Our Brothers at the Bottom of the Bottom of the Sea

by Jonathan David Kranz

  Rachel gazed down at the table, lingering on its scars: penned scribblings, small starbursts of scratches. Her hands had formed fists on their own. How dare they? Rachel thought. Without my permission. She made her fingers relax.

  “We know,” Clemmons said. “That’s all right.”

  “Why am I here, then?” Rachel asked. “Have you found something new?”

  Nothing changed in Ryan’s hangdog expression. “You were watching Curtis that day,” the man said, flipping through papers in the file. “Did you do that a lot?” he asked.

  “Do what?”

  “Watch your brother. Was that something you had done before?”

  “All the time.”

  The detectives exchanged glances, sharing an understanding concealed from Rachel. Clemmons picked up the questioning. “Was there anything unusual that day?” she asked.

  “Well, yeah,” Rachel said. “It’s not every day your brother dies on a roller coaster.”

  More shared glances. “Before that,” Ryan said calmly, crossing his arms over the file. “Anything out of the ordinary?” When Rachel didn’t reply immediately, he generously offered her a minute or two to think about it. “We’d rather have a complete answer than a quick one.”

  Facing these detectives was like walking on the jetties at night, Rachel thought. One misstep, one slip on the bladderwort that covered every dark rock, and you could wedge your foot between the stones. The tide could roll in over ankle, knee, and higher, but try as you might, there was no climbing out. Whether or not such a thing had ever really happened, its possibility was part of the local lore everyone knew yet no one really respected. The threat didn’t keep drunken teenagers from wandering out on the rocks, but it did give them fear or bravado or both. Now Rachel just felt anxious.

  She went over the day in her head: Betty getting ready for work, Rachel struggling to get Curtis out the door. Her stomach hurt, and she was irritable; she had thrown up twice the night before and suspected there would be more to come. She needed a break, but Curtis was Curtis. For him, pulling on his shorts was a game; putting on a shirt was a game. The more frustrated Rachel became, the more satisfying the play—for Curtis. Ordinarily, experience provided wisdom, inspiring patience. But whether it was the hour, her stomach, or the usual conflict with Betty—who always needed something, a mirror, her tube of apricot scrub, an opinion on which of two blouses would best match her pants and flatter her eyes, all this while Rachel was neck-deep in Curtis care—wisdom and patience had kept their distance.

  She’d been rough with Curtis. Rachel hadn’t remembered that part of the day before, lost as it was in the accident that clouded everything preceding it. She had been rough buckling his belt into place. She had been rough bending his arms into shirtsleeves. Rough getting him out the door, rough towing him toward the boardwalk.

  When they got there, Curtis wanted to go shelling, saying, “C’mon, c’mon,” as if they’d all be gone if he didn’t hurry, eager to gather his fill before anyone else beat him to it. There was never any competition, but he couldn’t imagine a world that didn’t love what he loved as greedily as he did. He would race around the beach, gathering shells into the fold of his shirt before anyone had a chance to deny him his treasure. “No playing on the rocks,” Rachel had told him. “Stay near the high-tide line.”

  “The tide line?”

  She pointed it out to him—a ragged trail of seaweed and beach litter that marked the farthest reach of the water. He nodded his head as if he were listening—which wasn’t likely—and darted down the stairs and through the gap between the dunes. By standing over the rail, she could see him poking about, bending and scooping, holding his finds up to his eyes, stuffing things into his jacket pockets that met his approval, indignantly discarding the things that did not.

  Rachel’s attention wandered. She was digging her nails into her palms to distract herself from the queasy feeling inside when she felt a sharp tug on her pants. “I found a new one,” Curtis, suddenly at her side, said gleefully. He reached inside his pockets, his tongue in the corner of his mouth, and pulled out a mud-colored shard about as thick and wide as a potato skin, but with sharp white points, like tiny peaks of meringue, along two of its edges. It looked like the breastplate to a miniature suit of armor.

