by Sarah S.
Joanna tucked her chin into her chest. “Well, I bet Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Batten aren’t worried about their deposits,” she said over the running water.
“Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Batten?” Charles squinted. “Our … neighbors? The ones you called me about yesterday?”
She turned her head toward the fridge, giving him her crooked ponytail.
He laughed. “Do you really call them by their last names? They’re our age.”
She placed the vase of flowers on the island. Several of them drooped over immediately, nearly kissing the marble surface. “They don’t seem our age,” Joanna said. “They seem … different.”
“Maybe you’re not giving them enough of a chance.”
Her expression became wounded, then beseeching. The look.
“What?” Charles implored, suddenly exhausted.
She turned her head toward the refrigerator and said something very softly. It sounded like, “So I’m the pathetic one then.” And then, after inaudible mutters, something like, “Banana bread.”
“Huh?” Charles said, growing more and more perturbed.
She walked back to the couch, reached for her wine, and took another sip. “Nothing. Forget it.”
He waited. The television flickered against her face. It showed a commercial for Gatorade, three long-limbed basketball players spinning and dunking. “Scott’s working at a sneaker shop,” Joanna said.
Charles cocked his head. This conversation was making him a little nauseous. “Scott … my brother?”
“Uh-huh. Helping out a friend or something.”
“How do you know that?”
She picked at her nails. “I saw him at the grocery store, La Marquette. We had coffee.”
Charles shifted his weight. “Well, aren’t you two buddy-buddy?”
Joanna folded her hands, matching his stare. What was she driving at? Look at me. I can have a civilized conversation with your brother and you can’t?
“So is this sneaker store he’s working at like a Sports Authority?” Charles asked after a while.
“Not exactly,” Joanna answered. “It sells limited edition stuff. Everything’s high end.”
“Sneakers can be high end?”
“Sure. It’s kind of a city thing.”
“Ah.” City. This basically shut Charles out of knowing or understanding anything about it. “And how do you know so much?” he asked her.
She let out a huffy, indignant smirk. “It’s not like it’s a secret.”
He bristled and turned away. Joanna always had an inside track to things that had flown straight over his head—music, old foreign films, indie artists, fashion trends. “You’ve never seen Kill Pussycat, Kill!?” she’d say, and off they’d go to the video store to rent it. “You’ve never heard anything by the Velvet Underground?” she’d exclaim, and she would pull out her large, zippered case of old CDs and play What Goes On. But as time passed, the exclamations sounded more like disgusted accusations. Once Charles even groaned and said, “No, I’ve never seen any of the Dirty Harry movies. It’s amazing I’ve got testosterone in my veins. It’s incredible that my brain hasn’t exploded.” She had stared at him, stunned—it had probably been the first time he’d raised his voice at her—and then shrugged and backed off. Those kinds of comments waned after that.
He turned back. “It could be a drug front, you know.” She pushed her hair out of her eyes. “What could?”
“The sneaker store Scott’s friend owns. It’s in an alley? They sell high-end sneakers? Come on. They’re probably selling meth in the back room.”
A wrinkle formed on the bridge of Joanna’s nose. Now it was her turn to look naive. Charles held her gaze, hoping she wouldn’t call his bluff. She turned away and stared at the television. Now it was a commercial for a company that paid cash for old gold jewelry. “Nice,” she whispered sarcastically, looking at Charles out of the corner of her eye.
Charles placed his hands on his head and swiveled around to face the kitchen. What the hell was happening? Why were they arguing? And why were they talking about Scott? There was no way he could mention Bronwyn now, not in this tense room.
“We should go out,” he announced.
She didn’t take her eyes off the television. “Out?”
“Let’s go get a drink.”
“A drink? “
“Sure,” he said. “There’s that Italian place a couple miles from here we’ve never tried. I think they have a bar.”
She gestured toward the window. “It’s pouring.”
“So? You told me before we never go out. And that you didn’t want to be the one to always suggest it. Well, now I’m suggesting it.”
