Kelly grabs his hand and tells him he’s in her prayers, and now it’s someone else’s turn to share war stories. Jonah is polite but transparent as he waits for the lull that doesn’t come. Finally, he nudges me and mutters, “Dad, can you talk for a sec?”
I excuse us. “What is it?”
“I’m only saying this because I’d want to know if I were you—no judgment, just saying—but you should check in on Elizabeth.”
“Check in?”
“She’s really been drinking.”
“So?”
“Like, a lot. She seems drunk.”
“I’m sure she’s fine.”
“She’s drunk, Dad.”
“She’s fine. I’ll deal with it, okay?”
“If you say so.”
I assess the scene and change course. “Nice party, isn’t it?”
Jonah shakes his head and walks away. His signature move.
Across the room, a bell tolls: silver on crystal, spoon to goblet—the universal call for attention, a toast to be made. Guests convene in the living room, finding arms of chairs on which to sit. Conversations fall to whispers, and all focus turns to Elizabeth, who is still tapping flatware against her wineglass. I stand tall in the back of the crowd, arms crossed at my chest, a lighthouse signaling reason, her sobering beacon.
“Hi,” Elizabeth says. “Hi, everyone. I wanted to thank you all for coming. I know most of you didn’t really know Nick, but it means a lot to us that you’d go out of your way to honor his memory and show up for Jonah—and for the cause. So thank you.”
Some guests prematurely raise glasses. Others mutter kind words. Most of them, though, are bubbling with anticipation for the sentiment threatening to spill.
“So I’ve been thinking about something,” she says, enunciating with pained focus. “There’s this thing my dad likes to say. He says, ‘You can measure people’s privilege by how much shit they disturb for fun.’ He says this whenever politicians or pro athletes recreationally throw their lives into turmoil, you know? His theory is that the people who get dealt crappy cards in life don’t have the time or energy or inclination to make life more difficult than it already is. They’re too busy working to make things better. But the lucky ones? The ones who were born into better, without any effort on our part—”
From a stiff crowd, a trace of forced laughter rises and falls.
“Well,” Elizabeth continues, “my dad says we lay our own traps just so we can pull ourselves up by the bootstraps. He says we do that so we can feel equal, because if we are equal, we don’t have to feel guilty about our good luck. We can tell ourselves we earned it.”
Now there is a polite cough and a rustling pantsuit, but no laughter. No one likes a killjoy. Oh, Elizabeth. Watch yourself.
She closes her eyes and rubs her nose. “The reason I bring this up,” she says, “is because Nick made me think about it a lot. Here was a kid who was born into what, by most standards, would appear to be a very fortunate upbringing. Loving parents. High-end education. Then life dealt him really crappy cards—like, hardcore crap. He didn’t ask for that shit—and that is not the kind of self-serving drama my dad was talking about, trust me—but here’s the other thing: Nick didn’t martyr himself. He didn’t. Most of us probably would have. I mean, I got some crappy cards too, at his age.” She closes her eyes once again, and this time she holds up a hand, palm directed toward me in anticipation of my reaction. “Now, Robert. Let me finish. It’s okay. I’m fine.” She blows me a kiss and addresses a room full of spellbound faces. “Whatever. I saw some shit, okay?”
How can I rescue her without making it worse?
“And anyway”—she laughs—“yeah. For twenty years, I’ve carried sadness around, letting it get in the way, like my pain is unique. I don’t really know any other way to deal but to feel bad. See, this is what was so confusing and enlightening and irritating about Nick. He accepted his horrible, shitty, fucked-up life and went on to make good friends with good people.”
Tears light up her eyes. She doesn’t look at my son, but I do. He is stoic. He is strained.
Elizabeth continues, “And anyway, it’s just dumb, really. It’s dumb, the messes people make. This shouldn’t have happened to Nick. His life shouldn’t have ended like this. It’s so stupid, you know? So fucking sad.” The tears sink back into her face, and she pulls herself together. Miraculous. “So, anyway. Thanks for coming. Thanks for giving money to this cause, and—I don’t know. Maybe thanks in advance for never mentioning this toast.”