  “You found a crab shell,” Rachel said. She didn’t care to touch it—trash, a carcass carrying a whiff of its innards. Nausea rallied inside her.

  “Uh-huh, a shell.”

  Rachel took a deep breath, preparing for battle. “It’s not a real shell. Well, it’s a shell, but a different kind of shell.”

  “But it’s a shell,” Curtis insisted.

  “It’s an animal’s shell,” she said. “The kind of shells we collect, they come from shellfish, like clams and mussels.”

  “Aren’t they animals?”

  “Yes, but they’re not shell animals, like what we think of when we think of shells or collect shells. What you have there is the cover of a dead animal. See? It once had legs and claws and eyes.…”

  Curtis looked closely at the crab shell, turning it over in both hands. “Where?”

  “They’re not here anymore,” Rachel said. “The crab died. The claws broke off. All that’s left is this shell.”

  “So it’s a shell!” Curtis said happily.

  Rachel gave in with a sigh, finding it easier to quit than to keep fighting. “You’re right. It is.”

  “Yours,” Curtis said, holding it up for her. “It’s for you.”

  Rachel remembered taking it between the tips of her fingers, thinking of the gulls that had pecked the flesh out, the runny guts in the sand, the casual violence romanticized as “nature.”

  “Thanks,” she had said, determined to throw it back on the beach or into a trash barrel when he wasn’t looking.

  The detectives looked at Rachel expectantly. All this time, she had been gazing at her hands, fixating on a scar that remained from a cut she got just hours after the accident when midway through an argument with Betty about who should have been watching whom, she had thrust her hand into her sweatshirt, ripping her palm across the jagged shell. It was a bloody mess, more casual violence, and her first real opportunity to cry freely that day. It had felt good to let the tears flow, let the argument fall aside, let Betty clean and bandage her hand—to simply let go for a few moments and be Betty’s baby for a minute. They had both welcomed the break.

  “It was just like any other day,” Rachel finally said. “Nothing special.”

  Ryan leaned back in his chair, which scraped hostilely against the floor. “Did you see anyone you knew, any friends?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You sure?”

  “How about at the food court?” asked Clemmons. She drew the folder to herself, turning over a few pages. “I’m sure it’s not easy to remember everything.”

  What was she expected to remember? Rachel wondered. The food court? She had wanted a cup of tea and had hoped to pacify Curtis with an ice cream cone. But just when she thought she had him—and a moment’s peace—Curtis had to go to the bathroom. And not just any bathroom, not the one just yards away at the back of the court, but the one by Happy World. There had been a little scene when Curtis raised his voice to get his way, clutching his pants at the crotch and shouting that he had to pee. Rachel knew better—Curtis was being manipulative, standard-issue behavior she dealt with every day. But, just as Curtis had anticipated, he had attracted attention. And as Rachel had come to expect, outsiders saw a boy with Down syndrome who merited their sympathy, not a shrewd player who knew how to get his way. Someone had talked to these detectives, sharing something “important” that they happened to remember, which in the aftermath of a big event, just happened to give them a momentary sense of self-importance.

  “Lots of people knew Curtis,” Rachel said. “By sight, I mean.”

  “Curtis kept you on your toes,” Clemmons said helpfully. “I’m sure he could be quite a handful. I’m su
re it wasn’t always easy looking after him. That’s a lot of responsibility. Especially for a young girl.”

  Rachel shrugged. Curtis wasn’t the only person who could be manipulative. “He wasn’t so bad,” she said.

  “Tell us more about the Ferris wheel,” Ryan said.

  “What about it?”

  “Didn’t you go on it?” he asked. “What happened when you did?”

  Rachel looked from one detective to the other. “I think you already have some idea.”

  “We’re filling in the blanks,” Clemmons said.

  “You know,” Rachel said, thinking of the blanks in the story she’d rather not fill, “I’m only eighteen. Shouldn’t my mother be here with me?”

