his.” Val looked over at me. “We wouldn’t have much need for staff either, you see.”

  “No, of course, I understand,” I said.

  “I’m sure we could arrange a severance package, there’s no reason your mother should go away empty-handed—”

  “No, there’s no need for that,” I said. There was no way I was accepting charity. I’d always hated that feeling, the sense people in town had about us, that we were charity cases, that we couldn’t make it on our own, that we always needed help. Absolutely not.

  “Damn it!” said Theo, rising from the table. “Why are we sitting here talking about this like it’s a done deal? She’s got to understand that this affects more lives than just her own.”

  In that moment, I got a flash of the old Theo. Brash, confident, yes a little spoiled, possibly a lot spoiled, used to getting his way, but with the energy and insistence that came with that.

  An energy which, in this case, could be helpful.

  I couldn’t say anything. If I spoke, it would just sound like I was pleading for his family to take care of my mother. I wasn’t going to do that. Mom would be happier here than anywhere, but we weren’t beggars, we didn’t need their help. I could bring her back to Corinth. I could get us a bigger place, at least until she was back on her feet. I didn’t need anything from the Harrisons.

  And yet…

  Val looked blankly at his brother. “What do you propose?”

  “I’m going to talk to her, obviously,” he said.

  “You?” said Val.

  “No offense, but you’re a fucking robot, Val. You might be good at dismantling companies, but you don’t know how people tick. That’s my job.”

  If Val was offended, he didn’t show it.

  That’s my job…what an odd expression.

  “I think there’s a good chance that if you speak to her right now, with two whiskeys under your belt, that you’ll make things much worse,” said Val.

  Theo looked down at his glass, as though counting how many he’d had.

  Back when I knew him, he didn’t drink like that.

  Of course, we were young then, and sneaking beers from the fridge, drinking them out on the dock, had seemed like the height of criminal joy.

  I wondered why he needed such constant steadying of his nerves.

  What had him so frayed.

  Stop, I told myself, it isn’t your business what’s going on in Theo’s life.

  “She’s my mother,” said Theo. “I know how her mind works. I’m going to take care of it.”

  “I really have to insist—”

  “You really don’t have to insist, Val. Why don’t you sit here with Micah and catch up on old times, while I go save the day?”

  Val and I stared after him, as he marched back into the house. As he slammed the door, I turned back to Val.

  “Some things never change,” I said.

  He shook his head. “As much as you might wish they would.”

  7

  Theo

  “Are you hiding?” I asked Mother.

  She was in the study, next to the windows overlooking the lake. It would not have been difficult for her to have seen the three of us out there talking.

  “Of course not,” she said.

  “It’s just a little strange that there was no one to get the door for us,” I said. “And strange that you haven’t come out of here to say hello, not to your guest, not to your sons.”

&
nbsp; “Would you like some tea?” she asked, waving towards the tray next to the sofa.

  What I wanted was answers. Starting with why she was holed up in the study. Something was wrong here, and I didn’t understand it. Barreling ahead wasn’t going to get me anywhere, though. That’s one thing Val never understood, how to deal with people, how to edge around their defenses so you could figure them out. I should have been the first one to talk to her, instead of being exiled outside with Micah.

  Micah. Oh hell. He was out there with Val. I’d left the two of them alone. What if they talked? What if Val revealed I wasn’t an artist at all? It was a minor lie, but such a dumb one. I’d be so embarrassed if anyone confronted me on it.

  While I wasn’t in the mood for tea, I did pick up one of the spoons and tapped it against my knuckles.

  She turned from the window and looked at me. “Go ahead. Barrage me with questions.”

  “I don’t know where to start,” I admitted. “This whole thing came out of the blue. Why are you in here?”

  She gave me a grim smile as she returned to her chair. Beside the chair was a small table, stacked high with papers. She had been busy. I noticed a medicine bottle next to the stack. Secretly glanced at the label. Painkillers.

  Very unlike my mother. I’d have to ask her about that. Pain could push people into bad choices.

  “I’ve given the household two weeks’ notice,” she said, “and now I find I can’t face them at all. When Consuela brought the tea, she looked on the verge of tears. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her like that. With Mildred, it’s even worse, the way she’s bustling around, polishing everything. I didn’t expect this would make me feel so guilty.”

  My thumb rubbed against the bowl of the spoon, feeling its smoothness. Where my skin touched it, the metal was no longer shiny; the reflections were dull. It would have been an interesting contrast to study, the bright highlights of the polished areas, the smeary dullness where I had touched.

  This wasn’t the time to think about painting. I’m sure if I hadn’t just lied to Micah, I wouldn’t be thinking about it at all.