by KT Morrison
“You okay?” he asked him.
“Been better,” Connor said with that same echo.
“Me too,” Max said.
Now his brother heaved himself off the toilet with great effort, sat wedged between the bowl and the cupboard below the sink. He looked at Max and said, “Why are you naked?”
Max kicked at his bundled up pants on the floor between them, his belt jingling and change clinking in his pocket. He said, “Peed in them.”
Connor chuckled, said, “Some night.”
Max said, “Thanks.”
Connor said, “What you think of Marta?”
Max shrugged.
Connor said, “You fuck her?”
Max groaned and squinted. “I don’t think so. I hope I didn’t.”
“She’s a nice girl,” Connor said in defense.
“I made a big mistake,” he said.
“No regrets, Max,” Connor said, head lolling on his shoulders.
Max said, “I have got a lot of regrets.”
They both sat silent for a long time, listening to the sounds of two guys talking in the dorm room opposite, hoping neither of them would need in the bathroom. His heart throbbed in his neck. Connor looked like he fell asleep.
Max whispered, “I lied.”
Connor’s eyes fluttered, waking. “About Marta?”
“About Maggie.”
“What about her?”
“She didn’t cheat on me.”
“What? …” Connor squinted, trying to sit upright but finding it too much of a struggle.
“She didn’t cheat on me.”
“She didn’t cheat on you? What are you talking about?”
“I lied to you.”
Now Connor made the effort, banging his elbow on the toilet seat, and lifting himself to sit forward, grunting with the extreme effort. “Jesus, Max. I told you—” He burped, his face going green like he would be sick again.
“You going to barf again?”
He shook his head no, sat up right. No longer in his yellow suit and polka-dot tie, he’d somehow been lucky enough to change into something comfortable before he collapsed into bed with his girlfriend. He sat cross-legged now, leaning on the toilet, wearing long satin basketball shorts in the Chicago Bulls colors. He looked gravely at Max and said, “Did she cheat on you or not?”
“I’m sorry, Connor. I don’t know why I said all that. She didn’t cheat on me.”
“Max, you fucking told me …”
“I know,” he groaned.
“Why would you do that? You were fucking crying …”
“I think … it’s just my imagination,” he said with hesitation.
“I fucking knew it, Max. I fucking knew it,” he said, looking to the ceiling.
“I’m sorry. It’s not cut and dried, it’s not so simple … she’s not innocent.”
Connor leaned to the side, twisting at the waist and putting his head in the bowl. He horked into it. “I felt so bad for you,” he said, his voice with that porcelain echo.
“You should feel bad for me. I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“Max, remember when you came in, I said it was all in your head and you said you saw it with your own eyes …”
Max sighed, with no way to explain to his brother he just let it hang. He deserved it. “I know. Anyway, I wanted to believe it.”
“You wanted to believe she cheated on you?”
He could lie some more: I got cold feet … I think I’m afraid to get married … Just looking for a way out …
He said, “I’m just under a lot of pressure.”
“Aren’t we all?” Connor said, then spat into the toilet again.
“Yeah, we are. I just freaked out.”
“Hysterical,” Connor said into the bowl.
“Hysterical,” Max agreed. That was quite accurate. He was hysterical. “So, you understand? … Maggie didn’t cheat on me.”
“Bro, I told you it was crazy.”
He said, “She’s too good to cheat.”
“What did you see?” Connor asked him.
“It’s not what I thought. I have to be honest. It’s not what I thought.”
“What was it?”
Oh boy. He sighed, said, “It’s very complicated …”
Ken already knew she’d slept with Cole, had witnessed them all in the music room that night, his sister fucking two guys at the same time. What he didn’t know was her fiancé had instigated it—wanted it. Got off on it. That was too personal, too much Max’s business, so she told Ken: “It was fun at first—you know …? We’re friends and it was just supposed to be … God, I don’t know what it was supposed to be.”
“Just sex,” he said quietly.
“Just sex,” she repeated.
They sat opposite each other, one on each rigid couch, the table between them. The sun dipped lower now, evening coming earlier as winter approached. Ken lit up in fading orange, the shadow of her head folding next to him over the face of the couch. Ken had cracked an Evian from the bar fridge, the glass bottle half empty on the table, cap resting next to it.
Ken said, “When did it become … more?”
“I’m not really even sure.”
“Sounds like you don’t want to face it.”
“What do you mean face it? Face what?”
“Sorry. I didn’t want it to sound like that. I just mean … Well, was it before or after the first time?”
“Before or after sex? … How could it be more before we … you know …”
“When did you first have feelings for Cole?”
“Oh.”
“Before or after?”
“Feelings? …”
“You know what I mean, Maggie, come on.”
“After,” she said, but couldn’t look him in the eye.
“That’s good,” he said.
Now her mouth worked around. Had it been before? Sure. It was—she could lie to Ken and she could hide the truth from herself, but … the evidence was there. She had curiosity for Jay, Max allowed an exciting transgression, it was exciting, too, wasn’t it?—only it solved nothing for her sexual curiosity, in fact, now in retrospect, it had only piqued it further. Jay was fun but there was no feeling, and if Max allowed Jay, fucking got off on it, then gosh, what about that boy (that forbidden boy!), that set her heart dancing when he was around? Max’s lust had been used to pursue what she always wanted. She’d been cheating this whole time and denying it, even to herself.