  Ryan tilted his head toward a black phone on the table. “We could do that. It’s certainly within your rights. But,” he said, leaning forward over the table, “eighteen is the legal age of consent. And we thought you might want to speak more freely.”

  There was that word again, Rachel thought, freely. The more she heard it, the less she felt it.

  “Maybe,” Clemmons added, hands clasped primly over the file, “there are things you need to say that you don’t want your mother to hear.”

  “I can’t think of any,” Rachel said.

  “About the ride on the Ferris wheel?” Ryan prompted, lifting his eyebrows, the most animation there had been on his face yet. “Wasn’t he … restless?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he have trouble keeping still?” Ryan thumbed through a few pages in his pad, holding the pen in his teeth the way a pirate boarding a captured ship might hold a cutlass. He took the pen out again and waved it over his notes. “You said in the hospital that he had been a handful that day, that you needed to get him out of the house.”

  Rachel nodded.

  “You rode together on the Ferris wheel?”

  “Yes.”

  Ryan looked from his notes, drilling his red eyes on Rachel. “At some point, he tried to stand up?”

  As if on cue, the air vent’s green ribbon fell limp and still. Even though it was impossible for the room to change temperature so fast, Rachel felt hotter. She thought, This ribbon thing really works. “I see where this is going,” Rachel said. “You want me to say it was my fault. That I should’ve known better.”

  Officer Clemmons seized Rachel’s hand with both of her own. “This is so difficult,” she said. “We know.”

  The enclosing grasp felt confining. Rachel pulled her hand free.

  “We have an eyewitness who said Curtis made an attempt to stand up while riding on the Ferris wheel and that you pulled him back down again,” Ryan said.

  “Someone could see that from the ground?”

  “Is it true?” Clemmons asked, leaning back in her chair. “Look, this isn’t about placing blame. This is about understanding what happened. Did he try to stand up on the Ferris wheel?”

  “I don’t remember,” Rachel said. She put a tissue up to her eyes, not because she was crying, but because she wanted to cover them. And she wanted to buy some sympathy. Manipulation seemed to be the order of the day.

  “Let’s move on to the roller coaster,” Ryan said. “The attendant checked his height?”

  “Yes.”

  “When he got in the car, Curtis sat down without trouble?”

  “Yes. He’d been on the ride before. He knew what to do.”

  “Would he have stayed down, all the way through the ride?”

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Rachel asked, looking from one detective to the other. Ryan averted his face, finding renewed interest in his pad, his notes. But Officer Clemmons held her gaze without blinking; she seemed to have shed all her softness, exposing granite in her eyes.

  “He had a history,” Clemmons said.

  In a flash, Rachel imagined outrageous attempts at escape, wild actions with broken glass and gunfire, reckless behavior that people would later describe, shaking their heads, as “so unlike her, so unlike her.” There would be random shouts. Running figures. An all-points alarm to capture the fugitive girl flying out the door. But the impulse passed as quickly as it had arrived, and Rachel was almost surprised to find herself still seated at the table, still facing two detectives.

  “He didn’t stand up,” she said hotly. “He may have been retarded, but he wasn’t stupid.”

  Ryan whispered something to Clemmons, and Clemmons nodded. The green ribbon began to flutter again, and Rachel thought, Good, it will be cooler in here soon.

  “Well,” Clemmons said. “I think we have all we need.”

  “Really?” Rachel said. “Did you talk to that attendant? What about the other ride—what do you call them—operators? What about Stone?”

  Ryan closed the file. “You can be sure that we talked to everyone that matters,” he said.

  Impossible, thought Rachel. You couldn’t talk to Curtis, who matters most, because he’s dead. You talked to the sister who was watching him that day, and you wondered, What person in her right mind would let a disabled kid get on a roller coaster after pulling him into his seat on the Ferris wheel? What kind of person would do that?

  “Thank you,” Clemmons said, rising from the table. “We have everything we need now.”

  What kind of person?

