Lost Cause

by Callie Sparks

  But that’s okay. We’ve always been—always will be—just friends. Nothing more.

  I look down to clear away his plate and that’s when I notice it.

  There’s a large pile of twenty-dollar bills stuffed under his orange juice glass.

  #

  “Somebody painted balls on the basketball court.”

  That was the whisper going through the playground that Halloween as we lined up for our classes. I didn’t get it. Painted balls? Why? And what was the big deal?

  Claire’s eyes shone. “I want to go see!”

  She dropped the shopping bag with her Zombie Pirate costume, and started to skip over there. The rest of the kids followed, so I did, too. I didn’t get three steps before Mrs. Waterman was clapping her hands at us, urging us inside for the start of school. Claire bounded up to her spot and said, “I wonder who did it.”

  Jacy shrugged. “Could’ve been anyone.”

  “A boy, probably. Jim, I bet,” Mari added.

  I said, “What kind of balls? Basketballs?”

  Claire giggled. “Not those kind of balls, stupid.” She leaned forward, but even her whisper was loud. She wanted everyone to know she was educating me. “Like . . . boy parts. And a prick, too. Squirting.”

  I blushed. “Oh.”

  “So gross,” Jacy said.

  “Permanent paint, too,” Claire whispered, adding to the shock.

  So Halloween went on, as scheduled, except for during the parade, we had to march all over balls. Several of the teachers saw it and tried to lead us away from it, but it was right there, in fluorescent yellow paint, big as anything. To me, it looked kind of like a cartoon guy with big eyes and a nose, all smushed together. Mr. Frederick, the janitor, walked over to it and grumbled. He’d just gotten rid of the “Bella is a hore!” graffiti on the gymnasium wall, and Bella’d graduated last June.

  After the Halloween celebrations, I stepped from the bus and into a thin drizzle as I headed up the hill toward home, wondering where Noah was. I knew my parents would be home. They were always home. A couple years before I was born, my father had been studying for his doctorate in psychiatry until he nearly lost his life when his car plummeted into the canal on Route 29. After he became paralyzed from the waist-down, he fell into deep depression, during which time he ended up finding religion again. A few years later, he was ordained as deacon of our church, a position that paid just enough so that we didn’t starve.

  But I never suffered, and we did a good job of running with the rich people. Our house in Raven Rock was the ugliest house in one of the prettiest areas of New Jersey. It once belonged to my father’s mother, my Nana, and is extremely old—one of the oldest houses in Raven’s Rock, built somewhere before the Civil War. My mother liked to decorate, and they’d hired a contractor to add a master suite downstairs and ramps near all the entrances so that it’s basically one-floor living for my dad. My mom drove a used Mercedes, which had been left to us by a parishioner. It wasn’t in great shape, but it wasn’t a clunker, either. And my mother always tried to dress me in the fashionable clothing from thrift shops, though I usually resisted. From the surface, I guess you could say we might even have appeared affluent.

  Of course, all my friends were the real thing.

  But Noah was different. I figured his family had to have some money—that huge log cabin his father built the summer I turned ten was so big and magnificent, it made me drool every time I stepped inside the front door. But other than that, their lifestyle was remarkably Spartan. Yes, Annie was the closest thing to Barbie I’d ever seen, and seemed to have on a new runway-ready ensemble every time I saw her, but Noah never wore fancy clothes—sometimes he looked just as much like a street urchin as I did. And though their house was magnificent, with a giant fireplace that you could stand in, it barely had any furniture. In fact, it was filled with unfurnished rooms.

  The best thing of all, though, was that he was always there. While all of my friends usually went away for the holidays, Noah never did. He was always around, which made it strange that I hadn’t seen him all day, on the most important school day of the year.