My guests laugh—clucks of anxious relief, a coop of hot air breathed back into the room.
I raise my glass to seal the frayed ends of my wife’s sort-of toast. “To Nick,” I say.
Everyone follows my lead, repeating “To Nick,” as though we’re embarking on some new journey together, forever changed by a young man who’s no longer with us, when in fact we’ll soon forget that he was with us, because he barely was.
We drink.
29.
I charge Elizabeth, post-toast. By the time I reach her, having dodged a few social obstacles on the way, she and Rick Lester’s new girlfriend, Bess, have been targeted by Luna Parks, who seems to be claiming, at high volume, that she invented avocado toast.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I say. I put my arm around Elizabeth, who squeezes my hand on her shoulder. I take it as an apology for her public speaking debacle. She is forgiven.
“Well, anyway,” Luna says, “I’ll bring you some, but you have to eat them right away or they’ll go bad. You just let me know when works for you. I mean, really, this whole thing is like a horror movie.” Addressing Elizabeth, she adds, “The only difference, of course, is if this was a movie, you’d have died first.”
Elizabeth scowls. “Gee, Luna. What a thing to say.”
Bess adds, “And in this setting, no less.”
“On account of you being the beauty queen, sweetheart. Oh my God. You know what I’m saying.” She shakes Elizabeth by the shoulders. “The pretty one is always the first to go.” To me and Bess, she asks, “Isn’t that the thing? Beauty queen first? I can’t remember. Oh, lighten up. I’m sure the eccentric one dies next.” She nudges Elizabeth, as though they share a secret: two dead gals walking in the movie in Luna’s mind. My wife manages a smile.
“Remind me again, Luna,” Bess says. “When does the bitch die?”
I’ve heard this woman speak all of two sentences, and already, she’s won me over. Nearby friends gasp and turn to watch—not eavesdropping, but flat-out observing in delight. I’m tempted to step in and rescue Bess, but something tells me she doesn’t need backup. After a few terrifying moments during which Luna’s humiliation teases chaos, Bess smiles. She goes so far as to laugh. Luna, caught off guard, laughs too. What else can she do? She points at Bess. “You—are a wild one, aren’t you, buttercup? I’ll be damned.” She shouts across the room to Rick. “You’ve got yourself a firecracker here, Mr. Lester!”
He nods and raises his glass, and to my astonishment, Bess picks up the conversation as though nothing happened. “How long have you two lived here?” she asks Elizabeth.
Assured that Elizabeth is in good hands, I say, “Will you all excuse me? I think we’re running low on club soda.”
Jonah leeches onto me not two steps away. “Well?”
“What?”
“Do you see what I’m talking about now?”
“She’s fine, Jonah.”
“Dad.”
“She’s fine.”
He follows to the garage. “I really need to talk to you.”
“Damn.” A blank strip on the wall reminds me that the ladder is still laying out in our yard. The gutter still needs cleaning.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” I shimmy over to the shelves where we stock surplus crap from Costco.
“Can you listen for a minute, please?”
The club soda should be here. Tonic water, too. “Do you know where all those bottles went
? The Schweppes?”
“I think Elizabeth brought them inside already. But Dad—”
“Not right now, son.”
“This can’t wait.”
“Fine,” I say. “What is it?”
“So I was just talking to Matthew, and he said his mom ate at Lemongrass last week. He said she saw you and Elizabeth there.”
“That was rude of her to not say hello.”
“Whatever. Matthew said his mom thought Elizabeth had a lot to drink that night, too.”
“Are you serious? Which one is Matthew’s mom again?”
“Super long hair, flower dress.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“She wasn’t shit-talking or anything. She just mentioned it, I guess, and I wouldn’t have repeated it except—”
“What? Spit it out.”
“This is really awkward. I don’t even know how to say it.”
“Say it.”
“All right. Fine. Fuck it. Fine.” He shakes his head. “I was just wondering if it’s okay for Elizabeth to be drinking like this.”
