The Nobodies Album

by Carolyn Parkhurst

  I can say now that it’s not an experience I’d like to repeat. It was a horrible time, sharp and raw. I just said that writing a book is not like having a child, but here the analogy seems apt: sometimes a quick birth just means the flesh will tear rather than stretch.

  Crybaby Bridge is a dark book, and a bit polarizing; readers either love it or hate it. But when I think about which novel I’m most proud of, which one is me to the greatest degree, that’s the one I always come back to.

  “All right,” says Roland. “Crybaby Bridge it is.”

  I resist my impulse to fill the air with talk—Oh, I hope you like it, and all that. He’ll either like it or he won’t. And it shouldn’t matter to me either way.

  “Are you working on anything new?” Joe asks me.

  I hesitate, looking at Milo. In a way, this is what I’ve been waiting for: a chance to explain … well, to explain what, I’m not sure. That I’m changing my novels—my legacy, if I can be grand enough to call it that—and that in some convoluted way, I’m doing it for him? That I’ve written myself into my books, and I have some kind of overly literal idea that by changing the books, I can write a new ending for myself? I don’t know. But whatever it is I want to say to him, it’s personal. “Not at the moment,” I say lightly.

  Chloe and Lia come back to the table with a banana and a dish of chocolate ice cream. Chloe peels the banana and hands it to Lia. “Four bites,” she says. Lia takes four bites quickly, one after the other, then chews and swallows the mouthful with some difficulty. Chloe nods and hands her a spoon.

  I’ve finished eating, and I pick up my plate and carry it to the sink.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Roland says. He stands and gathers a few other things from the table, places them on the counter next to where I’m standing. “You can just leave that in the sink,” he says. “There’s someone coming in the morning.”

  “I’ll just rinse them,” I say, turning on the water. Roland stands and watches me for a moment, then he smiles slightly. He turns and makes another trip to the table, carries back some wineglasses.

  “Tell me,” I say to him in a low voice. “How’s Milo doing really?”

  He shrugs. “Today was a hard day,” he says. He leans closer and drops his voice. “Bettina’s funeral,” he says.

  I look at him briefly before turning my eyes back to the plates I’m stacking. “Did any of you go?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No. Kathy didn’t want us there.”

  I can’t decide whether to take that as a lie or not. It’s certainly true that he didn’t go to the funeral, in the sense that he didn’t make it past the door.

  “Did you know Bettina well?” I ask.

  “Oh, yeah, I’d known her for years. I was the one who introduced her to Milo, did you know that?”

  I shake my head.

  “New Year’s Eve party, two thousand …” He stops to think. “Two thousand six, it was, or two thousand six turning into two thousand seven. Right in this house.”

  I think about the dates. Christmas 2006 was the last time I’d seen Milo before yesterday. New Year’s Eve would have been just a few days after I hugged him good-bye at the airport, a few days after he went inside to buy the book that would set all the dominoes toppling.

  Roland hands me a glass, and I glance at him, curious suddenly about what his life is like. “When’s the last time you washed dishes?” I ask.

  He laughs softly. “Nineteen seventy-four?”

  We’re quiet for a moment, and then Roland leans in closer. When I look at him, his face is solemn.

  “Listen,” he says. “I don’t know what Milo was going on about yesterday, but I don’t believe for a minute that he killed Bettina.” He shakes his head. “Not a chance.”

  I’m surprised how much of a relief it is to hear someone else say it. “Thank you,” I say. “Really.”

  A flash of motion catches my eye, and I turn to see Lia running toward us across the kitchen, her mouth outlined in sticky swipes of chocolate. She’s taken her shoes off, and she’s wearing tights, and just as I turn, her feet slide on the smooth floor and she falls on her bottom. I see her face, frozen for several seconds in surprise and silent misery until she draws enough breath to cry out, and then her wailing fills the room like a siren.