  At the top of the hill, I headed toward Mrs. Burns’ house. There was one of those old-fashioned brass knockers on the door, etched with the words, “The Burnses,” even though Mr. Burns had been dead some thirty years. I stood on my tip-toes and reached for the knocker. The clackety-clack noise of the brass reverberated through the moist air. There was the faint indication of some movement inside, but it was a full three minutes before the door opened. Mrs. Burns stood there, still grasping the doorknob with one hand, and her metal, rubber-bottomed cane with the other. She was dressed impeccably, as usual. Her bright polyester dress, which might have been in style thirty years ago, hung loosely on her skeletal frame, and her head was topped with a stiff mass of carefully-placed silver ringlets.

  “Trick or treat!” I exclaimed. Lacking a bright-orange plastic Jack o’lantern or pillowcase, I greedily held open my backpack.

  She strained to see me through her bifocals. “Oh, if it isn’t young Miss Baker,” she said pleasantly. “You make a terrific black-belt.”

  “I’m a Jedi,” I grumbled.

  She struggled to turn around, and finally produced a small, beaded change purse. Her delicate hands trembled noticeably, and the bluish tinge of her veins was visible under her smooth, translucent skin. She pulled a quarter from the purse and held it up for me to examine. “How’d that be?”

  “Great!” I said, and she plopped it into the reaches of my backpack. It slid between two notebooks and disappeared. She’d given me the same treat for the past six years, so I accepted it without a grudge. “Thanks, Mrs. Burns.”

  “Hey, Ari,” a voice said behind her.

  Astonished, I realized Noah was standing behind her, still wearing his Buzz Lightyear pajamas. Or maybe it was a costume?

  “What are you doing here? Why weren’t you in school today!” I blurted, excited to see him. “You missed the parade and the games and—“

  “I know. My parents went on vacation and left me with Mrs. Burns,” he explained, scratching the side of his head. “But I caught a stomach bug.” He sniffled.

  “Bummer,” I said, taking a step back, thinking that I’d have to have coughed up both lungs before I missed Halloween at school. “Well. See you.”

  I hopped off the porch, sailing over all three steps as if executing the perfect dive. If Noah’s family was gone, I guessed, my trick-or-treating for the year was done. Across the street, my mother was on squatting over the garden, planting tulips. She straightened and waved to me, then wiped her brow.

  “Mom, do you know it’s raining?” I called to her.

  “Oh, you’re such a smart kid,” she grumbled. “Glad to see your education is paying off.”

  I smirked. “Thanks.”

  “What did you do in school today?” she asked, standing and stretching her lower back as I approached. She was wearing shorts, and there were lime-green grass stains in perfect circles on her knees. Her arms were caked in top-soil to the elbow, and her long, curly hair was done up in a red handkerchief.

  “Same old thing. Bobbed for apples, and had a best costume contest.”

  “And I suppose you didn’t win, wearing that thing,” she complained, pointing at my outfit. “If you asked me, I would have made you a costume. You could have been a princess or something pretty!”

  “That’s why I didn’t ask you,” I mumbled, pushing my glasses up on my nose. “The force is strong in me.”

  Just then, the high chirping of a bicycle bell resonated through the air. I turned to see Noah pedaling unsteadily toward us. Trying to ring his bicycle bell had obviously thrown him off, because his bike skidded into a pile of leaves, falling sideways, sending the bag into mid-air as Noah’s hip and elbow thudded into the dirt. He climbed out from underneath the bicycle and brushed himself off. He was still wearing his pajamas. His hair, matted with drizzle, pressed over his eyelids, so he had
to raise his chin in order to see us. Then he waved. “Hi, Mrs. Reese.”

  My mother watched him, concerned. She obviously didn’t know rubber-boy that well. “Are you all right, dear?”

  “Mom, he always does things like that,” I told her, hurrying toward him.

  “Yo, I thought you were sick?”

  He said, “I thought I should get my homework.”

  I stared at him. “It’s Halloween. There was no homework.”

  “Oh, right. Good,” he said, turning away and accidentally tripping over his bike. He looked dazed. There was something really off about him. Well, he was always off, but now, it was even worse.