He could take her somewhere quiet and explain the uncomfortable bind he was in, the person he was being asked to interview. I’ve tried to get out of it, but Jake wants me to do it. But, I mean, she’s living without plumbing and electricity. I won’t have anything to say to her. You have no reason to be jealous.
“All right,” she said, setting her wine glass on the coffee table. “There must be an umbrella in one of these boxes.”
The television blinked soundlessly; an ad about Toyotas, then another about eHarmony dating service. “Actually,” Charles gazed out the window. “It is pretty bad out there.”
Joanna paused, her hand on the doorknob. “So … you don’t want to go out now?”
He shrugged. He knew he wasn’t making sense. He felt like he was losing his mind.
Joanna slapped her hands to her thighs. “Whatever.” She walked to the kitchen sink and turned on the faucet. “Oh. I have to go to Maryland next week. My mom’s having a biopsy on Tuesday.”
Tuesday. The day of his interview with Bronwyn. “Is she all right?”
“I hope so. Probably.”
Then he had an idea. “Do you want me to come?”
She looked up from the sink, startled. “What?”
“Do you want me to come?” he repeated. “We could go to Baltimore after your mom has her appointment. Or to DC.”
She blinked. “You’ve never wanted to come before.”
“Okay. Never mind. I just thought I’d ask.”
“No, I mean, sure. Come.”
“Yeah? “
“Of course.”
There. It was a good enough excuse. His mother-in-law was having a biopsy. He needed to be there for moral support. It would get him out of the interview. He could assign someone else to the story. The end.
“Don’t expect much,” Joanna said over the running water. “We don’t have to stay at my mom’s house if you don’t want to.” “Okay. Whatever you want.”
Decision made. He stood there in silence for a while, watching the muted TV, the rain on the windows, assessing the piles of still-sealed boxes. Most of them were marked joanna, kitchen or joanna, bedroom or joanna, misc, remnants of her life before him. Good, he thought. This was figured out. He was free.
And then, feeling something rise up inside of him, he padded down the hall to the first floor full bath, the one they never used. He shut the door.
It was warm in the bathroom. The towels were fresh and dry. The dispenser was full of orange soap, and the shower curtain was printed with bug-eyed fish, maniacal octopi. Charles ripped it back and stepped into the scoured, empty tub. He sank to his knees, spread his legs out, and closed his eyes. The memory pressed at him, begging him to think it through. Even though he didn’t want to, even though he might not have to explain it, it wouldn’t leave his mind.
The last time Charles had seen Bronwyn was the end of his senior year, at the Swithin award ceremony and banquet. The ceremony, which presented achievement awards in academics and sports, was taking place in his parents’ garden. Charles’s great-grandfather had held one of the first award banquets there, and a board member had held succeeding banquets at one of their homes ever since.
Charles and Bronwyn sat together with their friends around one of the large, round tables that had been set up in the back garden, sne
aking sips of champagne when their parents weren’t looking. They all were guaranteed to win something: Nadine the English department’s award, Rob a plaque for student government, Bronwyn for art and science, and Charles, well, Charles was pretty sure he was getting the Academic Achievement of the Year. It was a Renaissanceman award, reserved for the senior who excelled in all areas—academics, community service, and activities. The awards committee allegedly kept the winners secret from the board members, but Charles had a feeling his mother knew something. Why else had she asked his father to come home from the office early so he could catch the entire presentation? Why else had she gazed lovingly at Charles while he put on a jacket and tie, telling him she was so proud of all he’d accomplished?
The headmaster, Jerome, stood in front of the rose trellis—they’d long since replaced the one Scott had burned—calling out the sports awards. When he called Scott’s name for wrestling, Charles thought it was a joke. It was unheard of for underclassmen to be honored. Scott burst through the crowd, wearing a brown suit that seemed like it had been dug out of some seventies time capsule. Everything about the suit was huge, made for a much larger man, and the pants sagged low on Scott’s hips, the same fit as his jeans. He swaggered with irony up to the stage and instead of shaking Jerome’s hand, slapped him high five. Jerome looked startled but then smiled nervously. There was a guffaw from the left—their father. He had materialized at the table next to his mother when Charles wasn’t watching. Charles suddenly felt anxious and sweaty, astonished his father was really here and annoyed Scott had stolen some of his thunder.
