by Noah Bly
For the life of me, I don’t know why he chose to handle the situation that way. Maybe he thought it might ease my suffering to allow me to conceal Jeremy’s suicide, or maybe he decided that, in the end, there was nothing to be gained by reporting it any differently. Either way, Jeremy was dead. Dear Edith, too, maintained her silence about what she suspected, so the articles that came out in the papers the next day had headlines like “Virtuoso Musician Plummets to His Death in Tragic Accident.” There were a few mumbled rumors of suicide, of course, but to my knowledge no one took them seriously.
I don’t know much. I don’t know if I did the right thing, and I don’t know if the truth of Jeremy’s death would have served a higher purpose, had it been reported. But one thing I do know is this:
If there’s a heaven, there’s a VIP suite in it reserved solely for people like Carlos Bernal and Edith Schumaker. For what it’s worth, they both have my fervent gratitude, until the end of time.
Anyway, as I was saying, my family was not on hand to witness the grotesque events in our driveway. This was ten years or so before cell phones were in every pocket and purse, and although the police had begun calling everywhere I could think to tell them to try, it took over an hour before Arthur finally showed up. Paul and Caitlin arrived half an hour after their father, but within seconds of each other.
Arthur had been at a recording studio in St. Louis that morning, and should have returned much earlier in the day. (I now suspect he was with Martha Predel at the moment Jeremy jumped, but I have no proof of this.) It was fully dark outside when he at last pulled into the driveway, but the light from the porch allowed me to see him step from his car, toting his violin. Almost everyone else had left by then, but Carlos and a uniformed officer were still standing by the house, tying up loose ends. I ran for the door, desperate to reach Arthur and tell him what had occurred before he heard the news from them.
Edith was in the living room with me; she had refused to go home and leave me by myself. She called out behind me as I tore the front door open. Arthur was next to the officers by then, but they hadn’t yet had time to explain what they were doing there.
He saw it in my face before I said a word. My feet stopped moving after I was out on the porch, and I watched him glance anxiously over Carlos’s shoulder at me. At first there was relief in his expression, and I realized he’d feared something had happened to me. He almost smiled, then, but all at once his cheeks went slack as he studied me more closely, and he shook his head, twice. His legs gave out on him, and he fell on the ground, clutching his violin case to his thick chest.
I kneeled next to him, as I wasn’t able to do for Jeremy. I held his body, the way I should have held our son’s, and the two of us sat there in the snow, sobbing under the cold glare of the porch light. The two policemen and Edith hovered over us, wanting to help, but there was nothing they could do except wait nearby, and watch us grieve for our boy.
By the time our remaining children came home, Arthur and I were alone in the house, waiting for them. Unfortunately, both Paul and Caitlin had already been alerted, by strangers, to the news about their brother. Paul had been at his cottage, taking a nap all afternoon, with the phone unplugged, but the police had finally tired of trying to call him, and had instead sent an officer to knock on his door. And Caitlin, who had recently moved back to Bolton to teach at Pritchard, had been unearthed in a basement room at the university library, where she often sequestered herself to “get away from interruptions.”
Paul pulled into the driveway mere seconds ahead of Caitlin, and Arthur and I went outside to meet them. The moon was up by then, and there was light enough to see by. The four of us were moving in slow motion, it seemed, and it took a lifetime to reach each other next to the carriage house.
And so we came together at last, in stunned, nightmarish silence, to face the reality of Jeremy’s death. Our eyes met, and we embraced, and we tried to speak, and we cried. When that ran its course, we did nothing at all except stand there, witless and drained. I found myself becoming a cliché, against my will, because I couldn’t conceive of an original way to mourn. Every gesture I made seemed preordained, every word I uttered felt scripted. When I had awakened in the morning there were still five of us, but that evening there were only four, and the simple math of this equation made no sense to me. Arthur and Paul and Caitlin were just as lost as I was; none of us knew what to do, or how to behave. It’s a wonder we eventually remembered to come in out of the cold and the darkness.
