What Remains True

by Thomas, Janis

  “Jonah, that is, I think, one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.” She kisses my hand, then her white lips go into a smile. “You are a very special guy. And I want you to know how much I appreciate your offer, but I wouldn’t dream of taking Marco away from you. However, maybe you could bring Marco over during vacation, for a sleepover?” She looks over at Eden. “Maybe your sister could come, too?”

  “Could we watch Dancing with the Stars?” Eden asks, and she looks happy for the first time since she got in the car after school.

  “I have about two dozen shows on my TiVo,” Auntie Ruth says with a nod.

  “Awesome,” Eden says. “That’s totally beast.” I look at Eden, and her smile suddenly leaves her face.

  “We can, Mommy, right?” I ask, and Mommy nods.

  “Absolutely. Auntie Ruth and Daddy and I will work it out.”

  I take my bag over to the kitchen table and climb into one of the chairs, then dump the eggs onto the tablecloth. They roll across the table, but none of them fall on the floor, which is a good thing ’cause Shadow is right there, waiting, and I know chocolate is bad for doggies. Mommy helps Auntie Ruth up and they start talking about lasagna and garlic bread. I look over at Eden and she’s standing by the wall kind of giving me a frowny face.

  “Hey, Eden,” I say to her. “Look at all the cookies-and-cream I got. Here, take ’em. Fifty-fifty.” I count out the eggs; there’s fifteen, I know, because I counted them before, and fifteen’s an odd number—Mrs. Hartnett hasn’t teached us about odds and evens yet, but Daddy told me about them and showed me on my whiteboard, so I already know there’s going to be one egg extra. I grab ’em one by one and set ’em apart. One for Eden, one for me, one for Eden, one for me. Pretty soon, I have two piles that have seven eggs each, and sure enough, there’s one extra. I push it into Eden’s pile.

  “You can have the extra one,” I tell her.

  She comes over to the table and scoops up her eggs, then turns around and heads for the stairs without even thanking me. I think that’s kind of not nice. But then I think of all the times Eden helped me and maybe I forgot to say thanks, like when she helped me color my shapes for my school poster, or when she helped me pass my kinder-reader test, or other times, too. I’ll forgive her for not saying thanks this time, ’cause I know that even though she’s not smiling or anything, the eggs made her happy, ’cause the cookies-and-cream ones are her favorite.

  FORTY-FIVE

  EDEN

  I know it’s not his fault. He’s only five, so I really can’t blame him. But I swear, sometimes having a little brother is like a total bummer. Ryan Anderson didn’t talk to me or even look at me the whole rest of the day, not even once, not after Jonah came running over and hugged me in front of my friends. Even when Mr. Libey assigned groups for Language Arts and Ryan was in my group, he totally ignored me, even when I asked him a question. He pretended not to hear me and started talking to Dustin Schulman about some stupid baseball thing.

  I’m up in my room, sitting on my bed, with the cookies-and-cream eggs scattered in front of me. We’re not allowed to have food up in our rooms, but Mom was busy talking to Aunt Ruth and didn’t even notice me taking them from the kitchen table. I didn’t thank Jonah, and I do feel kind of bad about that, especially because he gave me the extra one, but I just couldn’t seem to form the words, because even though it’s not his fault, I’m still mad at him. My friends didn’t make fun of me or anything, but I knew they thought it was totally lame, what Jonah did. But they had more important things to do, like make fun of Corwin. I felt bad for Corwin getting all teased just because he likes Ava. Not that he likes her anymore. And I’m kind of glad for him because even though she’s my friend and all, she can be really mean, and Corwin should like someone who’s nice to him because he’s nice, too.

  Carlee likes Matt, and she says that he kissed her behind the portables right before Christmas break. Not with tongue or anything—gross!—but I don’t know if I believe her. Matt doesn’t act like he likes her at all, and Carlee made us do a double cross-your-heart swear that we would never bring it up to him.