My stomach twists. “She’s not an alcoholic, Jonah. I don’t even think her sister is a real alcoholic, if you want to know the truth. Laurie just likes going to those meetings. Don’t put Elizabeth under a microscope because her sister is a fuckup.” I pretend to care about the contents of this shelf. “Not that it’s up for discussion, but if you care so much, she actually took an Ativan before dinner that night, unbeknownst to me, which was clearly a mistake but also none of Matthew’s mom’s business.” I slap his arm. “Let’s go back in and face these idiots.”
Jonah doesn’t follow. “Wait,” he says. “I’m not talking about that.”
I give up and ask, “What do you mean?”
“I don’t think she’s an alcoholic.” He closes his eyes, shakes his head. “This is so awkward.”
“Spit it out, Jonah.”
He breathes through his teeth. “Fucking fuck. Okay. Fine. Is Elizabeth pregnant?”
Stay cool. “Are you kidding?”
“What? No, I’m not kidding.”
“Elizabeth is not pregnant. Jesus Christ, Jonah.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. What made you think that?”
“You have to promise not to tell anyone. I’m serious, Dad.”
“Jonah, tell me now.”
“Promise.”
“Jonah,” I snap.
“Okay. So remember how I told the cops I hadn’t seen Nick the day before he—”
“Yes.”
“Well, I was so panicked I forgot that I’d talked to him the night before. By the time it clicked, I couldn’t backtrack or I’d look like a liar, so I stuck to my story. It’s not relevant anyway. It wouldn’t have made a difference if they’d known. The thing is, though, when we talked—the night before, you know—Nick told me he thought Elizabeth was—you know.”
“Pregnant.”
“Yeah.”
“Why did he think that?”
Jonah rolls his head. He wants to leave this conversation, garage, house. Escape this scene. Evacuate. But he’s stuck now, so, “He said, because you told him so.”
This must be how military commanders feel, or quarterbacks, or team captains. Be quick, resolute, always on the offense. Never be surprised by an attack, never fail to anticipate a play. I wonder if self-preservation is more strategy than strength. Summoning my army of wits, I say, “He shouldn’t have told you that.”
A strange current charges my son: flickers of feelings that don’t suit him. Outrage. Craze. “Why would you have talked to him about it and not me? I know it’s none of my business, either—but how was it any of his?” Without any warning or windup—without a history of violence, as far as I know—Jonah throws a right hook smack into the drywall. Pitiful form.
“Jonah,” I snap. “What’s wrong with you?”
He kicks the wall and follows up by slapping both hands against his head. Knuckles red, he grunts like an animal.
“Jesus Christ. What the hell is your problem?”
He drops to a squat, head between knees, palms smacking the sides of his temples.
“Look at me.”
He obeys, and when he does, he’s changed. A bull in the bullring, ready to charge.
“Listen to me,” I command. “You need to chill out. Do you hear me? There is a house full of people on the other side of that wall. Now is not the time for a tantrum. Be a man. Get it together. Do you hear? This is nobody’s business but mine and Elizabeth’s. Not yours. Not Nick’s. No one’s.”
“But—”
“But nothing,” I snap. The back of my brain scrambles for an excuse. “If you must know, Nick overheard me talking to Elizabeth. He asked me point-blank. He caught me off guard, so I confirmed it—but I also made him swear he wouldn’t talk about it, because first of all, I didn’t want you finding out like this. Secondly, though, there was always a high risk of spontaneous abortion simply because of Elizabeth’s age. She didn’t want anyone to know until we were in the clear.”
“Okay?”
“And this is exactly why we didn’t talk about it.” I pause, weigh my options, and proceed with the best one. “She lost the baby.”
“Oh God.” He rocks on the back of his heels, and for a minute I think he might fall down, but he steadies. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
Head in hands, he manages to say, “I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
The steam recedes. He inspects his knuckles and kneads a sore hand.
