Iron House

by John Hart

  “Suppose he doesn’t care for the man I’ve become?”

  Abigail smiled and pressed her palms on his chest.

  “You’re an artist and exceptionally kind. You’re a wonderful son. A fine man.”

  “Does he know I take medicine? That I’m, you know…”

  “He knows.” She nodded, her fingers again on his tie. “He understands.”

  Julian caught her hands, and felt words tunnel from some deep place. “What if he hates me?”

  His fingers tightened on hers, but she laughed the question off. “He’s your brother, and he loves you. He’s family.”

  Julian nodded, though she had to be wrong. “You’re probably right.”

  “I know I am.”

  He stepped away, looked in the mirror and saw eyes that were too naked for the world outside. Michael would look into them and see all the way down. “Does this suit look okay? I could wear the navy with chalk stripes.” She studied him, pensive, and he said, “What do you think?”

  “I think you shouldn’t try so hard. The suit. The expensive shoes.” She cupped his face, kissed him on the forehead. “He’s your brother, Julian. Be yourself, and don’t worry so much.”

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  “Smile for me, now.” She waited for the smile, then wiped an imaginary smudge from his cheek. “Ten minutes. I’ll meet you out front.”

  She left, and Julian watched his smile fall apart. In the mirror, he was tall and thin and perfectly dressed; but that’s not what he saw. He saw the boy who’d put a knife in Hennessey’s throat and let his brother take the blame, the same boy Michael would see, the weakling and the failure, the child he’d been. He swallowed past a lump in his throat, then took off the suit and hung it in the closet. His arms were thin, his chest bony. He felt guilt for all the wonderful things in his room, for the mother and the money and all the other things Michael had lost when he took the knife and ran into the snow. He felt guilt for his life, then sat on the bed and hugged himself as small certainties crumbled like sand. “Make me like Michael,” he said. “Make me strong.”

  But in the mirror he was pale and weak and small.

  “Please don’t let him hate me…”

  He listened for an echo in his mind, but heard only silence.

  “Please, God…”

  He put on jeans and tucked in a shirt.

  “Please don’t let him hate me.”

  * * *

  Jessup drove them to a small park forty miles from the estate. It was anonymous, he said, a good place to meet far from prying eyes. “You guys okay back there?”

  “We’re fine,” Abigail said.

  But Julian’s mouth was dry; his hands itched. “Are we late?”

  “Right on time.” Jessup turned into the park, and followed a narrow lane to a shady place with benches and tables and views of a lake. Julian saw a car parked by itself, a man alone by the hood.

  “Is that him?”

  “It is,” Abigail said.

  They drew close, and Michael stepped out to meet them. Julian took his mother’s hand. “Will you come with me?”

  “This is for you and Michael.”

  Julian peered out. “He looks stern.”

  She smiled and said, “He always looks like that.”

  Julian hesitated, terrified. “I’m frightened,” he said.

  “Don’t be.”

  “But what if…?” The words trailed off, and he heard the rest in silence.

  What if he hates me?

  What if he looks into my soul and simply leaves?

  “Have faith.” She squeezed his hand. “Be strong.”

  Julian took a deep breath, then opened the door and stepped out as if onto another planet. Colors were too bright, the sun like a palm on his cheek. Michael looked tall and broad, and Julian studied the lines on his face as they walked toward each other. He looked for reason to hope, for something to take the great, giant weight off his chest. When they were two feet away, Michael said, “Hello, Julian.”

  A vacuum opened in Julian’s head and sucked away every clear thought he had. Michael looked the same, but different. Slight stubble covered his cheeks and his eyes were very bright. His hands were large and twitched once as Julian looked for words and failed.

  “I…”

  His voice was a bare whisper, but Michael nodded, the clean lines of his brow coming down, eyes softening. Julian saw then how he would draw him, a square-shouldered man with one hand rising up, head tilted slightly down as he said, “It’s okay.”

  Michael stepped closer.

  “I’m sorry,” Julian said.

  Michael’s hand settled on the back of Julian’s neck. He was shaking his head, but smiling. “For what?”

  “I’m so sorry…”

  Then the arms wrapped Julian up. He felt heat and strength—his brother—and there was no anger in him. His cheek was rough on Julian’s, something warm and wet. “It’s okay,” Michael said.

  He was crying.

  “We’re okay.”

  * * *

  They met again the next day, and the day after that. They sat in the sun and talked, and it was a strange thing for both of them. So many years had passed; so many things had changed. But they were brothers, so they found their path. They talked and they grew and their time apart seemed less monumental. Michael didn’t tell Julian everything about his life—not the killing, not yet—but he opened up about Elena and the baby, spoke with great truth about the things that truly mattered.

  “You still haven’t heard from her?”

  “Not yet, no.”

  There was pain there, raw and deep. “I might be in love, too,” Julian said.

  Michael looked across the park to where Abigail sat at a picnic table with Victorine Gautreaux. They, too, were trying, but the struggle was hard to watch. A gulf still existed between them, but occasionally they laughed. “Tell me about her,” Michael said.

