White Knight

by CD Reiss

  I was in the living room on a folding chair, sewing a button on one of her yellow polo shirts. My fingers had gone numb. I thought it was a late ache from cleaning the factory two days earlier, but in the time it took my brain to catch up with my glands, I knew it was something else. My hands had lost feeling because every bit of tactile sensation went between my legs.

  It was like getting slapped awake. I froze in that chair with the needle in one hand and the bag of yellow buttons in the other.

  This was my sister and a man I barely knew, but my body didn’t care who they were. It recognized the rhythms of their lovemaking and opened me, squeezing the breath out of my lungs and making my fingertips cold.

  After putting the shirt and sewing supplies on the floor next to me, I went to the front door to get some air. The house was massive but had no rugs or wall hangings. We had very little furniture. Guests sat on folding chairs and plastic outdoor furniture that had been discarded by someone else. Our father had passed seven years before, and our mother had left with a man soon after. They’d left behind a dying town and a closed factory, so I’d sold the contents of the house to help the people in the town recover. They never did, but I employed whomever I could and sold most of what we had.

  Harper went along with it because she didn’t care about the furniture, but she didn’t agree with my strategy. She was about “maintenance.” I had no idea what she was trying to maintain.

  Out on the porch, the sounds of the squeaking bed faded. I took a deep breath. The house was set back on the end of a long drive, hidden from the main road by high hedges and a long garden. Overhead, birds flew south in crooked Vs and Ws. I was alone. Finally.

  But the throb between my legs didn’t go away. I was going to have to walk it off.

  Heading down the path toward the hedges, I thought about everything except the tempo of the creaking bed. I thought of how we used to have a staff to walk down the drive for the mail, and how, before his route doubled in size, Willy would come all the way down the drive to deliver it, just for the chance to say good morning to my mother. How many people could I hire to repave it? How many children could I feed with that small job?

  I’d thought the driveway repair through before, but the money always found something more important to do. I was running out of things to sell, except the house itself. No one could afford to buy it, and those who could didn’t want it. So the Barrington Mansion stayed the Barrington Mansion even though it looked like no more than a big, old confection of a Victorian.

  I got to the mailbox, a green-painted cast-iron chest with a bronze slot, just as Willy drove up in the white truck.

  “Morning, Miss Barrington!” His seat was on the right, like a boxy, doorless European sportster. He handed me a short pile of mail.

  “Morning, Willy. How’s Lara doing?”

  “On the mend. It itches under the cast though. She complains like she’s dying of it.”

  “That’ll be the last time she jumps off Crone’s Tree.”

  “Probably not. You know kids. So what’s happening with that boy from California? Word is he’s been hanging around Miss Harper.”

  My body was reminded of the bed creaking. I looked away from Willy in case the feeling was all over my face. “I think he’s all right.”

  “How long’s he staying?”

  The town was very protective of Harper and me, even though we were adults. My father’s dying wish was that they take care of us, and when folks here agreed, it was a solemn oath.

  “Long enough for her to break his heart, I’m sure.”

  Willy laughed and waved. He pulled onto the road, and I flipped through my mail as I walked back to the house. A few bills. Marketing junk. An early birthday card for me.

  When I got to the white business-sized envelope with my name in dark blue ball point, I stopped. Stood in place. It was an expensive buff paper. The return address was engraved in slate grey.

  Him.

  I hadn’t heard from him since the night he left me.

  Not a word.

  And now… today.

  All the other envelopes slipped to the ground, abandoned like old lovers.

  * * *

  Dear Catherine of the Roses,

  I will try to keep this letter short in the hope that you even remember me. I’m not used to writing things by hand, but I thought you deserved the effort.

  Lance has died. He was an old dog and he had a good life, but now I have to bring him home.

  I will be burying him on Wild Horse Hill. The service is set for next Friday.

  You aren’t obligated to come, but I would very much like to see you while I’m there.

  Christopher

  I read it again.

  * * *

  …you deserved the effort…

  * * *

  Did I suddenly deserve effort?

  * * *

  …Lance has died…

  * * *

  Oh, terrible. Terrible. Such a sweet dog, waiting patiently for us at the base of the tree.

  * * *

  …next Friday…

  * * *

  The day after my twenty-ninth birthday. So many years.

  * * *

  …You aren’t obligated…

  * * *

  How far down the path had we come to have no obligations?

  * * *

  ...while I’m there…

  While he’s here.

  * * *

  …I’m there...

  * * *

  He’s coming here.

  * * *

  …Christopher.

  * * *

  Christopher.

  Chapter 5

  CHRIS - present

  It was my shop, which meant I could come and go as I pleased. But it was my shop, which meant my absence was noticed.