  Ryan cleared his throat. “You can go now,” he said. “You’re free to go.”

  What kind?

  “Miss? Miss Leary?”

  “What?”

  “You’re free.”

  June 30, 2013

  We call her the “fairy tale princess” and keep as far away from her as we can. Maybe it’s the distance, but from our perspective, it’s hard to believe she’s Stone’s kid. When she asks you to do something, it’s like an apology. “Would you sweep the greens? Can you check the restrooms?” No one wants her to be bossy, but for reasons I can’t explain, her mousy little voice and question-mark commands make me angry. Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it—but don’t ask for my consent.

  We all feel that Mike got a raw deal, and we show our loyalty to him by maintaining a conspicuous silence around the princess. We’re hardly subtle. When she’s near, conversation stops. As soon as she steps away, the whispers—loud whispers—begin.

  Mike pushes it further, hiding keys, crashing the computer, letting in friends for free during peak hours. Diana—the princess—either doesn’t notice or doesn’t want to notice. The more she pretends to ignore him, the more Mike pushes, as if he’s daring her to take it all the way and fire him. “Screw it,” Mike said to me. “What do I have to lose?” He won’t quit, and the princess won’t call him out. The tension around Diana rises every day.

  Even Walter feels it. “What the hell’s going on?” he said when I handed him his tickets—I didn’t bother to wait for him to ask this time.

  I told him it was the Mike thing. Stone’s daughter taking over.

  Walter shook his head and said that was tough, but that was the way of things. He said I should know.

  I said I knew.

  Then Walter changed the subject, drawing himself up to tell me that he got a new job with new responsibilities.

  I said nothing. He seemed frustrated by my lack of curiosity.

  “Pirate’s Playground,” he said. “I’m a supervisor now.”

  How was this possible? My father must be thrilled. I know I’m not. Me—Moon Walk toadie. Walter—supervisor. “Really?” I asked.

  “Really.” Walter practically floated with glee. Whatever disappointment he may have had with my previous indifference had been more than made up by the look of surprise I couldn’t hide on my face. “Really,” he said, stuffing the tickets in his front pants pocket. “Really, really.”

  It wouldn’t be the last surprise. Yesterday the princess pulled me aside. This time, I braced myself. She pointed out that our fathers work together.

  Together? I said my father worked for her father.

  “That’s what I mean,” she said. “I mean, you know wha
t it’s like—to be the boss’s kid.”

  “My dad’s not the boss.”

  “He’s in charge of people, a lot of people. He may not be the boss, but he’s a boss.”

  Yeah. And that’s why I have this terrific job here.

  She wanted to know why everyone was so … so … and wasn’t able to complete the question. She asked me if it was about Mike.

  It isn’t and it is, I thought. It isn’t, because there are so many little injustices with root causes we can’t see that we focus relentlessly on those we can. It is, because Mike may not be someone we love, but his getting screwed is something we understand. It isn’t, because in another week or so no one will give a shit about him. It is, because the fairy tale princess who has no right to our submission will get it anyway. Is it about Mike? I nodded and said nothing.

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it,” she said, brushing her hair away from her eyes. “It wasn’t my idea.” She looked around as if she was taking stock. “Does anyone really think I’d want to be … be…”

  “Hated?”

  “Yes,” she said, biting her lip. “Who’d want that?”

  I told her it didn’t matter. In the end, she was the manager, and he wasn’t.

  “I get it,” she said. “I just wish it didn’t have to be so fucking weird around here.”

  Just over her shoulder, I could see Mike leaning on a broom handle, giving us the evil eye. I looked away. “How could it be anything but weird?” I asked her.

  Then today, I was sorting the clubs by size when Mike nudged me in the ribs. He lifted his chin to the ticket office. Stone was inside, talking to his princess. “That bitch is going to rat us out,” Mike said.

  “For what?”

  “For anything. For the thing with the keys. For missing clubs.” Mike looked me in the eye. “For giving away tickets.”