  I’m the closest, so I bend and pick her up with my wet hands—she’s so light! I’ve held cats that weigh more than this—though it occurs to me too late that she doesn’t really know me and this might make things worse. She struggles for a moment, legs stiff, back arched, and then she collapses into me, pushing her face into my neck as she screams. I rub her back, make gentle shushing sounds, loving the compact weight of her in my arms and thinking about other crying children I’ve held: Milo, forever wiggling out of my grasp; Rosemary, holding on for dear life. I rock Lia gently and make quiet noises into her hair until Chloe reaches us and takes her from me.

  I see Milo watching me with an expression I can’t read, and I turn back to the sink, self-conscious.

  “Sorry,” Chloe says to me. “She’s been a little fragile lately. She can tell something’s going on with the grown-ups.”

  Joe comes over, puts a soothing hand on Lia’s back. He speaks quietly to Chloe. “It’s not just that she can tell. It’s that you told her.”

  “Enough,” Chloe says, her voice low and sharp. “There was no reason to lie. It’s a part of life.”

  Chloe turns away from Joe and walks in circles, slow and swaying, until Lia’s cries get softer. “We should get going, anyway,” she says. She still sounds annoyed. “It’s past her bedtime. Octavia, do you need a ride?”

  “Oh,” I say. I dry my hands on a dish towel. “No, don’t go to the trouble. I can get a cab from here, can’t I?”

  Milo speaks from the table, where he’s still sitting. “I can drive you, Mom.”

  I draw in my breath, my happiness at this small gesture all out of proportion, and duck my head to hide the smile spreading across my face. “Thank you, sweetie,” I say. “But are you sure? Don’t forget …” I think for a second. “‘Milo Frost seen sitting in car outside local hotel.’”

  He shrugs. “Can’t hide in here forever. And there are fewer of them at this hour.”

  Joe has gathered up Chloe’s purse, Lia’s shoes, and the new teddy bear. “Well, have a good night,” he says. “We’ll see you soon.”

  “See you,” I say.

  “Say good-bye,” Chloe says, but Lia is sleepy and still hurt, and she doesn’t want to talk. I touch her hair, dark and tangled, like Milo’s.

  “Good night, little girl,” I say. They leave, and I feel suddenly shy, alone with Roland and Milo.

  “Would you like another glass of wine before you go?” Roland asks me.

  “Sure,” I say. “That would be nice.” I walk back to the table and sit down next to Milo.

  “Where are you staying?” Roland asks as he pours.

  I tell him.

  He sets the glass down in front of me. “You know,” he says, “you’re welcome to just come stay here. We’ve got plenty of room.”

  I take a sip of wine and look at Milo. He’s nodding, but he looks a little stunned. “That would be fine,” he says in a neutral voice.

  I laugh at his politeness and clear lack of enthusiasm. “Well, thanks for the offer. I’ll definitely consider it.” I’m glad to be where I am, and I don’t want to push it.

  “Roland, could you tell me where your bathroom is?” I ask.

  “Of course,” he says. “Go back through the front hall, first door on your left.”

  I walk out of the kitchen and back through the entryway. On my way, I stop to look at a collection of framed photos on a long table by the wall. In most people’s houses you won’t find many familiar faces in this kind of display, but here there are quite a few that I recognize. Roland, young and golden, goofing around with his bandmates from The Misters. A publicity still from the film of Underneath. One of Roland with Lia on his
lap. Several of Roland with other celebrities and public figures: Bob Dylan, Mick Jagger, Bill Clinton. A young Charles and Diana.

  There’s a picture of Milo and Bettina that I pick up to examine more closely: they’re on a jetty paved with cobblestones, water all around. They’re sitting on a curved lip of marble right at the edge, their legs dangling over the water. Wherever they are, it has the look of an ancient ruin, or almost: giant plates of rock stacked into tall irregular piles. There are pipes sticking out here and there—I can’t guess what their function might be. This may be the first time I’ve seen a picture of the two of them where they’re not dressed up for some public event, the first one I’ve seen that might have been snapped not by a tabloid photographer but by a fellow tourist they’ve handed their camera to. They’re holding hands; they look ordinary and serene. Happy.