Sometimes this sort of thing brings a family closer together, or so I’m told.
But sometimes it tears it apart.
It didn’t take very long for the Donovan clan to come undone. I don’t know why this was so, but it seems to me the groundwork for our dissolution must have already been laid, years ago, unbeknownst to me, because otherwise there would have been no reason for things to have gone as sour as they did. Regardless, once we began to speak, all our karmic chickens—an entire flock of them—came home to roost.
We sat by the fire in the living room for a few minutes, and I told the children what I had already told Arthur—namely about all the times I had found Jeremy on the roof, and what had passed between us, especially this afternoon. But while Arthur had taken in this information quietly, with only a whispered “You mustn’t blame yourself, Hester,” as his reaction, Paul and Caitlin were floored, and instantly furious.
And more unforgiving than I’d ever dreamed possible.
Paul was drinking scotch, and his first response was to stand up and fling his glass into the flames. The glass shattered and the fire ignited the alcohol with a tremendous “whoosh” of heat and light; it was a miracle nothing close to the fireplace was burned before the flames subsided again. I didn’t have a chance to object to his behavior, though, because he was yelling at me before I could recover from the shock.
“You were up there how many times?” he howled. “You knew he was suicidal, and you never said anything about it?”
“Sit down, Paul,” Arthur demanded. “Control yourself.”
“Fuck you, Dad,” Paul shot back. “Did you know about this, too?”
Caitlin was more contained, but just as livid. “Why would Jeremy do such a thing, Mother?” She kept her seat, but her back was rigid and her voice cut like a scythe. “Why in the name of God did you go out on the roof? He as much as told you he was going to jump if you did just that.”
I tried to answer her, but Paul cut me off. “Yes, Mother. Do tell us what was going through your mind.” His ruddy face was streaked with tears. “Jeremy’s been depressed his whole goddamn life, but he’s never acted on it until you decided to play a game of tag with him.” He stumbled over to the fireplace and rested his forehead on the mantel shelf. “Oh, Jesus,” he sobbed. “What have you done?”
Arthur tried to defend me. He really did. “That’s enough, from both of you.” He was so overcome with grief that he could barely make himself understood, but he tried. “Your mother is not to blame for this.”
Caitlin leaned forward and glared at him. “Then who is, Dad? Who else knew how bad things had gotten? Did you? Did Paul and I?” There were tears on her cheeks as well. “Of course we didn’t. Jeremy didn’t say a word to anybody else except Hester.” She turned her glare on me. “And you did what you’ve always done with him and Paul, didn’t you? You coddled him, and you decided you knew best how to deal with his condition.”
She dropped her gaze and stared blindly at the floor. “Hester always knows best, especially when it comes to her darling wunderkind boys.”
The bitterness in her tone was appalling.
“His condition?” My voice was a small, dead thing. The combined weight of their assault and my own guilt and pain was destroying me. “Which condition are you referring to?”
“His goddamn depression, of course,” Paul snapped, spinning around again. “Don’t be stupid.” He turned his rage on his sister. “And what the fuck are you talking about, Caitli
n? Hester’s never coddled me a day in my life. She was too busy wiping Jeremy’s ass every time he farted, or babying you because you couldn’t …” He made a face and looked away. “Fuck it,” he mumbled. “Never mind.”
Caitlin blinked. “Because I couldn’t what, Paul?”
He didn’t answer her.
Arthur made another attempt to calm them down. “We need to stop this, right now. None of us is thinking clearly, and this is the absolute worst time possible to turn on each other. Jeremy didn’t kill himself because Hester spoiled him, or any such nonsense.” We were sitting close to each other, and he reached for my hand to hold it. “And criticizing your mother serves no purpose at all. We weren’t up there, and we can’t possibly know what made him do what he did.”
