The Last Kid Left
Page 30
He keeps his own counsel.
He will not allow them to make him the subject of their interests.
Then, on the third day, Granville Portis wakes to an unquenchable thirst.
* * *
It is a beautiful summer up on the mountain, and Nick’s been out of jail for a week, and all he and Emily want is their privacy. But then the DROP story comes out, the Los Angeles Times story comes out, the StankTuna story goes online, and the phone begins to ring every ten or fifteen minutes, and the sound starts to make Emily anxiously unhappy, arousing emotions that are at odds with one another.
She doesn’t mind the idea of someone calling her. She resents being unable to answer. But even when the phone’s not ringing, she hears the sound in her head, like an alarm. So she hides her nerves, she’s cheerful and optimistic, she’s the girl whom Nick fell in love with originally and can depend upon, not one who breaks down over a telephone call.
They check caller ID each time anyway. Just in case it’s Suzanne or Alex or Meg, maybe even Emily’s mother’s clinic. But nearly every number turns up as unknown ID.
They keep the curtains closed. Try to pretend the noise doesn’t bother them, even when it’s as if the whole house is ringing. Occasionally Nick’s phone rings and he answers it automatically, until he has to stop doing that, too.
Before the ringing, before her name became public news, their days passed pleasantly, even joyfully. They didn’t talk about the trial, her father, the crimes. If they could help it, they didn’t even think about what had happened. They lugged her mattress down to the living room. It transformed the space, the bed nestled between the wood stove and the potted plants. To wake up together was even better than sex. They kissed and kissed, they burned through condoms, they poured out their feelings in the middle of the night. One morning, when Nick was still asleep, Emily went for a run in one of his T-shirts. She loved how it smelled just like him. The sweat on her arms and legs felt cool in the mist. The branches of the big trees swung in the same direction that she ran. She paused on a hillside to look down across the valley, and in a rush of feelings, which both turned her on more and also made her feel protective, even strong, she started thinking about all the things that she would do to him when she got back to the house, their house.
In the mornings they took long walks in the woods, her childhood kingdoms. Everything was suddenly reclaimed. They sat by the creek below the hunting camp. He skipped stones and talked about California. The crimes were far away, the deaths behind them. It was like there were no crimes, no Ashburns, while he talked about the different routes that they could drive. He’d been studying an atlas he’d found in the barn, squashed behind an old horse halter. It looked old enough to work for Lewis and Clark.
For meals, Emily took pride in her cooking. At dinnertime they lit candles, they ate on the floor. She liked watching him clean up. She enjoyed keeping them to a tight routine. She felt brand-new.
She wished time would stop.
One afternoon, there was a knock at the door. It was the Indian journalist, Leela, the woman who’d also gone to CHS. Yet another persecutory figure, as far as Emily was concerned. Though with four grocery bags at her feet.
It was the same day, Emily learned later, that the DROP story was electrifying the internet.
“Who is it?” Nick called from inside.
“It’s all right,” she said. She turned to Leela. “What do you want?”
“Nothing, actually.” Leela gestured to the bags. “These are for you. I just thought you might not want to go to the store for a week or so.”
“Why not?” she’d said angrily, on the verge of slamming the door. Who did this woman think she was?
Leela was unfazed.
“In case you’re recognized,” she said. “You’re going to get recognized. People may give you a hard time.” Then she sighed, as if actually pained by what she was saying. Later, it was the moment that made Emily start to like her. “There’s people coming,” Leela said. “Media people. Like me. More like that guy Justin you met. I don’t know how to say this. They’re going to get in your face. They’re going to say things in front of you that sound insane.”
Silence. Emily didn’t know what to say. Leela stepped back off the porch, brooding over something. She looked up with a pained smile.
“If I were you, I’d put up a sign down at the end of the driveway, to remind people it’s private property. That you’re not talking. Otherwise they’ll bother you nonstop.”
A moment later Leela waved goodbye with another sad smile, and walked down to an old Subaru parked on the road.
And she was right: The attention became enormous. Even a little thrilling at first, in its own freaky way. Like an electrical storm crackling in the sky. Soon it was exasperating. Emily felt trapped in the house, stuck in ceaseless dread. Like a helicopter was parked above their heads, hovering loudly day and night. One evening, after fried eggs for dinner, the phone rang something like thirty times in a row. Nick was trying to read a magazine, one of her father’s old National Geographics. He picked it up without a word and stomped upstairs, away from the ringing phone. She watched his boots between the railings, she felt a crimson panic in her cheeks. In the nest that afternoon, after sex, they’d taken a nap, but she hadn’t been able to sleep, all she could think about was that night, as if out of obligation. The dead doctor. The doctor’s dead wife. She’d wanted to erase everything that had happened, in both of their minds, but obviously she couldn’t, not even in make-believe. The stories weren’t hers to erase. Which brought her to a realization that she hated, but couldn’t shake, about what a horrible sensation it is to feel all alone when the person you love is lying right next to you.
When Nick came down, fifteen minutes later, he found her on the couch talking on the phone about pattern making.
“Who is it?” he said.