  There aren’t many faces here that I can’t immediately identify. An old wedding photo from the 1940s or ’50s: Roland’s parents, perhaps? One of Roland standing in a playground, pushing a child in a swing. It’s a little girl, blond, maybe five or six years old. I stare at her face; she’s so familiar to me, and I can’t think why. Then I place her. It’s a child I’ve seen in other photos, just earlier today. It’s Bettina as a little girl.

  Chapter Eleven

  When I get back to the kitchen, I make an excuse about the time change catching up with me, and I ask Milo to take me back to my hotel. Roland repeats his offer to let me stay at the house, and he kisses my cheek before we leave.

  Milo leads me down a flight of steps to a cavernous garage and unlocks an expensive-looking silver sports car.

  “Nice car,” I say.

  “It’s Roland’s. The police haven’t released mine back to me yet.”

  “Oh,” I say. Blood—they’re checking it for blood. “Right.”

  Milo opens the garage door and pulls out into the street. There’s a flurry of lights and camera flashes, but we’re past them quickly.

  “Can they get pictures at night, through the tinted windows?” I ask. “Or will they just get reflections from the glass?”

  Milo laughs humorlessly. “I don’t know,” he says. “We’ll find out tomorrow.”

  It’s not that late, only a little after nine, but I’m exhausted. I yawn, and try to gather some energy.

  “So today was the funeral,” I say.

  I watch his face in the intermittent brightness of the streetlights. He looks defeated.

  “I should’ve been there,” he says. “But even if Kathy hadn’t …” He searches for a word. “… banned me from going, it wouldn’t have been possible.”

  I think about those mourners in their impeccable clothes, their fervor as they listened to Kathy’s words. I imagine how they would have reacted if Milo had walked through the door.

  “I was there,” I say abruptly.

  We come to a stoplight, and he turns to look at me. “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “I mean, I went to the funeral.”

  “Why?” His voice is almost suspicious.

  I hesitate. “Because you couldn’t, I guess. Because I wanted to know more about Bettina.” Because I don’t believe you murdered her, I don’t say, and I thought that being able to piece together stories made me some kind of detective. Because I’m your mother, and I wanted to know if they were saying unkind things about you.

  “Well, you didn’t get inside, did you? I’m sure they weren’t just letting anybody in.”

  “I ran into an old friend, who was a guest. She got me in.”

  He glances at me, baffled, as if he can’t even figure out what question to ask first.

  “Only you, Mom,” he says. He rubs his eyes like he has a headache.

  I’m not sure what he means by that, and I choose not to interpret it.

  He shakes his head, still looking bewildered. “Did Kathy recognize you? Your picture’s been everywhere lately.”

  “No. I managed to keep a low profile.”

  “Well, that’s good. I hope no one else did either.”

  “I don’t think anyone did,” I say. My voice is a little rough. I’m feeling chastened, though I don’t think I did anything wrong.

  “Okay.” He gives up trying to figure out the details. “How was it?”

  “It was nice,” I say guardedly. “There were a lot of pictures of Bettina. She was certainly a beautiful girl.”

  He nods. The light outside the car catches the stubble on his chin and upper lip. I hope his lawyer will tell him to shave before any court appearances. I wonder if he should cut his hair, too; it’s almost to his shoulders, though maybe no one cares about that anymore.

  “Her mother spoke,” I say. I’m sure he’s going to hear about this soon enough anyway. “She’s starting a charity, or a foundation or something, in Bettina’s name. It’s for victims of domestic violence.”

  I watch his face. He looks shocked; then, after a minute, angry.

  “Is that what she’s saying? That I was abusive to Bettina?”

  “Yes,” I say quietly.

  “But … does she … is she just talking about the murder, or does she mean, like, the whole time we were together?”

  It’s an odd distinction, or maybe it’s not. Is it worse to commit one crime of passion than it is to terrorize a person you love over a period of years? There’s no way to answer.