  “Noah,” I asked as he picked up his bike and meandered toward the street. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. It’s just . . .” He looked over toward my mom, and then lowered his voice. “I’ve never been . . . away from my dad this long, believe it or not.”

  “Ohhh,” I said, suddenly the pieces clicking together. “Why didn’t they take you?”

  “They said they’d take us on the next one. They said they were going on some boring adults only cruise, because they never got a proper honeymoon, or something.” He rolled his eyes. “You know. Adult stuff.”

  I didn’t really. I zoned out whenever adult stuff got mentioned. “Well, if you’re feeling better tonight, come over,” I told him. “We can watch Netflix.”

  He brightened a little. Come to think of it, he really didn’t look very sick. “Yeah, okay.”

  Just then, a car pulled into his long driveway—a white compact that neither of us recognized. A small woman in a dark ponytail jumped out. Noah watched her fishing through the trunk and said, “That’s our new housekeeper. Luisa.”

  “Oh. You think you’ll be in school tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. As long as Sarah’s okay,” he said.

  Noah was so attentive to Sarah’s needs and desires, he made most siblings look like absolute strangers. I said, “Cool. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Noah was obviously deeply enmeshed in his thoughts, because he only acknowledged my exit with a simple, barely audible grunt. It was an awkward way to end a conversation.

  He was in school the next day. That day, on the playground, at recess, I looked over from playing jump rope with the girls and saw Noah. Jim had effectively made Noah the outcast; no one wanted to hang out with him, for fear of turning Jim’s wrath their way. But Noah had accepted it; he usually stayed all to himself, reading under the overhang, where it was shady. This time, though, he was sitting at the center of the basketball court, drawing.

  That was dangerous. What if Jim or one of the other, bigger kids wanted to play there?

  I crept up to him, about to tell him to be careful, when I saw what he was doing.

  He’d made the lewd graffiti into a picture of the sunset on the horizon, with a river cutting through tall trees. Of course the art teacher had asked him to do it, because he was the best artist in the school. This was nothing short of a work of art.

  I sat next to him. “Why do people have to be so bad sometimes?”

  He leaned over the painting and drew a long, white stroke on the ground. “This“ – He waved his arms at the drawing— “doesn’t make a person bad.”

  Noah had empathy for everyone, even the worst of people. But not only that, he always tried to find the good, in every person, every situation, every single thing, no matter how small or inconsequential.

  Chapter Four

  So eventually the honeymoon period ended. When did that happen?

  It started when I was eleven. The trips stopped. My dad was working late all the time, and when he was home, he was sad. Complaining. Crying. We knew something was going on, but we didn’t know what.

  Had he ever hit you before?

  No. Well, once when I was four, he pulled my arm too hard and it got dislocated. And another time I was where I shouldn’t have been and he accidentally shoved me against a railing. I got a big bruise on my side. But those were accidents. He apologized like crazy for them and was worried as hell, because I was the kind of kid who was like a magnet for bruises—I was always falling down or hurting myself. He didn’t want me to get taken away by DYFUS or anything.

  But Annie?

  She’d show me bruises in the morning, tell me he wanted to make sure she never worked again. She said he was scared she would leave him.

  But you never saw your father hit her?

  No.

  And she never told anyone but you.

  She told Luisa, I think. But no one else.

  Luisa. Tell me about her.

  Well, they hit it off right away. Luisa was only supposed to come over three days a week to clean, fix meals, stuff like that, but it seemed like she was always there. A few times I’d get back from school and they’d have the cabinet with all the alcohol open, and a bunch of margarita glasses in the sink, and they’d be sloshed on the couch, watching soap operas and giggling like little kids.

  But your dad fired her?

  Yeah. Uh, one day we got back from school and the kitchen was torn apart, cabinet open, television on, but no Luisa or Annie. We went upstairs to the master bedroom and . . . you know.

  You found them doing something inappropriate?

  They were having sex. I didn’t realize that, then. Annie threw on her robe and came to us and told us that Luisa had thrown out her back while moving a piece of furniture vacuuming and she was just trying to get a kink out. I knew that wasn’t true, but I didn’t know what to tell my dad. I didn’t want him to be upset and hurt her more.