“Now can you see why we wanted to keep it to ourselves? It’s been very upsetting for Elizabeth. She does not want to talk about it. Nobody knew she was pregnant, and nobody knows she’s not now, and that’s the way she wants to keep it. We have to respect that.”
“But weren’t you—?” He mimes scissor snips with his good hand.
“Yes,” I say, taken aback at his knowledge of my anatomy. “I was, yes. But even though it’s none of your business, I had it reversed a few years ago. We thought maybe we’d try, but we changed our minds, and by then, we decided not to redo the procedure. Elizabeth is forty-two, you know. We figured that ship had sailed. But we figured wrong.”
“Oh.” Humbled by his ignorance, he rises, adjusting his posture and inspecting the fresh dent in my wall. Powdered plaster collects on the concrete.
“Now, I’ve got to tell you, you are freaking me out a little bit,” I say.
“I know. I’m so fucked up, Dad. I seriously can’t take any more. Everything’s so fucked up around here. I’m freaking myself out too, okay?”
“I’m not talking about the wall.”
He looks at me and asks, “About what, then? What else? What part of this shit pile freaks you out?”
“About just now learning that you talked to Nick the night before he died. Am I hearing you right? You talked to him the night before he died?”
“Yeah.”
“And yet you told me and the police and everyone that you didn’t have any contact with him for days.”
What had been fury moments ago becomes reckless panic before my eyes. “I didn’t mean to lie. I swear. I was all bent out of shape, and it doesn’t actually make a difference. I mean, I realize that’s not the point, but it doesn’t matter whether I talked to him that night or not. He killed himself. He was going to kill himself regardless. I just have to keep telling myself that or I’ll go insane, Dad.”
We both jump when the door to the house opens and Kelly Carver nearly tumbles down the steps in our garage. “Oops,” she says, giving us a once-over, glancing at Jonah’s plaster-dusted pants. “I was looking for the bathroom.”
I direct her to the correct door, and she leaves, and it’s just us again, but we can’t do this here. So I say, “Jonah, when you hold things back, you risk all of us getting in a bind with the people investigating Nick’s death. If there’s anything else you’re hiding, you need to tell me. It won’t bring N
ick back. I’ll grant you that. It makes a difference to us, though.”
“Okay,” he says, too calm, too sure. He should be scuffing his sneaker against the concrete floor like a kid who’s been put in his place, but he stands tall like a man, holding eye contact. “I just forgot.”
“Okay, then. Stay here. I’m going to bring you a cold pack. You’re going to ice that hand for fifteen minutes and get ahold of yourself before coming inside. But first, you’re going to bring in that ladder from the side yard. Hang it on these hooks by the time I get back.”
He nods.
Before leaving him, I ask once more, “Anything else you want to tell me?”
He shakes his head.
I leave my son to lick his wounds, and I wonder if he knows I know he’s lying.
30.
Why in the world would Jonah lie to me?
He claims to have heard that pregnancy bullshit the night before Nick died—but I didn’t feed Nick that lie until morning. Maybe the forensic pathologists and medical examiner got it all wrong. Maybe Nick was only two days dead when I found him. But no, the consensus was three days. Everyone at the funeral seemed to have accepted that as fact.
I do not press for details when I deliver the cold pack, because there’s a damn party at my house. I should be enjoying it. Just when that starts to feel attainable, though, I run into Ray, who pulls me aside.
“Can we bury the hatchet later?” I ask him. “This crowd, you know. These people.”
“No, man. I think we should talk.”
“I can’t do this now.”
“You can’t not do this, Bobby. It’s serious.” He leans close and whispers, “It’s about Simone.”
The name almost doesn’t register, so foreign does it sound coming out of Ray’s mouth. “My office manager Simone?”
“Yeah. Her.”
“Okay, fine.” I lead Ray outside. We take a seat on a pair of woven pool chairs. From this angle, looking through a wall of glass at the cocktail hour unfolding in my own house, it’s as though I’m watching animals in a cage, or live theater on mute. “What about Simone?”
“She’s a problem, Bobby.”
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