“He was in our English class,” I said.
She brightened. “Oh, really? Cleve doesn’t care for school much. It’s difficult for him.” Her face fell. “It was difficult for him. He was so different from me. I always loved literature, especially classical literature. I studied it in college.” She glanced up, her eyes rolling back to access a memory. She puffed up a little and said, “ ‘Res est soliciti plena timoris amor.’ Do you know what that means?”
I shook my head.
She frowned. “Why have they stopped teaching Latin in our schools? It means: ‘Love is a thing ever filled with anxious fear.’ ” As she considered it, she began retreating again into a fog. “All lovers understand that,” she mumbled. “And mothers, too.”
“I’m sorry Cleve didn’t like English,” I blurted stupidly and then tried to recover: “It’s terrible what happened to him. You must be just… I can’t imagine.”
She perked up. “I don’t know what to say,” she said, smiled meekly, and crumpled again. “Nothing will be the same. There are no words…”
Her sorrow—its inexpressibility, really—made me think of my mother. I thought of her in her wedding photo, smiling out at me, at everyone, but somehow, at the same time, she was smiling at a certain someone, maybe Dad. When I look at the photo, I don’t know how I feel, and I don’t have a pithy quotation to sum it up. It’s just a messy mixture of longing and hope, I suppose. One thing I do know: the woman in the photo was the opposite of Elaine, who was swooning before me, as if her sadness were a disease spiraling through her. We were just interlopers, stomping on her grief.
“He’ll be missed,” I said. It was a lie, but it seemed necessary to say.
“Yes,” she said, and her face tightened as if she’d been seized by pain. She raised her hands up as if she were trying to fend off an attack, as if some creature were dragging its claws across her skull.
“Are you okay?” I asked softly.
Then, whatever it was seemed to vanish, and she dropped her fists into her lap. Her clenched eyes relaxed and flicked open. “Cleveland didn’t care much for English,” she said, her tone disappointed, even critical. “He had trouble with his speech. A stutterer.”
“He told me he wanted to study biology,” I said. “He liked marine life. Lobsters.”
“He loved going out on the boat. He adored the ocean. All Closs men adore the ocean, the water. So sad that…” Grief yanked the thought away from her. Her gaze drifted. I wondered if she was staring at the dramatic landscape over my shoulder, finding solace in its brooding clouds.
Judy leaned in and, attempting to draw her focus, said, “We were wondering if you could tell us what happened. No one will tell us. The paper—it didn’t go into detail.”
“I don’t know,” Elaine said, withdrawing, her palms out, pushing at an invisible wall between them. “I don’t know who would want to hurt him. It all seems pointless—and unnecessary. So unnecessary.”
We’d come to retrieve information, to discover a clue, but it felt like we were crossing a sacred boundary—and that it could easily backfire.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Judy said, her eyes locked on her.
“She asked him to pick up dinner,” Moira said, entering the room. “It was Thursday, the twenty-first.” She was carrying a tray that she positioned on the table in front of us. It held two glasses of milk on doilies and cookie sandwiches oozing strawberry jam, artfully displayed on fine china.
“I asked him to go for me,” Elaine said. “I was very ill.”
“We saw him that night,” Judy said, which surprised me. Was she going to tell them about his row with Miss Martins?
“You did?” Moira asked, her nostrils flexing and eyes narrowing. “Where?” She sat beside her daughter-in-law.
“We bumped into him on East Capitol Street,” Judy said, which was a lie, “at the corner of Ninth.”
Why bring it up, then lie? What angle was she playing?
“Where were you headed?” Moira said and, with forced levity, added, “Please, have some milk and cookies. They’re shortbread, my mother’s recipe.”
“The grocer’s,” Judy said, snatching up a cookie. “My mother needed butter.”
“And when was that?”
“Five or six. I can’t remember,” Judy said and bit into the cookie. Jam squished out and dribbled in globs down her white blouse. “Shucks!” she said, after swallowing. “It will stain!” She tossed the cookie back on the plate, spurned for its offense. “I need to clean it right away.”
The plan was kicking in: We’d decided that if we were invited in, Judy would make an excuse to use the bathroom. While I kept them distracted with chitchat, she’d snoop. I really didn’t want her to leave me, though.