  “You’re not going to Catalina.” Brian sat on the other side of my desk, slouched in the leather-and-chrome chair with an ankle over his knee. He was twelve years older than me, but while I wore suits, he was a Henley-and-jeans guy. He weaponized casual. Nothing showed you were too good for all this shit like sneakers. “You’re not going to Martha’s Vineyard, the house on Lake Como, or the Reykjavik retreat. What am I supposed to think?”

  “What you think is up to you. What you’re not supposed to think is that I’m making side deals.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because you trust me.”

  “This might be a bad time, don’t you think?” He tapped his thumbs together, the only indication that anything serious was happening. “We’re in the middle of a crisis. Our investors are concerned.”

  “They knew the risks.”

  “That’s going to go over like double-dipping in the latrine.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “‘You knew the risks’ isn’t a way to do business if you want to continue doing business.”

  “I’m not going to continue doing business. I overleveraged.” I pressed my hands to the desk glass. “I had a good run, but it’s over. If you want it, make an offer.”

  He smirked. “You’re so young.” He leaned forward, putting his hand out to stop my objections. “It’s fine. That was always your selling point. No one wants an old genius. But listen. You’ve never dealt with the ups and downs. Shit crashes. You pick up the pieces. It’s not that big a deal.”

  “It’s a big deal.” I picked up my bag and slung it over my shoulder. Having started out as a bike courier, I never got over the easy weight distribution of a messenger bag. No one on the street used briefcases anymore anyway. “I don’t know if I’m hungry enough to drag the fund out of the gutter.”

  He leaned back into his relaxed dude posture. “It’s in your blood. If you’re not hungry, you’re not Chris Carmichael.”

  “Maybe.” I left room for the fact that he could be right, but I wished I didn’t have to. If I was nothing but a hunger, who was I when I was fed? And if there was more to me, what was it? “I have to get my
head together.”

  “Don’t take too long, kid. The market moves fast.”

  Chapter 6

  CATHERINE - SIXTEENTH SUMMER

  The first time I got close to Chris, I was a week into the summer after my junior year at Montgomery High. I was leaning on the court fence, waiting for my coach, and Chris was edging the grass with a Weed Whacker. I heard it and felt the pricks of cut grass on the backs of my calves. I stepped away from it.

  “Sorry, miss.”

  “It’s all right, I—”

  My voice hadn’t drifted off or gotten lost. I didn’t swallow the rest of the sentence or forget what I was saying. The final words never existed. Everything before I saw him was fake, and after that moment, my life became real. Like Dorothy walking out of her black-and-white world into a three-dimensional colorscape.

  My life wasn’t divided into the years before that moment and the time after because he was handsome or strong. It wasn’t because he was charming or interesting.

  It was because he was mine.

  We stood watching each other through the chain-link fence, and I knew I was just as much his. We claimed each other in those first seconds.

  Blue is blue and the sky is up and the earth is down. These aren’t articles of faith or belief, but knowledge. Necessity. Denying gravity existed wouldn’t hurt you, because it was always the law, and up was still up and down was still where you landed when you jumped.

  A yellow ball bounced behind me, skidding and clicking against the fence.

  “Catherine!” Dennis, my coach, called. He could hit drunk, but speaking was harder. He slurred at the ends of his sentences. He’d always said muscle memory was more powerful than anything the brain could remember. He said your body was smarter than your mind.

  He was right. My body knew this young man with the blades of grass stuck to his pants and the specks of dirt on his cheeks.

  “Hey, Catherine.” The boy said my name like a prayer that had already been answered.

  The ball rolled by my feet. I tapped it, bouncing it under my control, until I got the string face under it and I could let it roll across. Admittedly, I was being a bit of a show-off before I replied.

  “Hi, Weed Whacker guy.”

  “I’m sorry if the noise bugs you. I can do court seven.”

  “You’re not bothering me.”

  The distance between us, the fence, the next hour of lessons, all of it overwhelmed me. Too many obstacles.

  He made the first move, stepping away from the fence and saluting. “Next time then.”

  He took his Weed Whacker to court seven, and I hit the ball back to my coach.

  I never hit so hard or so accurately. I astonished Coach Dennis, but I wasn’t surprised. I was sure everything I’d do from then on out would be right and true.

  When I finished my lesson, the boy with the Weed Whacker and I found each other by the water fountains, attracted like magnets. We didn’t say hello or introduce each other.

  Wide-eyed, he said, “Did you feel it?”

  I knew exactly what he meant.

  “I did. I did feel it.”

  We stole to the back room of the pro shop to marvel at this unnamed thing that changed everything.

  “What was it?” I asked when he closed the door.

  “I don’t know.” He touched my arm.

  It felt as though two planets that had been on separate trajectories for light years had finally collided and melded. I stared at his hand, and when he tried to move it, I put mine on top of his.

  “Have you felt it before?” I asked.

  “No. But I still kind of… it’s still there.”

  “Yeah. Me too. I’m…” What I was about to say had felt so trivial, I almost skipped the step. “I’m Catherine.”

  “I know.”