“Some woman from a fashion magazine,” she said, covering the mouthpiece.
Nick lunged for the wall and unplugged the cord. The line went dead.
“What the heck?”
“What?”
“Why did you do that?”
“What did we talk about?”
“Don’t sound like that,” she said. “It wasn’t like that.” She turned her chin into her shoulder, quickly regretful. Knowing exactly why he had reason to be angry, but still furious at his stupid, silly gesture.
“She was nice,” she said.
“You think she’s calling you up to discuss clothes.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Because you’re a big fashion designer she wants to talk to.”
“Don’t be a jerk. She said she wanted to hear my story.”
“They all want to ‘hear your story.’ So they can turn you into some messed-up girl for the five o’clock news.”
“Don’t yell at me. Obviously I know that.”
“Then act like it.”
At which point she’d felt so unpleasant, so loathsome, that when his voice escalated at the last second it shocked her with a jolt. Didn’t he see her regret? If not, what else was he missing?
Somehow they had the sense to cool down in separate rooms.
Emily wakes to the sound of airy silence. Nick’s still asleep in the nest, curled up on his side. She stares at the side of his face, the blush in his ears. Months before, they’d told each other they were in love. The declaration had made so much sense at the time, so obedient to natural facts, there was little surprise for either of them, she’d thought. But maybe she had it wrong.
She likes to remember how, several times in the past week, she spied him rearranging objects around the house, as if it’s his house. When he was still in jail, she’d spent a lot of time thinking about their first days, the sweetness, lots of kissing, the daring. But the memories are vague, they’re even sore from overremembering. They’d both read the DROP story, the other stories. She yelled at the computer, she vowed never to go on the internet again. It left her f
eeling schizophrenic, truly crazy, reading about “herself,” a girl she barely recognized. And at the same time she was crowded by so many feelings, it was like she was two people, the character and her.
In the afternoons Nick goes to the garage, or out to see his mother. The reporters on the road harass him with questions. Meanwhile, she has long hours to herself, to remember and worry, wander pointlessly around the rooms, peek out of the curtains and try to guess what happens next. Only occasionally does she think about her parents. More often, she thinks about the doctor, the doctor’s wife, the allegation of Nick smashing the doctor’s wife’s face with a shovel; she can’t bring herself to ask him about it.
She knows something is coming. Something bad.
The morning light out the windows is blue and gold. Nick starts to snore lightly. She goes to the bathroom and pauses by the hall mirror. Her heart stops. She sees pebbly eyes, her mother’s cheeks, an ugly fat rabbit with beady eyes. Why would anyone ever be in love with her?
That week, she will become incredibly annoyed over little things that Nick does without noticing. The way he needs to be reminded five times to take out the garbage. The way he jiggles his leg when he sits. They’ll start to fight in ways they haven’t before. They fight twice one afternoon, big blowouts. Of course they also make up instantly, talk about the future. She’s even surprised by how apologetic she becomes, lying next to him. All the time, she’ll admire how he sticks to his vision for what comes next, the big move. Pronouncing how, as soon as the judicial trial clears, they’ll resume their plans, though it may take a year, year and a half, he says. But that’ll allow her to finish school, which is a good thing, he thinks, to prevent any legal complications regarding transferring, when the plan still is to go west and leave Claymore.
But on days when it’s nice out and she’s dying to go for a run, she stays inside. She reads old books. Two times, when Nick’s home, just to make little tests—though she’s not exactly sure why she needs to test him, but she does—she’ll point out things that could go wrong with their plan, and he’s up instantly, mad about it, accusing her of not believing in them anymore, in him anymore. And she’s relieved. Though both times he grabs his phone and leaves the room instead of sitting down to talk it out. And both times she reflects that it’s probably true, what he accuses her of in the heat of the moment: she has begun to feel doubts.
And with each hour that follows, she will notice how her old feelings, which had come through her pen so fluidly when she wrote those letters to him in jail, have begun to dim. And at night, in the mornings, when she lies awake and can’t sleep, she tracks dreams across his face with dazed attention. The room glows red. He’s obviously having nightmares, she’d do anything to make them stop. But when she asks what they’re about, he doesn’t tell her, he just leaves, gets in his car, and drives away. And so she starts to have dreams of her own, secret dreams, that she suspects aren’t exactly the same as his.
* * *
Friday afternoon, Nick goes into town to have dinner with Suzanne. Emily stays behind, shivering in the living room. The old walls exude a chill, despite the heat. She stares at the walls, knowing other eyes on the other side are staring back, two dozen eyes over the hoods of parked cars.
The first car stopped on the day of the LA Times article, the same day as the StankTuna posting, August eighth. Ten minutes later, someone knocked on the front door. Emily stared down from an upstairs window. A man in slacks, white golf shirt. She’d dared him to look up, but he didn’t look, just turned around, got back in his car, and stayed in his seat.
Two days later, there were two cars, two vans. Someone erected a sun tent. By that point Nick had posted the signs like Leela suggested, and the reporters knew better than to approach the house, but they still remained and stared with vague patience, as though waiting for an event foretold.