  They were sitting on a bench in the same park. Shade made the place cool, and children played across the lawn. Julian watched a small boy kick a ball, then said, “She’s a lot like us.”

  “Screwed up?”

  Julian laughed awkwardly. “Yeah.”

  Michael nudged him with a shoulder, smiled. “The poor girl.”

  “Are you serious?”

  Julian looked worried, so Michael shook his head. “She’s beautiful and strong. She knows what she wants.”

  “I’d like to marry her, I think.”

  Michael looked at the girl, saw cold blue eyes and the careful mask that hid her fear. He thought of her childhood, and what he knew of Abigail’s. “You should do that,” he said.

  “Yeah?”

  He nodded, certain. “You should do that soon.”

  * * *

  Those times in the park were the best parts of Michael’s day. Afterward, he would return to the hotel and stare for long hours at his silent phone. Abigail had asked him twice to stay at the house, but he’d declined, pleading the need for discretion. But that was only part of it. He needed time to be alone, time to miss his woman and mourn.

  Jessup called once, and asked to meet. “Abigail doesn’t know,” he said. “This is just me talking.”

  “Where?” Michael asked.

  They met in a parking lot halfway between the estate and Chapel Hill. Jessup was in the Land Rover; Michael slid into the front seat beside him. “How’s Julian?” he asked.

  “Better, I think. You’ve seen him.”

  “He puts on a strong face.”

  “You should see him with Victorine, though. She’s hard and opinionated and ignorant about a million things—but she’s smart and fierce and unbelievably talented. She’s good for him. They fit in a way that’s satisfying to watch.”

  Michael nodded because that was his read, too. One was strong, the other less so. Both damaged, both artists. “How about you and Abigail?”

  “There’s a wall between us,” Jessup said.

  “You shoul
d tear it down.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Tear it down,” Michael said. “Don’t wait. Just do it. Talk to her. Tell her.”

  “Look, this is not really why I called you.”

  “I’m sure it’s not.”

  “Abigail asked me to go through some of the senator’s effects. Papers, files she lacked the heart for. I found some things you might be interested in.”

  “For instance?”

  “The senator had the autopsy report on the girl that drowned all those years ago.”

  “Christina?”

  “Christina Carpenter, yes. He had the report in his private safe. It turns out she’d had an abortion the day before she died. The cops kept it quiet, but the senator knew.”

  “And didn’t tell Abigail.”

  “For whatever reason.”

  Michael thought about that: a teenage girl dies the day after an abortion. There was a lot of emotion wrapped up in that simple scenario, a lot of tension, too. “Was Julian the father?”

  “Blood type was inconsistent. I don’t know. Maybe she drowned herself on purpose. She was a kid with religious parents and an unplanned pregnancy. Maybe Julian tried to save her but couldn’t.”

  “It would explain the skin under his nails, why he was wet…”

  “And why he couldn’t remember anything. It would have been traumatic.”

  “Maybe the senator was the father.”

  “That could explain why he kept the autopsy records. Hell, maybe the senator killed her.”

  Michael lingered over another possibility. “Maybe Salina did.”

  “Don’t even joke about that.”

  But both men were thinking.

  “You said you had a few things to talk about. What else?”

  “This is just for you, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Jessup glanced away, lips thin and tight.

  “What?” Michael asked.

  “Fuck it.” Jessup pulled a thin file from beside his seat. “This was in the senator’s safe, too.”

  He handed the file over, and Michael opened it. “These are medical records.”

  “Abigail’s.”

  Michael flipped pages, and Jessup said, “I thought you should know how badly she wanted to bring you boys home.”

  The comment made little sense, but then it did. “She had a tubal ligation.”

  “Shortly after she married. She never told the senator.”

  “But he found out,” Michael said.

  “He had the file, yes. I suspect he figured it out right before they moved into separate bedrooms. Whether he confronted her, I don’t know.”

  “She told me they were unable to conceive.”

  “That’s what she told the world. It’s how she convinced him to adopt.”

  Michael closed the file, and Jessup took it from numb fingers.

  “She wanted to bring you boys home, Michael. She wanted to make you safe and whole and loved.”

  * * *

  The next time they met, it was just the three of them—Michael and Julian and Abigail—and it was strange how much that corner of shade and grass felt like their special place in the world. They sat at the same table under the same tree, and saw children that looked familiar. Words came easier; responses were less guarded. Yet, a subtle unease persisted, and Michael wondered if the problem was his alone. He glanced at Abigail, who looked rested but not quite at peace. He wanted to tell her that he knew the truth, to offer forgiveness for the way she’d left them and thank her for the things she’d done. Maybe that would afford her a measure of respite, a path to clearer skies. But Abigail made a good mother to Julian, and Julian made a good son. Michael saw respect and love and comfort. Dragging out the truth would help nobody, so he let the truth lie. He enjoyed this moment in the sun, and left Arabella Jax where she belonged, unspoken of and unloved, quietly rotting in the small shack the three of them had once known as children.