Caitlin shook her head, hard enough to dislodge a tear from her chin. “That’s the whole point, Dad. We weren’t up there. But Hester was up there at least half a dozen times with him before today. She’s known there’s been a problem for months, and she’s never told us anything.” She studied my face. “You enjoyed having him all to yourself, didn’t you? You loved that feeling of being needed so much that you weren’t about to share any part of it with the rest of us.”
And with that cruel, all-too-accurate statement, she fell to pieces, just like that. She buried her face in her hands and wept as if the entire world were ending. I don’t know if it was because she saw what her words were doing to me, or if she simply could no longer beat back the full horror of Jeremy’s death. She’d wept in the driveway before, but that display was nothing to this flood now pouring from her.
And to my undying shame, I didn’t go to her. The ugliness she had shown preceding this breakdown had devastated me, and all I could do was watch her from a distance, with wounded pride, and despair, and a burning self-hatred.
Arthur, too, did nothing. I don’t know what kept him in his chair. Loyalty to me, perhaps, or some kind of psychic paralysis. Either way, he didn’t move, and the two of us, in frightening stillness, watched our daughter implode in front of us. It was our single greatest failing as parents, I believe, and maybe the only opportunity we would ever have to draw what was left of our family together again, in a way that would allow for some kind of healing.
But we chose not to. We didn’t know any better.
Which left Paul in charge of caring for her.
“For God’s sake, Caitlin,” he growled down at her bowed head. “Get a grip.”
He meant it kindly enough. Honestly, he did. There was even love in his voice, if you knew how to listen for it. But if you weren’t listening closely, all you would have heard was his impatience, and his exasperation.
Caitlin’s head snapped up. Her face was distorted and red, and her eyes were wild with anguish and rage. She looked at her brother for a moment, and then at Arthur, and then at me. It seemed as if she were searching for something she had lost, and was frantic to recover.
But whatever she was looking for, she couldn’t find it in our faces.
She picked up her purse, and she rose from her chair.
“Where are you going?” Paul asked, as she walked toward the door.
“Somewhere else,” she replied, putting on her winter coat. “Anyplace that’s not here.”
I didn’t stop her. I didn’t tell her that this was her home, and that she belonged here, especially after a day like this. She may have been waiting for me to say something to that effect, but my tongue refused to make the effort. Arthur’s hand tightened on mine, but he, too, said not a word.
And so she left.
Her departure was the last straw for Paul, as well. He began to rant at both of us, but the worst of his vilification was directed at me. He went on and on, but the gist of it was that I “killed Jeremy,” and “drove away Caitlin,” and I was “responsible for everything that’s wrong with this family.” He was incoherent with grief and frustration, and more than once I saw madness in his eyes.
You’ll forgive me if I don’t wish to recount all of that particular speech.
Suffice it to say, it didn’t end well. Paul, too, collapsed in despair, and disappeared into the night after Caitlin, leaving Arthur and me alone in our huge, cold, empty house.
And leaving us as well—for all intents and purposes—with three dead children, instead of one.
CHAPTER 19
Bonnie Norton is being ridiculous. And devious, too.
After dropping Alex off at Pritchard this morning, I returned home and called Bonnie at the Conservatory, but Marla—her secretary—told me Bonnie had instructed her to say, should I call, that “the dean is considering your situation carefully, and will be in touch with you as soon as she reaches a decision.” When I inquired about what was being done with my students, she informed me, cryptically, that they were being “taken care of,” and would not elaborate.
Which means, of course, that Bonnie has shuffled them off to other teachers, at least temporarily. And the fact that not even one of my pupils has contacted me to ask what’s going on (not even pretty little Miranda Moore, who adores me) tells me Bonnie has likely warned all of them away in an attempt to further isolate me from the Conservatory community.
Either that, or my students themselves are too disgusted by my behavior at last week’s master class reception to wish to speak with me.
The doorbell rings, interrupting my dark thoughts. I glance up from my chair in the living room and peer out at the porch through the window, to see who it is.