“What’s wrong?” he asked her.
“Nothing,” she muttered weakly, folding her arms over herself, sinking into the couch seat and curling the soles of her feet over the glass edge of the table.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“No, it’s not,” she said, then tears arriving, covering her face with her hands.
She heard Ken say, “Oh, Maggie, sorry, sorry,” felt him sit on the seat next to her, put his arms around her. She curled up against him.
He said, “I’m sorry, Maggie, I came here to make you feel better, not worse.”
Tears wiped from her cheeks, she sniffed, rubbed a knuckle in an eye. “It’s good, Ken. It is.”
“What went wrong?”
“The three sometimes would be two.”
“No Max? …”
She nodded her head yes, ran her hands through her hair.
“Maggie, you can’t do that,” he sighed.
Now she sat up on her hip and watched Ken’s face.
He said, “What do I know?—look, maybe you didn’t mean anything, or it didn’t to you, but you’ve got to know …”
“That it would hurt him? I thought he was okay.”
He reached out and held her wrist. “Did you just want him to be okay with it?”
She nodded yes again, more rapid; inhaled deeply to stave off tears that sought to return. Falling to her back on the couch, she covered her face again, murmured through her hands, “I hurt him so bad. I’m so selfish.”
“What a
re you going to do?” The hand that held her wrist now took her ankle.
“I don’t even know. Max won’t talk to me. He left school, went home.”
“For good?” Ken’s voice alert, concerned.
“No, no …” She sat upright quickly. “I don’t think so. He’ll be back. He just wanted … To go away.” But now she reeled with Ken’s evident belief that Max wouldn’t return to Farmingham, or her, ever. Her stomach flipped, and she dug her fingertips into her cheeks, staring frightened holes in the ebony floorboards.
“Max is a good guy, Maggie,” he said, patting a hand on her shoulder, frigid Ken getting into human contact now. She covered his hand with her own.
“He’s the best guy. He’s not talking to me, Ken.”
“What about Cole?”
She groaned. “I’m not talking to him.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know … Things got … heated.”
“Between Max and Cole?”
She nodded.
“Oh no, Maggie.”
“It was ugly, Ken. We’re all so ugly.”
He pulled her close, and she rested her cheek on his shoulder. He said, “Do you even know what you want?”
She exhaled long, lips popped out. “I want Max back.”
“You want to marry him?”
“I want to marry him.”
“And Cole? …”
The groan came out against her will and she winced.
Ken said, “What about Cole, Maggie?”
She drew her knees up and dropped her chin between them. When she was able, she looked to Ken and said, “I love him. I love him so much.”
“Oh, wow, Maggie,” Ken sighed, eyebrows pinched and forlorn, closing a hand over his heart. “Maggie …”
“What do I do?” she whined, hating the sound of her own voice. “I hate myself.”
They sat silent for a while, both listening to the heavy pendulous ticking of an oak grandfather clock.
Ken said, “The way you cried on the phone, Maggie …”
“I’m so sorry …”
“Don’t be.”
“I’m sorry to lay this out on you.”
“I want to be here for you. And I want you to be there for me.”
“I’m here for you.”
“I got some stuff to lay on you, too.”
“Go ahead,” she said, studying his calm, kind face, realizing how much she needed him in her life—and how the hell did they ever drift apart?
A broad smile narrowed his sparkling eyes. “Another time, Maggie. Mine is nowhere near as time-pressing. I’m here for you today, but soon I’ll need you.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll be there for me?”
“I swear I will.”
“You know what you have to do now?”
She shook her head no.
“How did you wind up here?” he said, looking around her hotel room, far from home, her real home, in Vermont.
She laughed. “Because I went to see Mother and Father.”
Ken didn’t laugh. “I mean the situation. Not Providence.”
“I know,” she muttered.
“You’re a liar.”
“I’m a liar.”
“So what are you going to change?”
“It’s that easy?”
“Telling the truth? Max deserves the truth.”
“Oh God,” she sobbed. “He really does.”
Ken stopped her from covering her face again, holding both her wrists. “Max tells lies, too.”
Now she really laughed, and he let her wrists go so she could cover her cachinnation.
“What? …” he laughed.
She said, “How do you know that?”
“He is, isn’t he?”
Happy tears brimmed her eyes now. “He’s my good, sweet, lovable liar.”
Ken looked at her directly, said, “You tell him, too. Tell him you need the truth. Tell him from me.”
When her happiness settled, the somberness returned, and she said, “Max isn’t so innocent.”
“No one is. We’re all guilty of something. We all tell lies. I think Max has your best interest at heart. I really do.”
She nodded. “Me, too.”
After another long quiet moment she got up and walked to the bed. “How long can you stay?”
“I have a flight home tomorrow night.”
