One of them I recognized. She’d come with Carly a few times in the past year or so to visit Truman in his room and she’d seemed friendly, if aloof, as all kids were at that age unless they really knew you, as Carly did us. Unlike the other kids they walked with less energy, as if their discussion had some weight instead of the conversations of destinations to meet to do what? fuck? smoke weed? somehow get high? For a moment they stopped in a part of the parking lot where cars had already begun to exit and stood talking.
I watched Carly closely to see if she smiled or laughed, but she didn’t, or at least from this distance. She was lingering longer than I’d hoped and I was beginning to wonder if security people or other students would see me as some pedophile with my car running and my face eclipsed by shadow and sun glare, waiting for the ideal girl to climb into a car so I could follow her. The parking lot was emptying and it struck me that Carly might recognize the Engroff Lexus and come and confront me, asking what I was doing in the parking lot lurking around.
None of that happened, though. After a few more minutes Carly turned to go and then turned back in a final gesture and put her hand on the arm of the girl I’d recognized, the girl with curly black hair, as I’d seen her do so many times with Truman, and I felt a swirl of emotion that settled in my heart and I felt, as I did so often now, the greatest weight of sadness.
Finally, Carly walked to her car, threw her book bag into the back and then climbed into the front seat, sweeping the bottom of her short skirt behind her so it wouldn’t ride up. I waited until she drove out of the lot and onto the school road, passing the tennis courts, which were now crowded with boys ready to start practice, before I pulled out at the further end of the lot and followed behind. She made the left heading for town rather than heading the opposite direction, which would have led to my house and her own. I stayed behind her at a safe distance, but close enough to see if she’d turn left to go into the main part of town or right to go up the hill toward the town athletic fields and a park above the fields. She made the right.
There is less than a mile before the road splits and goes over railroad tracks, and Carly veered left toward the park. I pulled back safely, knowing she was heading for George Manner Park. Actually, Persia had originally been called Manner, but he had owned property in Virginia as well and at some early point it was discovered he’d owned slaves, so the town changed its name to Pershing, after John J. Pershing. But then the town fathers, thinking too many things were named after old Black Jack, shortened it to Persia and there it stayed. Why the park never had its name changed I don’t know.
I pulled into the park slowly and saw the BMW parked between two other cars, both late-model station wagons, both with child car seats in the back. Carly was no longer in her car and I took a cursory glance at the park to see if she was visible. She was not. I parked on the opposite side of the parking lot and climbed out of the car and into the heat. The trees were across the other end of parked cars and I scanned them where I knew there were benches interspersed. The sun beat down on me and I felt a wave of nausea. I needed a glass of beer to settle my stomach.
I began to walk toward the trees and then I saw her. She was sitting on the grass under a tree. I knew the ground was still wet from the amount of rain we’d had, so I thought immediately of her legs and rear getting damp, but as I got closer I saw she was sitting on a blanket. It made me think her being here was premeditated, and also that she may have been doing this often lately. I walked to a corner of the tree line beyond the lower parking lot, so she wouldn’t see me. I wanted to wait and see if she were waiting for someone else. Meeting someone who may also have been involved in Truman’s death.
I was certain she was waiting for someone, because she didn’t seem to have an iPod or anything with her, or at least wasn’t using one, nor was she reading a book or magazine. She just sat there in the shade, her face flushed from the warmth of the day. So many times I’d sat and watched her as she grew up next to Truman. We’d all loved each other so long it seemed almost impossible she was somehow responsible for his death, but I knew now, instinctively, that she was.
I’d gone over it in my mind countless times since Frank Rodenbaugh had talked to me, and I knew just from the way he’d described Carly and the change in her, I knew she was somehow involved. I’d thought about when I saw her at the funeral and at the memorial service, how she’d hung back and waited her turn to come to us. That wasn’t like Carly. She was part of us; she’d been part of Truman. The Carly I knew would’ve come forward and stood next to us whether she’d been invited or not. Even at the time I’d thought that was odd. But either I’d been too occupied with grief, or too distracted, or had attributed it to her own grief and her own callowness.
Rethinking it, though, I remembered the kind of person Carly had always been. Almost from the beginning she would march into our house as if it were her own, kicking off her shoes on the way, and walk up to Truman’s room, eat dinner with us without an invitation, open the refrigerator or go to the pantry if she was hungry. She walked into my study and sat in the large leather chair I had facing my desk and read without asking if she could impose and after a while I didn’t expect her to ask. Instead I just expected to hear the sound of her padding on the carpet while I enjoyed a martini, her unceremonious plop as she nestled into the chair and began reading, looking over the top of her novel to smile once before she nuzzled her shoulders back into the comfort of my chair.
If she was away more than two days and Truman was unwilling to communicate her whereabouts, Amy would call to see if she was sick or angry with Tru.