Dear God. It’s Paul, again.
I get to my feet with an effort. I’m exhausted and sad this morning—it’s not even noon yet—and I’m in no condition to deal with another of his fits of pique. I check the mirror on the wall in the entryway before opening the door; I don’t want him to see me looking too disheveled. I’m pleased to see my hair is combed, and my blouse and slacks—both dark green—are presentable. My light blue slippers don’t go with the ensemble, but there’s no time to change footwear, so they’ll have to do.
I take a deep breath and open the door, to find Paul waiting in ambush on the other side. He’s already holding the screen door open, and leaning in, so he can begin badgering me without delay.
“Hello, Hester,” he growls. The day is bitterly cold again, and he’s glaring down at me from behind his bisonesque beard.
“Paul.” I cross my arms and refuse to shiver in the frigid air. “Why have you come back?”
“Let me in, and I’ll tell you,” he says. His heavy, strong hand slips on the handle of the screen door and he almost falls at my feet.
Lord. He’s thoroughly, absolutely besotted. His breath stinks of alcohol and cigarettes, and his eyes are unfocused and fairly secreting hostility. I glance around him and see his red Volvo next to St. Booger in the driveway; its bumper is mere inches away from the statue’s pedestal, which means Paul missed the turn in the driveway by several feet, and even jumped his vehicle over the brick lip of Booger’s stone garden before managing to apply the brakes.
“I think not,” I say firmly. “You’re drunk, and I have no intention of speaking to you while you’re in this condition.”
He pulls himself to his full height. “Don’t you dare fucking judge me for being a little shitfaced. If you’re not already drunk yourself, you will be soon, and we both know it.”
He’s not slurring his words at all, but he’s speaking with exaggerated precision.
I begin to close the door. “Goodbye, Paul. You might wish to use your cell phone to call a taxi to take you home.”
He steps in closer and puts an arm out to prevent the door from shutting. “We’re going to talk now,” he states. “Right now.”
He’s looming over me, and his face is flushed, and his voice is low and mean. What in heaven’s name has gotten into him? I’m used to him being unreasonable, but there’s something else going on here I haven’t seen from him before, and I have no clue what may have set him off. But I believe he may be drunk enough to hurt me.
F
or the first time in my life, I find myself physically afraid of one of my own children.
I step forward and glare up into his eyes. I will not let him see my fright. “Leave this house immediately, son, or I will call the police and have you arrested.”
He snorts and pretends to be unconcerned, but he abruptly drops his hand from the door. “I want you to throw that fucking kid out, Hester,” he blurts. “I’m done fucking around. He’s got no business being in Jeremy’s apartment. No fucking business at all.” He shakes a finger in my face. “And then you need to get out, too, and let Dad have his own goddamn house back.”
Jeremy’s apartment? What on earth?
I slap his hand out of the way. “Have you been swilling absinthe, or something similarly brain-damaging? If you’ll recall, we had another tenant in the apartment last year, and you didn’t care one way or another about that. What are you so upset about?”
The reddened skin on his face tightens. “Caitlin said you’re treating this little shit like some kind of fucking foster kid. Like little fucking Jeremy Junior.” Spittle flies from his lips; he hasn’t sworn this much since he was in junior high.
So I was right. Caitlin and he are speaking again, and they seem to be united in jealousy about my relationship with Alex. That in itself is a bit of a shocker, but Paul’s having worked himself up into this much of a rage over it makes no sense at all. What caused this sudden burst of saber rattling?
I study him, trying to see past the current drunken stupor into his convoluted psyche. Why would he be jealous now of my relationship with Alex—a virtual stranger to him? Does he truly believe I’m attempting to supplant Jeremy? And how can I talk to him about any of this when his bloodstream is so polluted with alcohol?
I can’t, of course. And I won’t.
“We’re done talking, Paul. Go home, get sober, and get some sleep. If you still want to talk when you’re lucid, then you know where to find me.”
