Kindred

by Stein, Tammar

  “I didn’t say that,” I say defensively. “I just want to know how much he hates it. Enough to bring a gun to school? Enough to shoot the students?”

  I see Mo trying to rein in his emotions. He tries for flippancy again. “Look, it’s better to just deal with how it feels to go to a fucked-up school like that. Better to get out how it really does suck to be surrounded by preppy freaks all day who think you’re not fit to shine their shoes when in reality you’re a hundred times better than they could ever be.”

  “Who are we talking about here?” I ask. “Jason or you?”

  Mo’s lips whiten as he presses them tightly together. “He’s a really good illustrator,” he finally says. “We’re going to publish the story when we’re done.”

  I’m at a loss for words. To think this has been going on for so long right in front of me. No wonder God is punishing me in His disgust. I cannot believe I’ve been so blind, and I cannot believe Mo has done this to me.

  “Mo, did you make him do this? Is this your idea? All this time that you’ve been gone, you’ve been hanging out with Jason? You’ve been filling his head with all this …?” Words fail me.

  “She wants him to be a freaking U.S. senator, if you can believe it. I mean, what the hell chance does Jason ever have of becoming a senator?” he snorts. “She won’t quit, though. Won’t see what he’s like, what’s possible for him. And that fucking school she’s sending him to …” Mo starts pacing around the kitchen, hands deep in his pockets, some nameless emotion shimmering off him. “You have any idea what it’s like there? The Alpine Club flies to Switzerland to go skiing in the Alps over spring break. The Polo Club expects members to have their own horses. And Jason’s mom is bankrupting them just to pay for tuition. So what the fuck is he supposed to do? Everyone can tell from the minute they meet him that he doesn’t belong there, and those assholes never let him forget it. He doesn’t have a single friend in that entire school. This year’s almost over, which means he’s got two years left in that hellhole. Two years with his mother constantly asking him about his grades and why he isn’t hanging out with this person’s son or going out with that person’s daughter when he doesn’t even stand a chance. When no one will give him a chance.

  “Worst part is, no one at school knows his mom’s a mailman, mailwoman, whatever. And her route is right through Belleair Bluffs—where, like, eighty-five percent of the student body lives. It’s, like, what’s worse? The fact that none of them ever noticed their mailperson, or waiting for them to finally make the connection?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being a mailman,” I say quietly.

  “Are you blind?” Mo snarls. “Their parents are producers and country music stars; they’re millionaires. A couple of big-name musicians send their kids to school in a chauffeured limo. There’s a senator who sometimes drops his kids off in a helicopter. So no, there’s nothing fucking wrong with being a mailman. But it’s a crime at Warfield.”

  I take a deep breath, ready to get a word in, but Mo’s not finished with his rant and steamrolls right over me.

  “You remember our freshman year at Breakman, don’t you?” he demands.

  Breakman was the elite private high school in our town. A few years after the divorce, my parents got the brilliant idea that sending us to a small, “nurturing yet structured” school was the best thing for us. It was a complete disaster. Mo and I didn’t fit in; didn’t have the right clothes, the right look. Most of the students had been together since preschool, always attending expensive, exclusive schools. They knew each other, slept with each other, got high together, covered up for each other, and were absolutely not interested in two half-Jewish bourgeois teenagers in the middle of their “awkward” stage. For me it meant eating lunch alone, occasional giggles behind my back and either eye-rolling or a condescending excuse at my tentative attempts to make friends.

  For Mo it meant serious hazing on the track team by the seniors.

  Of course I remember Breakman.

  Two months into the school year, Mo was left in the back of the school van after a track meet, hands and ankles duct-taped together, pants and underwear pulled down to his ankles. He was left there for three hours before the driver found him.

  My parents, united in their insane fury, descended on the principal. I don’t know what went on behind closed doors, but several students “graduated early,” Mo received a four-year college tuition scholarship courtesy of the school board and the next week we were attending the local public high school.

  We never talked about Breakman again.

  For Mo to bring it up now means that he’s empathizing with Jason more than I ever imagined. Even if the plot of the story was Jason’s idea in the first place, Mo, in the grip of some terrible flashback, is only adding fuel to the fire with his zealous approval.

  I have time to think this in the quick moment before he looks me in the eye. I keep my face carefully blank. Who’s the driving force behind his sudden bitterness, the need for vengeance? Is he being played, manipulated by the master of the game? Is this free will?

  “You know Jason’s taking this seriously,” I say. “It’s not a game to him. It’s dangerous to egg him on like that. He’s going to snap, and he’s going to kill a lot of innocent people.”