But then it changed when they reached high school, and she began to come over less and less. We had to adjust to that and we did. She was growing into a breathtakingly beautiful girl and it was then that I ached for Truman, ached for his inability to yearn for her, yearn for her as even I did in fleeting moments, longing to touch the skin of her arm or brush my lips against the down on her neck. I won’t apologize for that, because most men my age, in the middle of their lives, experience the same longings. Of course, those ephemeral moments of desire were entwined with the desire I had that Truman would want her and eventually live with her, as we all expected, until it gradually became clear that our Truman wasn’t marrying Carly, or any girl for that matter. None. Ever.
After ten minutes of watching Carly not even look beyond the small circle of where she was sitting, I decided to walk to her. I crossed a small dirt path and then grass that already needed to be cut this early in the spring. I watched her as I approached, but she never looked up, and I assumed from that that she was meeting no one and it relieved me. Finally, though, she did look up, and at first I don’t think she recognized me, and again, I assumed, she wasn’t expecting me and she hadn’t seen me since the funeral. But then she stood and without a word ran to me and put her arms around me. I didn’t know how to respond and because of that I returned the hug. She pulled back from me and looked at me carefully, a typical Carly thing to do.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, her voice full of emotion. She looked around as if this were the first time she’d seen the place. “I come here often after school. I come here…” But then she stopped and put her soft hand on my cheek. “Why are you here? I mean, I can’t believe I’m finally seeing you, Ethan.”
“I came to see you.”
I kept my voice as level as I could. I felt a horrible tug. I wanted her voice and her Carlyness to blanket me. It felt so perfect to see her, as if her sudden touch and her body next to mine could bring Truman inside this circle. But also I wanted to take my hands and wrap them around her throat and squeeze the air from her until she told me who it was who killed my boy.
“How did you know I was here?”
She smiled brightly, and it made the resolve of my anger diminish. I suddenly remembered the time we had to put Truman’s dog down when his back legs gave out, and as we held him in the vet’s office, his face full of joy that he was getting s
o much attention all at once, we were helping to kill him. Truman couldn’t be consoled for a month.
“I followed you.”
She looked confused for a minute and then she took my hand and brought me to the trunk of the tree. She sat without folding her plaid skirt first and, still holding my hand, pulled me so that I sat down beside her. I was wearing linen pants I’d specially chosen to make it look as if it were not a casual encounter, and I could feel the damp on my ass. She put her hand on my knee as leverage and put her face to my cheek and kissed me again. But just as suddenly as she did that she pulled away and put her hands to her face. I could see that she was sobbing and I waited for her to stop.
Carly had always been capable of histrionics and she and Truman had both used it with Amy and me to much effect in the past. Finally she looked up at me, her face tear stained.
“I’m sorry. I smelled you and I thought of Truman.” She let out a short laugh. “You always smelled similar. Now I don’t like it.”
She forced a smile again and then put her hand on my arm.
“Why did you follow me?”
“You don’t know?” I asked.
She wrinkled her face. “No.” But then she smiled. “Yes, I do. My father talked to you and he told me you wanted to see me. He told you how much I miss you and Amy and he thought and you thought it would be a good idea if we saw each other.” She smiled brightly and once again put her hand on my knee.
I put my hand out in front of her to stop her from saying anything more, and then I made an attempt to conjure once again her father next to me and what he’d said about Tommy Beck and her.
“You know who killed Truman.”
I looked at her to see her reaction.
“What are you talking about, Ethan?” She took her hand off my leg.
“Tommy Beck killed my son. You were there.”
She looked out at the park in the direction of the parking lot. I waited for her to deny it. If she did, I didn’t know what I’d do next.
“Why would you say such a thing to me, Ethan? I was just now so glad to see you. I’ve needed you and Amy so badly. I can’t think half the time since Truman was killed.”
I stood and looked down at her. “Let me ask you something, Carly. Why did your father tell me that since Truman was killed you won’t talk to Tommy Beck? He calls all the time, your father told me this! But you won’t answer the phone, you won’t respond to him. Why is that, Carly?”
She looked up at me and shook her head. She didn’t say anything for a moment and I saw tears begin to come down her cheeks.
Finally she said, “I don’t want anything to do with Tommy anymore. He used to make fun of Truman when he and I were still together. He was so jealous of him. I didn’t like it then, but then Truman was alive. Truman could take care of himself. But when Truman was killed…then I couldn’t stand even looking at Tommy. Tommy was the kind of person who hated Truman for who Truman was. For being gay.”
She stood too and put her hand on my arm. I didn’t pull away even though I wanted to.
“Why didn’t we ever talk about that, Ethan? Why did the three of us—you, me, and Amy—never say a word to each other about who Truman was?”
She laughed and it came out like a sob. The sun touched her blond hair and I thought how beautiful a girl she was. And then I thought that Truman would have never been with her. She would’ve gone on with her life without Truman being part of it, or on the periphery of it, even if someone hadn’t killed him.
“It’s not something people have to talk about. Plus we didn’t know.”
“Yes we did. He told me he told you when he was thirteen. He knew even then and I knew also.”