  They took a brief walk along the shore, and Michael felt healing in his leg. As the day wore on, they returned to the table and had white wine in plastic cups, though a sign at the entrance declared it against the rules. Julian fretted and fussed and worried about cops, all of which made Abigail laugh and Michael smile. When the bottle was nearly empty, Michael caught Abigail’s eye, and said, “I heard about the senator’s will.” She tried to interrupt, but Michael held up a hand. “I have plenty of money. It’s yours.”

  She took his hand and smiled. “That’s kind of you, but unnecessary.”

  “But the paper said you could only take jewelry and personal effects…”

  Abigail laughed, and the sound was pure joy. “Oh, Michael. My jewelry alone appraises at twelve million dollars, and the art Randall gave me is worth twice that. The house in Charlotte is in my name, the house in Aspen.” She shook her head. “Randall was not as bad as the papers made him sound. We were in love once, and that mattered to both of us. He indulged me, made investments in my name. That reminds me. I have something for you boys.”

  She fished in the wine basket and came out with two small boxes that were elegantly wrapped. She handed one to Michael, the other to Julian. “Open.”

  Michael thumbed off the ribbon and tore the paper. Inside the box was a cigarette lighter made of gold and platinum. His name was engraved on the side. Julian had a similar one. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a keepsake,” Abigail said. “A reminder.”

  “Of what?”

  “New beginnings.”

  Michael looked at Julian, and she smiled because no one understood.

  “Randall gave me another gift,” she said. “When the orphanage closed, he bought it for me. The buildings, the grounds. All of it.”

  “But why?” Michael asked.

  “Partly because I wanted to keep Andrew Flint close. Mostly, I wanted to own it in case this day ever came.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  She gestured at the lighter Michael held. “Turn it over.”

  He did as she asked. The other side was engraved, too.

  Iron House

  “Burn it.” She reached across the table, took both their hands. “Burn it to the ground, and then let it go.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Andrew Flint was gone when they got to Iron House. The gate stood wide, the old house empty. When Michael told Julian about Billy Walker, he found his brother strangely silent. He stood by the patched door and gazed up at the third-floor corner room in which they’d lived. “Flint had all your books,” Michael said. “I think he read them to Billy.”

  “It’s not why I wrote them.”

  “I know it’s not.”

  “I wrote them to teach children about evil, not for evil children to read them.”

  “I don’t think Billy’s evil anymore.”

  A light breeze ruffled the grass, and Julian closed his eyes as dusk gathered in the valley. It was very silent where they stood, just wind and the slow churn of memory. “They’re really dead.”

  He meant Ronnie Saints, George Nichols and Chase Johnson. Michael stripped a tall weed from the ground. “Dead and gone.”

  Julian opened his eyes and they caught a glint of red sun. “Do you know how they died, Michael?”

  Julian was thinking about the boathouse, about the memory fragments still buried in his mind. He saw Abigail kill Ronnie Saints. But was it real or delusion? That’s what he really wanted to know. Michael thought for less than half a second, then rolled his shoulders and said, “I don’t think it really matters.”

  And he believed that. Because Michael’s job was still to protect his brother; because what Jessup had said was right.

  We can all live with doubts.

  It’s the knowing that breaks us.

  “I’m sorry I killed Hennessey.”

  Michael put his arm around Julian’s neck and said, “Fuck that kid. He was a dick.”

  “Yeah?”

  Michael squeezed tight and sai
d, “Julian, my brother, I think it’s time to build a very large fire.”

  They made their way to the front door. Michael used the key Abigail had given him. “Do you want to see anything first? Our room? Anything?”

  “Why?”

  Michael liked that answer, because it was damn good. Because it fit the man Julian needed to be. They went to the subbasement so the place would burn from the bottom up. They piled boxes and busted furniture and bundles of rotted cloth. They put on everything they could find, until the pile was so tall they had to throw stuff to get it on top. “That’s what I’m talking about,” Michael said.

  The mound rose eight feet and was another ten feet wide at the base. Stepping back, breath short, Julian stared for a long time, then asked, “Do you remember what old man Dredge told me?”

  “Sunlight and silver stairs?” Michael asked.

  “Doors to better places.”

  “I remember.”

  Julian struggled for a moment, then asked, “Do you think there are such things?”

  “Doors to better places?” Michael flattened his palm and showed the lighter. “I think we’re going to make one right now. Do you have your lighter?”

  Julian pulled it warm from his pocket, a scared, delighted grin on his face. “We’re really doing this.”

  “You want to go first?” Michael asked.

  “Together.”

  Michael bent, Julian three feet away. “Wouldn’t it be funny if she forgot to put in lighter fluid?”

  Julian laughed, and they lit the fire that would bring Iron House down. Flames licked up piled boxes and they moved for the door as it reached the ceiling. They stood for a full minute, watching as Julian turned the lighter in his fingers, then slipped it into his pocket. “Do you feel anything?” Michael asked.

  “I feel warm.”

  “Are you being funny?”

  “All kinds of warm.”

  They watched until it was too hot to stay, then made their way up and out, drove to the high, metal gate, then got out of the car to watch yellow fingers stroke the basement glass. “Soon,” Michael said, and Julian touched the place above his heart.

  “Mom should have come.”