“I’ll get you a towel,” Moira said, beginning to get up.
“It’s okay,” Judy said firmly. “I’ll do it. The bathroom?”
“Down the hall and to the right.”
And she was gone.
Both women glowered at me. My throat tightened. Moira was haughty and disbelieving. She seemed on the verge of demanding the real reason for our visit. Although still slumped like a collapsed puppet, Elaine seemed more assertive, as if she was trying to communicate with her jasper eyes, blinking out Morse code or something: H-E-L-P!
“So, dear,” Moira said. I shifted back in my seat. “You said that you may know something about what happened to my grandson.”
She wanted her quid pro quo. She wanted information in exchange for the access she’d granted us—and for the cookies and milk, of course. I took a bite of a cookie, giving myself time to think. “Well,” I said, wiping my lips. “We were all in the same class.”
“English,” Elaine said.
“Our teacher, Miss Martins. She and Cleve had a quarrel of some sort, an ongoing squabble.”
Elaine’s eye sockets seemed to sink deeper into her face, her damp eyes glittering.
Moira said, “What sort of squabble?”
It was much more than a squabble, but following Judy’s example, I wasn’t going to offer the Closses everything I knew. I wasn’t going to mention the bicycle attack. “Maybe it was about a grade or something.”
“Well,” Moira said, “Cleve could be volatile, like many young men.”
“Capricious,” Elaine said with a touch of bitterness, even spitefulness, “like his father.” That shocked me a little. I got the sense that under Elaine’s grief, there was something else. Resentment, or even anger.
“Where is Mr. Closs?” I asked.
“Nowhere, everywhere,” Elaine groaned and let her chin fall forward. The puppet’s string was now severed.
“He’s making funeral arrangements,” Moira said and, shifting her tone, added, “Would you like another cookie before you go?”
“Thank you, but I should check on Judy.” We needed to leave.
“We’re going to have to end this visit soon,” Moira said. “As you can see, Elaine needs her nap.”
I stood and, to Elaine, said, “I didn’t—we didn’t mean to tire you out.”
To her lap, she said, “Don’t worry, dear.”
I excused myself to the hall.
The murky corridor was lit with sconces. Judy was at the far end, inspecting something on the wall. I went to her and whispered, “We’ve overstayed our welcome.”
“Look,” she said, pointing to a photo among a collage of family photos. It was a black-and-white of Elaine Closs. She was much younger, perhaps in her late teens or early twenties. She was in tennis whites, standing in the middle of a groomed lawn. She held a badminton racket in her right hand—I’ve played once or twice, but because of my lousy coordination, I couldn’t hit the birdie. To Elaine’s right were trimmed hedges, a stone bench, and the street curb; in the background, a net on poles and a blurry figure, her opponent, who looked to be another young woman in white. Elaine was fresh-faced and beaming, not a trace of foreboding. However, her green eyes seemed to emerge from the
grays of the photo, as if the black-and-white film couldn’t resist their color.
“We’ve got to go,” I said. “Come on.” I didn’t want to run the risk of angering the Closses and unleashing the strange energy they possessed.
“And there,” she said, pointing to another photo. “That must be Mr. Closs, Cleve’s dad.”
This photo was a wedding photo, also a black-and-white. Elaine wore a brimless hat with large silk rosettes (which from the angle of the picture looked like Mickey Mouse ears), a floor-length white gown, and white gloves up to her elbows. Beside her, in a dark, double-breasted suit, was Mr. Closs, a handsome man in his twenties with an angular jaw, a broad smile, and a slick of thick blond hair. Etched at the bottom of the frame was “The Happy Couple, H E, 1931.” They were a striking pair and, from the look of it, in good spirits. My father has a similar photo of my mother and him; they also look so happy, so in love.
“He looks artificial,” Judy said.
“They seem good together,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. “We need to go.”
“I want to meet him,” she said.
“Girls?” Moira was at the end of the hall in silhouette, her cape swaying. “Elaine needs a rest,” she said, drifting closer. “Thank you for dropping in.” Her voice was low. The perfume of sociability had burned off.