Jerome continued with the sports awards and then moved on to academics. One by one Charles’s friends rose to claim plaques. The Academic Achievement of the Year was last, and Jerome took a long time winding up to it. Bronwyn squeezed his hand. Charles glanced at his father. He was still there, listening. When Jerome called out Heather Lawrence’s name, Charles stood halfway anyway. Bronwyn pulled him down.
Heather Lawrence made her way across the grass. She was in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down from a childhood illness. She was a coxswain for the boys’ crew team; the crewmen gently carried her into the boat whenever it was time to practice or race. Charles had a lot of classes with her; Heather diligently turned in papers and gave oral reports from her chair. She’d been accepted to Harvard and Brown, but she was going to Penn to remain close to her family.
Bronwyn dropped Charles’s hand and began to clap. How could she not clap? How could any of them not? When Charles glanced at his parents, his mother looked sheepish. More than likely she’d assumed Charles would win, too, forgetting about Heather entirely. His father clapped tepidly, his expression not wavering. From the back of the garden, someone yelled out, “Yeah!” Charles swore it was Scott’s voice.
After that Jerome thanked everyone for coming, and the crowd began to disperse. Scott approached Charles’s table, his arms across his chest.
“Uh, hi,” Schuyler, one of Charles’s friends, finally said.
“Hey,” Scott answered.
He stared right at Bronwyn, coolly and challengingly. Bronwyn flinched and looked away, and Charles oscillated between the two of them, wondering if he was missing something. Bronwyn ran her tongue over her teeth and stood up. “Excuse me,” she said, walking back into the house.
“Are you all right?” Charles called after her.
“I’m fine,” Bronwyn said over her shoulder, shooting him a smile.
Charles’s other friends, likely sensing the tension, congratulated Scott on his award. Scott blinked, broken from his trance. He stared at the plaque in his right hand. “Right,” he said, indifferently. Scott’s fingerprints were all over the brass plaque. It would languish in some cardboard box under his bed, unappreciated. Ha, he no doubt thought. Dad came home from work just in time to see you lose … again. Why else had Scott stopped at this table? Charles’s gaze slid over to their parents. Their mother was still sitting at the table, but their father was gone. Charles could practically hear Scott’s thoughts as he loomed over them, his suit smelling vaguely of mothballs. You think you’re so great with your fancy friends and your ass-kissing, but I know how it really is.
But when Scott met his eye, his face wasn’t full of nasty smugness but of pity. He lingered on Charles for a moment, and then turned toward the house. Rage flooded Charles’s body. Smugness he could handle, but pity was reprehensible. After a few shallow breaths, Charles stood up roughly, bumping his knees against the bottom of the table, and followed his brother through the side door.
He found Scott standing in the mud room next to the washing machine. The air felt ionized, fraught with another presence, as if someone had just slipped out of the room. “Apologize,” Charles boomed. “Apologize now.”
Scott gazed at him warily, exasperatedly. “Apologize for what?”
Charles twitched. Scott stared at him, waiting. Pity crossed his face again. He threw his shoulders back, waved his hand, and turned toward the kitchen.
“Come back!” Charles screamed.
He chased Scott into the mud room, spun his brother around, and pinned him against the utility sink. His insides felt black and curdled. Lava rose to his throat and spewed out his mouth. “This is all just a joke to you, isn’t it,” he said through his teeth. “You don’t get what you have. You should be grateful. But instead you act all … entitled. Like you deserve this. But you’re a piece of shit. You came from nothing. And you will be nothing. You’re the joke, don’t you see? You’re going to end up just like where you came from. Nothing but a n-n—”
The word hung on his lips. He reined himself in, holding back, but was still out there, as good as said, radiating out in toxic, concentric waves. All the pain inside him, all the dark, insecure caverns of his mind illuminated.