  Ava doesn’t like any of the boys at school. She says she has a boyfriend back in Texas, where she lived before her family moved out here last year. His name is Tim and he’s in sixth grade, and she says they’ve done all kinds of things, like kiss on the mouth, with tongue—gross!—and hold hands and play doctor. I didn’t know what that game was, and when I asked her, she kind of laughed like I was the stupidest person ever, but then Carlee told me she didn’t know what doctor was and I felt better. And then one day, when Carlee and me were at her house for a playdate, we googled doctor and found out that it’s a game where you look at and maybe even touch each other’s privates. And even though I don’t want anybody, especially a boy, looking at or touching my privates, and I was a little bit freaked out that Ava had maybe done that, I kind of also thought she was a little bit cool and totally grown-up for doing that.

  I unwrap a cookies-and-cream egg, pop it into my mouth, and wad up the foil wrapper. I think about Ryan and what I would have told him if Jonah hadn’t interrupted. Fun Dip is my favorite candy, not just the powder, but the sticks you dip with. I wonder if Ryan likes Fun Dip, too. Now I’ll probably never find out.

  With the white chocolate melting on my tongue, I lie back against my pillow and think of Ryan. His big blue eyes and blond hair and the curvy way his lips grin. For just a small minute, I think about playing doctor with Ryan, but then my stomach gets fluttery, but not in a good way, more like an “I ate way too many corn dogs” way, and my face gets hot and I feel super embarrassed even though I’m all alone.

  I sit up again and roll the eggs back and forth across my bedspread, then I gather them up and take them to my desk and hide them in the top drawer. I know Mom comes in here every so often and looks through my things. I don’t know what she thinks she’ll find. I’m only ten. What could I be hiding? If she finds the eggs, she’ll probably get all mad and say something like, “That’s how you get bugs upstairs!” and Jonah will get all excited because he loves bugs and would be happy if a bunch of them creepy-crawlied into his room.

  There’s a knock at my door that makes me jump, and I slam the drawer shut real fast, just in case it’s Mom or Aunt Ruth. I know dinner won’t be ready for like another hour, so it’s probably Jonah. Yup. He swings the door open before I even tell him it’s okay to come in.

  “Hi, Eden,” he says. The dumb monkey is hanging around his neck. “Wanna play with me and Marco?”

  Oh, sure. I really want to play with my little brother and his stuffed animal. I mean, I still have stuffed animals—they’re on my bed—but I don’t play with them anymore.

  “No,” I tell him. “I don’t.”

  “Oh, come on, Eden, it’ll be real fun, I promise. We could pretend Marco’s an alien from another universe and he’s come to eat our brains and we have to make an army to protect ourselves, but then Marco starts to turn into a good alien and doesn’t want to eat our brains anymore but wants to help us fight his very own people. Alien people.”

  I slap my hands over my ears. “Shut up, Jonah! Don’t you ever take a breath?” Mom says that to him sometimes, not the shut-up part, but the taking-a-breath part. Only she always says it with a smile on her face, not like I just did in my mean voice.

  “You said shut up, Eden. That’s not ’llowed.”

  “What’re you gonna do? Tattle on me?”

  He bites his lower lip, then slowly shakes his head. “I wouldn’t tattle on you, Eden. ’Cause you’re the best sister.”

  I drop my hands and stare at my nails. Ava got a Jamberry for Christmas and she always has these cute patterns on her nails. Mine don’t even have clear polish. Mom said she’d take me for a manicure, but she won’t buy me a Jamberry because they cost like a hundred dollars.

  I finally look up and see that Jonah is still there. I’m not going to apologize to him for saying shut up. I’m not. I’m ma
d at him. He ruined things with Ryan. But he doesn’t know any of that.

  “I don’t feel like playing with you right now, Jonah, okay?”

  “Sure, it’s okay, Eden,” he says, then his face gets smiley again, like he’s just happy that I’m talking to him without yelling. “Maybe later, huh?”

  Not. I shrug, and he smiles at me like I told him yes. He looks at Marco.

  “Maybe Eden will play with us later, alien monkey from another universe.”

  He runs out of my room, leaving my door wide-open. I sneak another egg out of the desk drawer, and while I’m looking at the pink-and-purple wrapper, I suddenly feel really bad about being mad at Jonah. I am not the best big sister. But he is probably the best little brother I could have. Especially compared to Carlee’s little brother who, like, bites her almost every single day, or Matt’s little brother who steals his toys, then breaks them and doesn’t say sorry or feel bad about it at all.