“Of course,” I said, forcing a smile. I started down the hall, but Judy didn’t budge.
“When will Mr. Closs be home?” she said. My heart skipped a beat. Judy clearly didn’t like Moira Closs—and she wasn’t concealing it.
Moira stepped forward, light falling on her meticulously applied makeup and shapely updo. Her eyes, bright and forceful, scrutinized us. She hadn’t been fooled; she knew we had ulterior motives. “Not for a while.”
I grabbed Judy’s arm and pulled her after me, saying, “Thank you for the cookies,” as we blundered out the door.
JUDY, OCTOBER 27, 1948
Philippa is the type of person who thinks the world is basically a good place, who’s blind to the danger of someone like Moira Closs. It’s not her fault. I’ve been through hell and back, from Crestwood to the Peabodys to Eastern High’s social gauntlet. Philippa grew up without her mother, so that gives her some… texture. There’s an empty place in her life, but she knows where she came from and who her parents are (or were). My point is: She knows who she is. I can’t remember entire periods of my childhood; years have been stripped away like a poorly peeled wheat paste poster.
That’s why, once we’d left the Closses, I snapped at her: “Don’t ever do that again!” I was standing in front of her, and the red maple was blazing behind her. “I’ll go when I’m ready to go.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she said, meekly. “But Moira—she insisted.”
We walked on in silence. I wondered if I’d been too harsh. After all, she’d just learned that her aunt is sick with cancer. “Okay,” I said, softening my voice. “But don’t be scared of the Closses. Don’t be scared of anything. If we’re going to do this, to find out what happened, we can’t be afraid.”
“I know,” she said, showing a little temper.
“I’ve seen Moira Closs before,” I said. “She’s attended several of B and E’s parties. She and Bart know each other somehow. They run in the same circles.”
“Hmm.”
“When I was snooping, I searched the bathroom and found a cabinet full of pills and syrups, most of them for sleeping, and all of them prescribed for Elaine. Some of the bottles were old, caps crusted over. She must’ve been a nervous Nellie long before Cleve was killed.”
We trampled across the fallen leaves, and Philippa stared gloomily at the sidewalk. Without looking up, she said, “Why did you lie about where you saw Cleve on Thursday?”
“I don’t trust them, especially Queen Closs. She’s a viper.”
“In chinchilla’s clothing,” Philippa said, enjoying her joke a little too much. She glanced up. “Speaking of clothing—your top, it’s ruined.” She reached out, grazing my breast, and touched the red spot on my blouse.
Flustered, I batted her hand away. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I hope it’s not an omen,” she said with a wry twist of her lip.
I inspected the stains. “Bullet holes or stab wounds?” I said. “What do you think?”
Philippa smirked. “Bullet holes. You’re a bullet hole kind of girl.”
PHILIPPA, OCTOBER 27, 1948
When I returned home this evening, I wasn’t greeted with the warm smell of pot roast or fresh-baked bread, or Dad in his chair with a whiskey at his side and the evening newspaper in his hand. Not even the radio was warbling out a tune, some Peggy Lee number. Instead, Dad and Bonnie were seated at the kitchen table, their eyes shaded with anger, silent. After a beat, Dad stood, his chair scuffing against the linoleum. “Where have you been?” he said.
Bonnie smacked her lips in disapproval.
I was baffled. I didn’t understand what was the matter. “I’ve been with Judy,” I said. “Am I late for something?”
“Principal Green called us,” Dad said. “You and Judy pulled a prank on his secretary, and most likely you’ll be suspended.”
I’m such an idiot! Of course there were consequences! I don’t know why I blotted it out. When I took Mrs. Whitlow to the scene of Ramona’s “accident,” I feigned confusion: “Where did she go? She was just here, a bloody mess. What happened?” Mrs. Whitlow gave me a peculiar look like I was out of focus, or she hadn’t quite caught what I said. I should’ve understood then that I’d—that we’d—be in trouble.
“Tomorrow morning, Bonnie will take you to meet with Principal Green and apologize,” Dad said, his mouth creased with disappointment. His eyes lingered on me, and their pained, brow-heavy glare dug into me, churning up shame, even a smidge of remorse. “This isn’t the way a young woman behaves, especially not one with as much sense as you,” he said. “These are schoolgirl antics.”