Scott didn’t flinch. His gaze was eerily neutral. There was a presence behind them, a horrified crowd, a gasp. Charles could smell Bronwyn’s perfume. He heard his father’s signature, guttural cough. His father had heard every uttered, and almost uttered, word.
Scott had the view of whoever was behind them. His gaze wavered from Charles, and his eyes dimmed. When he refocused on Charles again, things got blurry, and in a split second Charles was on the ground, gasping for air. Scott’s face loomed above him, his breath hot on his cheeks. Their father appeared and pulled Scott to his feet. Charles rolled to his side, coughing.
It was amazing how quickly they hushed things up, how Scott was shuttled to one room and Charles to another. He could hear their father shouting and Scott shouting back, but he couldn’t make out the words. Charles’s mother ran into the house, crying, “What happened? What happened?”
Bronwyn volunteered to take him away for a while. She helped Charles into her car and they snaked down the driveway. Charles crumpled against the seat, repentant. He didn’t dare ask Bronwyn if she’d heard what he’d said. The answer, he knew, was yes—she’d been right there.
They drove to the bottom of the hill and parked at the edge of the cornfield. Bronwyn gripped the steering wheel hard. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she whispered.
Charles kept his chin wedged to his chest. His stomach felt slashed open.
It took Bronwyn a long time to speak. “I think it would be best if we spent some time apart.”
“Okay,” he answered stonily. He wasn’t about to ask why. He didn’t need to hear how disgusted she was that he had the capacity to say such things. He didn’t want to hear her say, You deserved it. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.
There were tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry.” Which made him feel even worse: what the hell did she have to be sorry for?
She offered to drive him back up the hill to the party, but he said that wouldn’t be necessary, he could walk. She took off fast. He never saw her again.
D
id Charles really need to revisit that? Did he really need to face someone who obviously detested him enough to not just cut all ties with him, but every singl
e one of his friends, too? And yet, it was tempting. There would be something both edifying and purifying about seeing Bronwyn now. Having Bronwyn say her piece, once and for all. It could be good to know who Charles had been before in order to know who he had become. It could be good to know the damage he might have done.
It was tempting to see her and know she was real, that it had really happened. Because if it truly was her, what she’d done was the same thing Scott had done—take everything she had been given and cast it aside. Maybe there was something to doing that, something Charles didn’t yet understand. Maybe her decision had been the right one.
………………………………………………………… nine
Sylvie didn’t even notice the rain until it turned to hail. It pelted on the roof, making harsh, ugly smacks so forceful she thought it might be taking off whole shingles and layers of paint. Just
minutes had passed and there was already a small stream in the front yard. Hail bounced off the roof of Scott’s car in crazy angles, ricocheting off the metal pole of the basketball hoop Scott still used. She ran around shutting all the windows.
She went to the living room and nestled under a blanket. It was almost midnight, but she was too wide-eyed to sleep. Once again, she went over the day.
It astonished her that Christian’s father had been . . . a person?human, capable of complex and contradictory feelings. She often felt this way about people she didn’t know. That it was incredible that their inner lives were as complicated as hers was. It reminded her of when Scott was very young and used to play with Legos, dumping the garbage can of blocks on the living room floor and creating entire towns—houses, doctor’s offices, gas stations, grocery stores, airports. He would leave the backs of the buildings exposed so he could reach inside and move the people around. Once Sylvie noticed him leaning over the blocks, frantically moving a bunch of the tiny Lego people at once—making a woman get into her car, guiding a spaceman from a gas-station parking lot to the mini-mart, then quickly moving a blackhaired man in a fireman suit from the upstairs part of the house to the downstairs to turn on the giant, battery-run windmill. “Why are you moving them all so fast?” Sylvie asked.