By Friday, the night Nick goes to meet his mom for dinner, it’s more or less an encampment. Emily looks out the window. The journalists play cards. She plugs in the landline, just to test it. Like under a magic spell, it rings two minutes later. A local number, not one she recognizes but also not anonymous: someone named Fetterley.
“Is this Emily Portis?”
“Who’s this?”
A man’s voice, high-pitched. “Don’t hang up.”
“Who is this?”
“My name’s Richard. Richard Fetterley. I’m a photographer. You can search my name on the web, F-E-T-T-E-R-L-E-Y. I live in Foxborough.”
“We’re not talking to the media.”
“Of course not,” he says. “I’m sure you’re not.”
She waits a moment.
“Where’s Foxborough?”
“It’s in Massachusetts. It’s where the Patriots play.”
“What do you want?”
He sounds nervous, but in a nice way. Not sinister. Amateurish.
“I don’t know how to say this. I was hoping to take your picture.”
“We’re not doing pictures,” she says impatiently.
“I’m sorry, I’m really bad at this. I’m an artist. I want to make a portrait. Not for the media or anything. I’ll pay you.” He says, “I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”
“What kind of portrait?”
“It’s for a series I’m doing. About real women who live here.”
“We live in Claymore.”
“I know. I mean, in New England. The media’s making up a version of you. Whatever version they like, that’s what they put on the news. But it’s not you. It can’t be you. You’re a real person, with your own feelings, your own thoughts. That’s the person I want to capture. Do you see what I’m saying?”
“How much will you pay,” she says after a moment.
“A hundred dollars.”
“A hundred dollars?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“Two hundred dollars.”
‘Two hundred and fifty. That’s as high as I can go.”
She sucks in her breath.
“I need to think about it.”
“I understand. Look me up. It’s Richard Fetterley, F-E-T-T-E-R-L-E-Y.”
She finds the guy online. His website includes a photography portfolio. In a series called “New England Women,” it’s one photo after another, black-and-white, of women in lingerie, women in leather, women tied up with rope in unusual positions, with elaborate knots.
“He’s a pervert,” Nick says that night when she shows it to him. “Who does he think he is, calling you?”
“He’s a good photographer.”
“Are you crazy?”
Nick shuts off the screen.
“I was looking at that.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“What’s your problem?”
“What’s my problem? Have you gone nuts?”
She watches while he crisscrosses the room nervously. She decides that nothing of what she sees in his face is really there.
She deliberately stops herself from thinking about Mrs. Ashburn.
“You’re not going to talk,” he says vehemently. “Not to that guy, not anybody.”
“Says who?”
“I said.”
“Now you’re my father.”
“Give me a break.”
“I didn’t say I wanted to do it.”
“Of course you do.”
She decides that none of this is awful, none of it is heartbreaking.
She says quietly, “Why are you telling me what to do?”
“Someone should. Obviously you’re enjoying the attention.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. This is making me insane. I don’t even know who I’m talking to anymore.”
“Where are you going?”
He walks out. She follows him to the front door. She watches as he struts to his car in the dark, pulling his limp alongside him. At the end of the drive, the media wakes, turns toward him. She runs back to the
kitchen, to call 911 and report trespassers. But stops when the idea strikes her as so ludicrous, beyond mocking, too horrible to let stand, that she starts to laugh and remains there, until the telephone bleats in her ear.
* * *
An hour and a half after parking in Rob Miller’s driveway, Leela is several beers into getting stupid at a pace that her liver is untrained to process, and she is doing this because there is too much happening of insignificance, too little to do with her story, too much discomfort and early-onset social anxiety disorder (SAD!) to process sober, and so to be drunk, just drunk, she must get there singularly fast.
“His house” turned out to be “his parents’ house,” a modern white box overlooking the northernmost stretch of Claymore beach. Where Rob still lived, high above the sand, above one of the more chichi neighborhoods in Claymore, in his own separate white box, aka “the garage,” connected to the main house by a breezeway, in what appeared to be an apartment. And the apartment, when Leela first approached, walking up the driveway, looked to be stuffed with two dozen people her age she didn’t know, except for one woman she most definitely did know and recognized once she got close enough, an extremely pretty girl standing in the window. None other than Meg “the Body” Rosenthal.
When Leela was a first-year at CHS, Meg was a senior girl whom all the boys in school, as they prowled the grounds, whisper-called “the Body.” And who seemed, through the window glass, to have come straight to Rob’s bachelor quarters from the sea, roughly naked, with cutoffs for modesty to accompany her bikini top, but otherwise only in a bikini top, that was merely a suggestion of a bikini top. And the Body wasn’t one that Leela could even hate properly. They’d been friends, sort of. After school, they belonged to an extracurricular women’s studies group, a dozen girls who met once a week to discuss a reading, take occasional trips to help a political candidate knock on doors. And Meg was always nice, full stop. Maybe a little distant, self-involved, but rumors said that there’d been something messed up about her family? One of her parents had died, or both? Leela never worked up the guts to ask. The point was, Meg had been both friendly and ultrahot, yet somehow unable to have the easiest time at school, with boys or in life.