I was embarrassed, but not for having tricked Mrs. Whitlow (that was necessary) or even for having been caught (that was unavoidable), but for not being prepared for the consequences, for not having a plan.
“It’s so unlike you,” Bonnie said, shaking her head. “You’ve never been a prankster. Always a good girl.”
Her naivete annoyed me—I’m not a “good girl,” whatever that is!—and I almost snapped at her. But I needed to do something to break the tension, not crank it up, so, thinking like Judy, I lied: “Ramona Carmichael put us up to it. She said if we didn’t trick Mrs. Whitlow, she’d say we’d cheated on our poetry tests.”
Dad’s expression remained hard, and it was still wilting me. I didn’t want him to think I was a bad girl or whatever Bonnie was implying. What can I say? I’m susceptible to his judgment, even when he doesn’t have the full story. I had to appeal to his sympathy, so using what little I know about acting, I tapped into an unrelated event, the news of Sophie’s illness, and summoned tears.
“Why would the Carmichael girl want to do that to you?” he said, his tone a shade lighter, although still unconvinced.
“She’s a queen bee.” Which is essentially true.
His shoulders loosened, and he dropped his chin, but he wasn’t entirely thawed. “That’s no excuse. Don’t give girls like that the satisfaction. Ignore them. Don’t let them pull your strings.”
This was a lecture for a girl half of my age. “I know,” I said, wiping away my crocodile tears.
“She won this round,” he said. “Don’t let it happen again.”
“I was foolish.”
“Well,” he said. “You’ve learned something.”
During dinner, he told me that, in addition to the school’s punishment, I had to be home by nightfall all week. As soon as he excused me, I phoned Judy. We needed to get our story straight before we were questioned by Green.
Fortunately, her parents weren’t home, so she hadn’t been forced to tell a story that would conflict with mine. “Barty-boy is getting
smashed at the club,” she said, “and Ol’ E is at a Daughters of the American Revolution meeting.”
I imagined Edith in a room full of women in long bustled dresses and lace bonnets armed with muskets and frying pans.
“Your lie,” she said, “it was smart.”
PHILIPPA, OCTOBER 28, 1948
What a relief! Principal Green wasn’t the sanctimonious scold I thought he’d be. I’d feared being talked down to more than being punished. He “sentenced” me to two days of suspension and asked me to write an apology to Mrs. Whitlow. He didn’t quite believe that Ramona was a queen bee with a barbed stinger, but he didn’t challenge me either. He must’ve sensed an air of truth to it.
Once home again, Bonnie suggested that we fix Dad lunch and deliver it. She hated for us to be at odds as if somehow it meant she was failing at her job of harmony-making homemaker. Anyway, we threw together ham and mustard sandwiches, whipped up potato salad, grabbed a ginger ale from the refrigerator, and stuffed it all in a gingham-lined basket.
It was chilly out, and the sky was bright blue through the tree limbs. To be honest, I felt as if I were playing hooky instead of being punished. Less energized by the cold weather, Bonnie had buttoned her coat up to the collar and scrunched her shoulders up to her ears. Judy was probably wrapped in a big sweater on top of Hill Estates, smoking cigarettes and staring at the same sky.
We crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and made our way down 8th Street, at the end of which stood Latrobe Gate, the dignified entrance to the Navy Yard, shining white in the sun. Although I want to be a writer when I graduate college, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be a JAG like Dad and prosecute Japanese war criminals for the Navy War Crimes Office. I’d like to be someone who commanded that sort of respect. Of course, he probably wouldn’t approve of that either.
After a streetcar rattled by, we approached the gate, checked in at the guard station, and made our way through a courtyard, up a flight of stairs, and down a long squeaky linoleum hall. Dad greeted us and showed us into his office. It was clean and spare, except for a desk, file cabinets, two potted rubber plants, a photo of President Truman, American and US Navy flags on staves, and photos of Bonnie and me on his desk. He took his lunch, and we all sat. He seemed stiff, even a touch nervous.
The Savage Kind Page 13