  But he found out.

  Yeah. Sarah told him that she saw her mom and the housekeeper giving each other naked massages. Or something. It didn’t go over well.

  #

  As I walk out back to my car, I run the stack of bills through my fingertips, which are still prune-like after helping Tom with the breakfast dishes.

  I’d lost count at five-hundred dollars.

  How the hell could Noah afford that?

  Well, I knew some of it, what I’d heard on the news and what my parents whispered about when they thought I was out of earshot. After Mr. Templeton got out of prison, he’d thrown himself into his work, paying back every cent he owed and trying to regain his reputation. After his suicide, though, it was discovered that he’d taken out large life insurance policies on himself, with Noah as his sole benefactor. His estate had been in probate, but now that Noah was alive and legally an adult, it was only a matter of time before he inherited it all.

  Throwing my apron in the back seat, I climb into my Fiat and start to pull out, when I notice a form crouched on the wall behind me, overlooking the canal. He’s facing away, and his back is broader, his hair curling long over his neck, so ordinarily I wouldn’t recognize him, but all it takes is one look at that rusting old bicycle next to him. I throw open the door and walk over to him, reaching into my pocket as I do. “You suck at math if you think that was fifteen percent. I can’t keep all this,” I call.

  He doesn’t even bother to turn around. As I near him, I notice he has hands on his thighs, looking down over the swirling water in the lock. He says, “Yeah, you can.”

  He doesn’t put a hand out, so I lay the money next to him on the crumbling stone wall. “Seriously. I mean. It’s nice and everything. But I just served you breakfast. Give me twenty percent, tops.” A wind blows then, so I clamp my hand down over the money, wishing he had a pocket I could stuff it into. A loose one, that wouldn’t require me to get too close to him.

  “You have college bills, right?”

  “Yes. Well. No. My parents pay for all that,” I mumble.

  “And we all know they’re rolling in it. Come on, Ari.” Dark hair falls in his eyes, and he pushes it back. “Where you going?”

  “St. Bonaventure? In Upstate New York.”

  He whistles. “Sounds expensive. You need it. They need it. Whatever. Just use it.”

  I stare at him, wondering if he’s s
erious. “I mean, what about you, though? Don’t you need it?”

  His eyes narrow. “What do you think? You’ve obviously seen the interview with Dinah Seaver.”

  I shake my head. “Well, some of it. The beginning, I mean,” I explain. What I could stomach.

  He blinks. “Wow, really?”

  “Yeah, well. It seemed a little too personal.”

  He lets out a short laugh, then swipes the hair out of his face again and looks out into the distance, toward the Pennsylvania side of the river. “That’s insane. Everyone in America knows more about me than my best friend.”

  My breath catches as he says those words. Best friend. When I saw the news on television that he’d been located in Southern California, alive and well and working at a gas station in a run-down desert town called Ripley, I’d pretty much assumed that he’d forgotten me, that the years and trauma he’d been subjected to had made the part of his life that held me shrivel and disappear completely. But the part of my life that held him? Always there. Smaller sometimes, but it was like a scab that never fully healed.

  I’m still his best friend? Really?

  “Uh. I mean . . . I could watch it, if you wanted me to . . .” I start, but my words die out. I don’t want to. I’ve heard enough. Scattered pieces have come through. The story was shocking and tragic, so just about everyone was talking about it. Even up at St. Bonaventure, there were whispers, and my roommate had marked the air date on her phone so she wouldn’t miss it. They all sat around in the rec center, popped popcorn, and watched it with a running commentary, like it was a sporting event.

  Me, however? I walked out after five minutes. They looked at me and said, “Hey, Ari, isn’t he from your hometown?” but when the camera started to pan away from his home, so you could see mine next door, I freaked out and bailed. Later, I’d tried to watch it on demand, but never got past the opening interview, and those first few frames of the new, tough Noah.