  Of course. In our little fishbowl, I was famous.

  “I’m Chris. Chris Carmichael.”

  “Chris.” I said his name the way he’d said mine, finally understanding how to pray for something I’d already been given. It was almost the same as praying that it not be taken away.

  “I have to see you again,” he said as if waking from a half-dream.

  I could. I had to. I had no choice. But I couldn’t agree before Irv, who ran the shop, burst in with a clipboard. He had a huge round belly, crooked teeth, and a soft spot for Barrington kids who needed jobs.

  He froze when he saw us. “Carmichael, get out to court seven and finish the job.” His eyes flicked to me and back to Chris.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And young lady?”

  I held up my chin. I was an heiress and a club member.

  “I believe you don’t want your mother to hear back about this. So keep it quiet.”

  I didn’t realize at the time that he was protecting Chris, but later, after I realized it, I was grateful to him.

  Though in the end, no one could protect Chris but me.

  Chapter 7

  catherine - PRESENT

  His letter was folded up in my pocket. It didn’t change anything right away. It took a day or so to think of Chris with a smile on my face, and another day or so to see the conditions I lived in. The patchwork of pipes and electrical work. The bare walls and barren floors. My clothes were in good shape because Ronnie was a seamstress who could repair anything, and my hair was decent because the Snip-n-Save needed every customer they could get.

  I wiped down the green tile kitchen counter, seeing every encrusted piece of grime as if for the first time. A person got used to things. A bit of grime that didn’t come out on the first scrub just stayed there until new eyes saw it.

  Harper flew down the stairs in the yellow polo shirt she had to wear at the Amazon distribution center where she and half the town worked, her blond hair tied into a loose ponytail.

  “Hey,” she said when she burst into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Taylor’s hanging out here today. You should put him to work.”

  “Can he do anything?”

  “Yeah.” She pulled out yogurt. “Surprisingly, for such a nerd.”

  “He didn’t seem like a nerd to me.” I got a bowl and a box of granola from the cabinet. “He’s quite handsome and confident.”

  She blushed a little, taking the granola and bowl. “He’s all right.”

  Harper was a nerd herself, spending hours in front of a computer she’d built from parts. She’d gone to MIT for a year, but came home when Daddy got sick. She never went back. Staying in Barrington was a terrible waste of her mind. A brilliant, stubborn, loyal mind.

  “Do you remember Chris Carmichael?” I asked. “From the country club? He gardened for us one summer. Lived in the trailer park by the station?”

  “Yeah, duh.” The granola tinkled into the bowl.

  “He sent me a letter.” I peeled the top off the yogurt container and plucked a spoon out of the rack.

  Her eyes went as wide as her bowl. “Really? What did he say?”

  “Lance died.” I dropped a lump of yogurt into her bowl and gave her the spoon.

  “Aw,” she said, poking her spoon against the bottom of the bowl. “Percy’s the last of that litter.”

  I didn’t give myself a second to doubt my next question. I just spit out what was on my mind, too late to sound casual. “I was wondering if you’d look Chris up on the computer? See how he’s doing?”

  She put her back to the counter and held the bowl in front of her, swirling the granola into the yogurt. “Why?”

  “Because I’m asking.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know what you’re asking for exactly? Do you want to know where he works or do you want his bank account info?”

  “Harper Barrington!” I scolded. “You said you stopped that!”

  She shrugged. Did I like that she was a hacker? No. But I could only make her promise she wouldn’t steal or cheat. She’d never promised to stop hacking. At this point, she was a grown woman and I was so ignorant of the digital world, I didn’t even know what the pr
omise meant.

  Besides, she needed to exercise her mind, not shut it down.

  “I don’t want his bank information,” I said.

  “Too bad.” She ate like a prisoner of war.

  “What do you mean?”

  She scraped the last of the yogurt out of the curve of the bowl. “He’s loaded.”

  My heart twisted and my skin got hot. Not because he had money. She could have revealed that he was a schoolteacher and I would have had the same reaction. My body reacted to the fact that she, my sister, anyone in the same room as me, knew anything about him. It was like touching him from a universe away.

  I didn’t know how much further I wanted to go, but Harper wasn’t one to slip through a door quietly; she burst through.

  “Has his own hedge fund and a seat on the Exchange. Ex-wife but no kids.”

  He’d gotten married? That seemed impossible. How could what we had be replicated in the same lifetime?

  “Really?” I held up my chin. I didn’t want to show her that I was tripped up.

  “Italian model. I forget her name. He’s got a sweet penthouse on Central Park West and a net worth around—”

  “Stop!”

  She obeyed, washing the bowl with a roll of her eyes. My own sister was closer to him than I was. And the ex-wife…

  I had to swallow a lump of jealousy before I spoke again. “You’ve been talking to him?”

  “Hell, no!” She put the bowl in the rack. “But I’ve been watching, more or less. He can’t see me do it and it’s mostly legal.”