  I put the egg back in the drawer. I don’t want it anymore. Maybe I’ll go find Jonah and play that stupid alien game with him.

  I shake my head, which I know is kind of silly because there’s nobody looking, but I do it anyway. I don’t want to play with Jonah. I really don’t. Not even just to be nice. Tomorrow I probably won’t be mad at him anymore and I’ll play with him then.

  I want to FaceTime with Carlee and Ava, but Mom said I couldn’t before dinner. I don’t know why not, but I didn’t bother arguing with her because she used that voice that means she isn’t going to change her mind. Dad calls it her nonnegotiation voice. Maybe I’ll read for a little while. I just started the Percy Jackson series. Dad said I was finally old enough, and I like it, and I don’t even mind that there’s a boy as the main character.

  I get down on the floor and crawl over to my bookshelf, find Percy Jackson, trail my fingers over the outside part where it says the name. Mom told me what that part’s called, but I forgot. No, wait. The spine. That’s it. But I don’t pull out Percy Jackson because right next to it is my school yearbook from last year. I pull that out instead, then sit cross-legged on the floor and open it to Mrs. Bertrand’s class page.

  I wasn’t in Mrs. Bertrand’s class last year. But I know a lot of people who were. Like Carlee and Corwin and Aimee. And Ryan.

  FORTY-SIX

  SAMUEL

  The Hewitt project is situated on the outskirts of a new suburban development about thirty minutes outside the city. Thirty minutes when there isn’t traffic. But at four o’clock on a Friday afternoon, the freeway is the usual crawl, commuters ending their workweek, sitting behind the wheels of their cars, imagining the taste of their first cocktail, checking their phones to see if their wives have texted them last-minute needs, which they won’t be able to fulfill for an aeon due to the gridlock.

  The carpool lane moves a little more quickly. My idea to caravan was squashed when we met in the parking lot forty minutes ago. Greta hopped into my car, telling me it would be better to carpool. She was right. We’ll cut fifteen minutes off our time in this lane. But it probably wasn’t a good idea.

  Her perfume isn’t cloying, it’s lovely—reminds me of peach cobbler. And her long legs stretch out into the shadows beneath the glove compartment. I keep my eyes studiously on the road, but every so often, when I catch her looking out the passenger window, I steal a glance at the smooth porcelain skin of her thighs. I am not an adolescent. I am able to control myself. But I am a man.

  Fuck. This is wrong.

  And yet, I have willingly stepped into this situation. Ha, no, I invited this situation, orchestrated it. But why? Why?

  Greta has undertaken to act as DJ for the ride, switching stations and choosing songs she likes, singing along with them in a soft but perfectly pitched voice. She hasn’t launched into conversation, save for the occasional question about whether or not I know the song playing, and if I do whether or not I like it. Every once in a while, I feel her gaze on me, and when I glance at her, she wears an inquisitive or intense expression, as though she wants to talk. But so far, thankfully, she hasn’t broached any taboo or uncomfortable subjects, like, for example, why did I ask her to join me on this trip?

  The answer to that question is as complex as it is simplistic. The answer is, I don’t know.

  I am happy. I have a good, solid marriage. I have wonderful kids. I have an existence that would be envied by half the population on the planet, at least. So what on earth compelled me to introduce chaos into the otherwise perfect landscape of my life?

  Again, I am a man, and we are ruled by base urges, dominated by our dicks. And don’t forget about our egos. Monstrous, fragile egos.

  But those are excuses, and poor ones at that.

  What’s interesting and ironic, equally, is that I wish I could talk to Rachel about this. She is my best friend and my sounding board. She listens thoughtfully to me when I spew to her about work problems, or complain about age-related challenges such as the bursitis that plagued me most of last year and wreaked havoc on my already mediocre golf game, or my frustration with the predominance of stupid people in service positions these days. She listens and offers me clarity. She gives me insights into my own character, and those insights are often laced with humor. She helps me to laugh at myself.