  “Both,” I say.

  “Goddamn it,” he says. He pulls the car to an empty space by the curb, puts on the brake. He shakes his head slowly, raises his hands in a gesture of frustration. “This is so typical of her.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, to …” He makes a furious, strangled noise in his throat, like a growl. “To find a way to make this even worse, you know? To make it be about even more than it already is.”

  I watch him, wait for him to continue.

  “It’s like … okay, this is going to sound strange, but do you remember one Christmas when I was little, we had the news on, and there was a story about a house that had burned down and the whole family had died?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Well, the news people just kept saying, ‘And on Christmas, too,’ like it would have been any better if it had happened any other day of the year.”

  “Okay,” I say. I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

  “Kathy’s just … It’s always all about her, you know? If her house burned down, she’d want it to be on Christmas.”

  I’m quiet for a moment. “They were close, weren’t they? Bettina and Kathy.” My voice is wistful. Daughters are different from sons, but I wonder what that meant to him, to see such an intimate bond between a parent and a grown child.

  But he rolls his eyes. “Too close. Kathy and I got along okay, but it was like she was competing with me to be the most important person in Bettina’s life.”

  There’s a flash outside Milo’s window, and I realize someone’s taking our picture.

  “Fuck,” he says. He sighs and turns the car on, pulls back onto the road, swerving around the photographer.

  I wait until we’ve gotten a few blocks away. “Did anything ever happen between you and Bettina that Kathy might have misinterpreted?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He looks at me suddenly. “I never hurt her, okay? I don’t know if you think that I might have, but I didn’t.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I know.” I pause. “But you still think you might’ve been the one …?”

  He sighs. “I don’t know, Mom, okay? I just don’t fucking know.”

  We’re getting close to the hotel, and I don’t want to leave him this upset. “I believe that you never hurt her,” I say. “I can tell that you really loved her.”

  He’s quiet for a minute. “I really, really did,” he says, his voice still hard. “And it fucking sucks that I don’t get to … to grieve for her, like any other person who loved her.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “That does fucking suck.”
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  He laughs, as I was hoping he would, and the tension dissipates a little. I reach out and squeeze his arm. “I really wish I had had a chance to meet her,” I say. “And I hope that someday when things aren’t so crazy, you’ll tell me more about her.”

  He pulls up in front of the hotel and stops the car. “Yeah,” he says. “I actually think you would have liked each other.” And it’s more of a compliment than I could have hoped for.

  “Okay,” I say. “Wait—before I go, I wanted to ask you something. Roland mentioned that he’s the one who introduced you and Bettina. How did he know her?”

  “Oh, God, that’s a whole complicated story. Can I tell you tomorrow? I just want to get back home.”

  “Sure,” I say. “So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” he says. “And you know, if you want to stay at Roland’s, it’s fine with me.”

  I lean over and kiss his cheek. “Thanks,” I say. “We’ll see.”

  I get out of the car and watch him pull away. As far as I can tell, he’s not being followed by anyone looking for a news story. I walk into the hotel and take the elevator up to my room.

  • • •

  Later, as I’m getting ready for bed, it occurs to me that I still haven’t seen Milo’s text message. I pull out my phone and spend a few minutes figuring it out. Finally I find the right screen and see that there are actually two messages waiting for me.

  I look at Milo’s first. It says, “hey mom, dinner at rolands if u want 2 come.” I smile. So casual, as if we talk this way all the time.

  The second one, I see when I open it, is from Lisette. “Hi O, good to see you, tho sorry such bad circs. Let me know how long your in town. Maybe we can get 2gether.”

  I send her a message back—I think successfully, though I’m not certain—in which I say, more or less, that I’d like that, and maybe we can talk tomorrow. I write out every single word, without abbreviations.

  I open my laptop and send an e-mail to Anna saying that I’m sorry I missed her call, and that if she has a chance to call me over the weekend, I’m anxious to hear whatever news she has for me.