“Can I take you to Chong Qing House and we’ll eat hot pot and dumpling till we explode?”
He nodded and smiled warmly. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Ken,” she said, suddenly so glad she crawled under her bed and sobbed her woes to her brother, embarrassing as it was. As she slipped on socks and Birkenstocks she asked something that weighed on her incredibly. “Hey, is there any way Carol could have seen the security video before you erased it?
“Oh. Before I erased it? …”
“Yeah. I have this weird feeling …”
Ken scratched his chin, averted his eyes. He frowned then, smiled, said, “No way. Maggie, if she saw … Sorry, but if she saw that, she would absolutely kill you.”
“I know,” she said, shaking off the crazy notion. She would.
Ken looked at her strangely and it reminded her he’d seen it, and seen it live.
She said, “Let’s get out of here. Let me get you something to eat. We have a lot to talk about.”
4
Black Forest
Tuesday, October 31st
At the end of Rockwell Court, she sat in her rental car and watched the house with the street-side mailbox with a number 21 on the side, and below that: The Miltons. A nice home in an affluent neighborhood, on a big lot that Max’s dad kept razor-sharp with a riding mower. Hedges trimmed, Max’s mother’s blooming garden died down and put to rest for winter under burlap. Two stories, brick, white Colonial accents all the way out here in Michigan; pretty. The Stars & Stripes fluttered from a flagpole.
Today it was decorated for Halloween; orange and black bunting hung from the eavestroughs, tombstones in the yard with comical names of the deceased, and on the porch a stuffed scarecrow sitting in a rocker; the kind that might grab you when you went to retrieve candy. Not that she’d been trick-or-treating, but she’d seen movies.
She put the car back in gear, let her foot off the brake and rolled up the empty driveway. Out and slamming the door, she saw where she’d scraped the rear bumper—not two minutes after she started it after picking it up at the airport. Driving was not her thing. But she had a mission and there would be consequences; hopefully not casualties.
From the back seat, she drew out a pink box and a bouquet of flowers. Bundled together, she walked with them to the front door chewing her lip. She knocked on the door, wary of the scarecrow with its black button eyes and tattered overalls, took a deep breath, conjured up the happiness still hidden somewhere inside her and brought it to her face. Through the glass inserts on either side of the door she saw a shadow pass across the hall, heard the sound of slippers on tile, a muffled football game from the television in the front room. Before the door was answered she knew it was Max’s father.
The look on his face was priceless.
His features exploded with sudden joy and he shook his head with shock and took a step back, clutched his chest mimicking a heart attack then called her name exuberantly: “Maggie! …”
His reaction swelled that happy part of her and flooded away the moroseness.
“Mr. Mil-ton!” she sang, imitating his happy tone.
“Oh my God,” he said. “What a surprise. What are you doing here?”
“I’m here for a surprise,” she said.
“Come in, come in,” he said, stepping out of the way and ushering her with a rotating hand.
When she was in, he put his hand on her back and pulled her so he could kiss her cheek. “My God,” he sighed, then turned and called out, “June! June, come out here …”
From the kitchen: “Huh? …”
/> “Jesus,” Max’s dad muttered, “deafer than me.”
She laughed, said, “This is for you,” presenting him the pink box.
“This just keeps getting better and better,” he said, taking it from her, peeking in the acrylic window on the top and eyeballing the black forest cake inside. His favorite—the pink box giving it all away as she’d stopped at the trademark Pinky’s in town, all the Miltons’ favorite bakery.
“June!” he yelled again, then muttering to Maggie: “Jesus.”
She giggled. “These are for her,” she said, fluttering her bouquet, the triangular point of its paper wrapping pulled back and the white chrysanthemums blossoming out the funnel.
“What is it? …” June said, coming out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a tea towel, irritated yet somehow pleasantly so. She squealed when she saw Maggie; dipping at the knees like she would almost wet herself, she clutched first her thighs, then her face.
“Oh, my,” she gasped, quick-stepping now, coming into the light that spilled into the hall from the outside. “Let me look at you,” she said, her warm dish soap-smelling hands cupping Maggie’s cheeks and tilting her so she could get that light on her face. She said, “Look at that face … Keith, will you look at this face …”
“I know,” he said comically.
“My gosh, my Max is so lucky.” Then she kissed her on the corner of her mouth. “Sorry,” she said then, wiping the slight smudge of lipstick she might have left. Max’s mother’s eyes were wet but happy. She’d aged it seemed since the summer, dark circles under her eyes, but that limitless love and happiness she always exuded still radiated.
Maggie said, “I came to surprise you.”
“Surprise us? Well, it’s certainly a surprise. My goodness, I can’t believe you’re here … Come in, take your shoes off, all that,” she said, backing away and Maggie pried her loafers from her feet.
“These are for you,” she said, presenting her the bouquet.
Mrs. Milton took them, eyeing them, running her fingers over their shapes, letting the petals spring under her touch. “Come on, come to the kitchen, let’s get these in water—I’m going to make us tea.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Coffee for me,” Mr. Milton said, then to Maggie, “You’ll get into this cake with me, won’t you?”