  I have friends. Buddies, acquaintances. Carson and I are fairly close. Frank DiSilva is my oldest friend, lives back east, and we talk every month or so. But Rachel is the one I turn to regularly.

  Rachel, whom I’m about to betray. If Sister Johnna from eighth grade is correct, and the thought is as bad as the deed, I have betrayed her already.

  We reach the turnoff just after five. I drive through the newly minted downtown area—a patch of strip malls and fast-food restaurants built rapidly to accommodate the quickly rising population of this suburb, the paint barely dry on most of the buildings.

  “Oh, a Ross Dress for Less,” Greta chirps. “My mom loves that store. Ooh, and a Raising Cane’s. Yum!”

  I have never seen my assistant like this. At work, she is a consummate professional, always meets her deadlines, goes the extra mile, stays late and arrives early. She comes across older than her years. But now, she stares out the passenger window with excited anticipation, like a child visiting Disneyland for the first time.

  She is a child, Sam.

  I follow the directions of the GPS to an as-yet unmarked street. The Hewitt project stands at the end of the street.

  When Marshall Hewitt came to me with the idea last year, I declined. The location was outside Carson’s and my geographic perimeter, and the job held little appeal. Architecture has been good to me. But over the past few years, I’ve found less fulfillment in it. With two kids and a stay-at-home wife, a career change would be impractical, so I resolved to only take on projects I was passionate about.

  The approach to the rehabilitation facility was cookie-cutter at best—private lodging, a gym, a theater, a cafeteria, and half a dozen conference rooms for AA and NA meetings, seminars, and lectures. The board wanted simple, industrial, practical, user-friendly. Although I wasn’t interested, I was moved by Marshall’s speech, by his passion to give something back to the world, his entreaty that we should use our gifts for the betterment of humanity as a whole. Then Carson signed on. He had a sister who overdosed many years ago. So I took the assignment. And here we are.

  This is not my most creative design. I don’t take great pride in the edifice before me. But hopefully, it will be a safe haven for those willing to repair and rebuild their demolished lives.

  A dozen or so men loiter outside the building, shooting the shit, all of them wearing the regulation construction helmets. I recognize Javier, the foreman, and throw him a wave. He straightens his posture and walks toward me.

  “Mr. Davenport. Como estas?”

  I put out my hand. “Bien, gracias. How’s it going?”

  Greta stands beside me, and Javier is careful not to ogle her. His eyes shift quickly from her back to me.

  “Good, you k
now? Really good. I know Mr. Hewitt’s worried—he’s out here like every couple of days. But we’re on schedule, swear to God. Most of the drywall is finished, and Marcello should be done with the electrical by end of next week, latest. Rodney’s crew’s working on the pipes. Another few days. We got the inspectors coming the week after. We’ll be ready.”

  “That’s great, Javier. Terrific.” Hewitt wants a May Day grand opening. Shouldn’t be a problem if Javier stays on schedule. “Mind if we take a look around?”

  Enthusiastic nod. “Go for it. We’re done for today, but I’ll hang out.”

  I smile at him and slap him on the shoulder, glance up at the luminaires that are blazing even though daylight savings has rendered them ineffectual. “You can take off, Javier. I’ll make sure everything’s dark before I go.”

  The man gives me a sideways look, then turns toward Greta. Glances back at me with a knowing expression that I resent only because he’s not wrong.

  “Yeah, sure, Mr. Davenport. Okay.”

  “Javier, I’ve told you before to call me Sam.”

  “Yeah, I know, that’s right. Sam. Okay. We’ll be back first thing Monday. And like I said, no worries. Okay? We’re on this.”

  I nod and watch as he gathers his men with hand gestures and quick, staccato phrases in Spanish. They move in a herd toward the parking lot, which has been paved but has yet to be marked for individual spaces.

  Greta looks over at me, and a slow smile spreads across her face.

  “Alone at last,” she says.

  I chuckle. “We were alone in the car all the way here,” I say.

  “Can’t do much in an enclosed space, Mr. Davenport.” She takes a few steps and narrows the gap between us. “Care to show me your building?”