She looked at me and the intensity of her green eyes confused me. Suddenly I wasn’t sure anymore about why I was here. Had I become as delusional as Amy? Had I begun to manufacture ideas about Truman’s death that just weren’t there? How could I possibly think that Carly could be remotely responsible for this monstrosity? If she knew anything, she would’ve told her father or the police or us. She loved Truman.
“I don’t know why we didn’t talk about it. That’s not the point here, though.”
“What is the point then? You want to tell me that I knew something about Truman’s death and I haven’t told anyone. I kept that part a secret.” She got closer to me so that I could feel the heat of her breath and see the emotion in her eyes. “Or did you come here to tell me I killed Truman? Is that why you followed me here?”
I put my hand on her shoulder and I felt the muscles in it tense. “I don’t know why I came here. I thought I did. I thought…I don’t know what I thought except that someone has to know about who killed my son, goddamn it! I want to get back to some sort of order in my life. Amy isn’t there anymore. She’s gone to some place that only she can go. I want Truman back.” I began to sob and I felt her put her arms around me and I felt the closeness of her face to mine.
“Mr. Parachuk asked me questions and so did the FBI,” she whispered. “They came the other day. I wish I could’ve told them something. They asked about Tommy. I told him and them what I’m telling you now. He hated Truman. He hated him because he was gay, but mostly he hated him because I loved him. And now I hate him. There isn’t any more I can tell you than that.”
Maybe it was her closeness and the sweet scent of breath or the fact I’d been drinking for such a long period of time, but suddenly I felt an erection. Carly must’ve felt it too. She froze for a moment, and then she pulled me closer. For a long moment I felt enveloped in the attraction we’d flirted with since she’d become old enough to be not just Carly but also a sexual creature. For a long time she’d wanted me to identify her in that way. After a moment I pulled away from her, almost staggering backward.
“I don’t know why the three of us never talked about it,” I said.
“What?”
“I don’t know why we never talked about Truman being gay. I guess Amy and I weren’t sure if you knew or if you wanted to talk about it. The last few years, we saw less of you. We weren’t sure you wanted to have a discussion like that.” I laughed with the absurdity of where this conversation was going, or was it the absurdity of where I was going? I took Carly’s hands into my own. “I want to ask you a question.”
She nodded.
“Do you think Tommy Beck might’ve had something to do with Truman’s death?
She squeezed my hands tightly. “If he did, it will eventually come out.”
I wondered if I had only imagined she had chosen the words to her answer carefully.
“But you don’t have any firsthand knowledge of that.”
She shook her head. “If I did, Ethan, I would kill him. If I knew who did this, I’d kill them myself.” Her eyes were green fire.
“Did the FBI seem as if they’d learned anything new? I can’t stand to see any of those people anymore.”
“No, they didn’t. Or at least they didn’t say anything to me about what they knew or didn’t know. They were going to question Tommy, I think. They should.”
“What do you mean by that?”
She laughed and released my hands.
“I don’t know what I mean. I mean I never want to speak to him again. I mean,” she stopped and thought for a moment. “I mean he’s the type of person I should’ve never, ever known. I feel like I’m a criminal for knowing him.”
I looked at her to see if there was a meaning in what she’d just said beyond the fact that she found Tommy Beck contemptible.
“Why ‘criminal?’”
“Don’t read something into it that isn’t there, Ethan. I mean Truman warned me so many times about being with him. He knew something it took me his death to realize.”
“Truman warned you to stay away from Tommy?”
“Never overtly. Truman would never do anything like that. No, he just made me feel uncomfortable when I mentioned Tommy. He didn’t want to hear anything about him.”
“Was he jealous of him?�
�� I think the question came out too hopefully.
“Not in the way you probably mean. No, I don’t think so. But maybe he was jealous of his heterosexuality, of the fact that Tommy had so much going for him and he wasted it all on a…I don’t know how to say it.”
“Wasted it on trying to prove something about himself he didn’t have to prove.”
She cocked her head at me and smiled. “Yes, I think that’s right. Truman once said he was always trying too hard to be something he already was. Something like that, anyway.”
“I think he got that from his father. He’s the same way.”
Carly laughed. “He’s such an asshole. Even Tommy knew that.”
I looked around the park. The sun was beginning to take on the slant of late afternoon and I felt the greatest urge to have a whiskey. I thought what a great pleasure it would be to invite this beautiful young woman to have a whiskey with me. To look at her as I once did when she would come tramping into the study and flop herself onto my leather chair and smile brightly at me. I turned and began sobbing again. Standing here with Carly was too much for me, suddenly.
I’d come thinking she’d done something monstrous to my son and now I only felt a longing for her I couldn’t identify. I knew it was entwined with my longing for my son, but there was more to it than that. It had something also to do with some great despair, a void I couldn’t place that had started long ago, much earlier than even Truman’s existence. It was only now I could be honest enough with myself, now that nothing much mattered anymore, that I had longings that never seemed to be sated or quelled.
As I sobbed I looked down at Carly’s legs, the moles that sprinkled her thighs where her skirt had ridden up with the dampness. She stood silent while I finished crying and when I was done she once again put her arms around me and held me tightly.
Beneath the Weight of Sadness Page 23