  Instead of feeling chastened or concerned, Mo grows even more defensive.

  “How do you know they’re ‘innocent people’?” he demands. After catching the look of horror and disgust on my face, he softens his tone somewhat. “Look, Miriam, even if Jason had the guts to do something, which he doesn’t, the worst that will happen is that he’ll sneak a gun to school and not feel like a jerk for one day.”

  “This isn’t you,” I say, desperate to believe it, to convince him. “This wasn’t your idea. You’ve been given a mission.” I’m guessing this, but as I say it, I believe it.

  “Maybe I was,” he says. “But this isn’t evil. This is helping Jason become a stronger person, someone who matters. You’re not helping; with all your stupid errands and assignments, you’re like another teacher, except you’re only three years older than he is. Where do you get off telling him what to do?”

  And now I know why I haven’t made any headway with my new assistant.

  “You’ve sabotaged me! You knew I was trying to help!”

  “Miriam,” Mo says, dripping with condescension. “You can’t help.”

  Then he grabs his keys and walks out, slamming the door behind him.

  That night, I’m sick again. I’ve also started running a low-grade fever, which makes me achy and clammy, alternating between shivers and sweats. The twisting pain in my belly keeps me up for what’s left of the night. Once again, I’m struck by how much I hate this disease. How it strips me of any dignity. This is the worst part, the ugliest part, of a human body to break down. The contrast between my writhing, sweaty form and the perfect and cold celestial beauty of the angels couldn’t be greater or clearer.

  I am nothing but mud.

  XXI.

  AFTER A LONG, SLEEPLESS NIGHT, I know I’m ruined for work. I call Frank and tell him I’m sick.

  “Again?” he asks, concern and annoyance warring in his voice. “I hear you saw Dr. Messa. I hope everything’s all right.”

  My skin flushes hot and cold at the thought that what I’m going through is becoming common knowledge.

  “It’s not that,” I say stiffly. “Just a bug, pretty contagious. I don’t want to get anyone else sick. I’ll do some work at home on my laptop.” I used to be a bad liar, but I’m improving.

  “Fine, fine.” He is irked at being rebuffed, at not getting an inside scoop, even though it’s nothing salacious, or even interesting. “See that you get well, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I hang up and then review my options. It’s no use going to Jason; he’s picked his confidant, and I’m not it. Anything I say will make things worse. In fact, I call Frank back and ask him to tell Jason not to come to the newsroom today. I don’t wan
t him there until I can slip the notebook back into the drawer. He can’t know I found it.

  I go to the kitchen and stare at the notebook again. It looks so innocuous. I don’t open it.

  I call Dr. Messa’s office and leave a message with the nurse to tell him the medicine isn’t working.

  An hour later, as I head toward Emmett’s shop, my cell phone rings.

  “Ms. Abbot-Levy?”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Dr. Messa. I received your message.”

  “Hi,” I say, surprised. “Thank you for calling.”

  “I’m concerned about your situation,” he says, his soft voice serious. “I want you to come in tomorrow. I’ve told Megan to fit you in. We need to discuss our options.”

  I sit down on a bench by an antiques store until my heart settles down and I don’t feel nauseous.

  “Okay,” I say weakly. “Thanks.”

  I know there are prayers for healing. But I have a feeling that God already knows what I’m going through. Mercy and pity are not on today’s agenda.

  I hang on while I’m transferred to Megan, who finds a slot for me. I’m to come in first thing in the morning.

  I’m running out of time. My disease is worsening, and the school year is almost over. If Jason’s going to do anything, it will be soon, while he’s got Mo there cheering him on.

  There’s no point in going to the police—not with the notebook as my only evidence. It would only serve to let Jason know I’ve been snooping, to make him cover his tracks that much more. I need to prevent that courtroom scene, I need to save Jason, and calling the cops wouldn’t really do that.

  As I continue walking toward Emmett’s, I notice I’m sweating, my legs quivering from what should have been a leisurely stroll. My strength is fading. From reading other people’s posts online, I know I don’t have much time before I’m hospitalized.

  I make it to Emmett’s shop, push open the door and sag into the cool darkness.

  Someone is getting a tattoo, the tattoo gun buzzing like a busy bee. After a sharp glance up at me, Emmett goes back to his work. I settle on a nearby chair and watch him.

  It’s a bit gruesome as the blood wells and he wipes it away with an automatic gesture, the disposable towel growing bloody as the tattooed skin grows more and more colorful.

  This tattoo is of the Confederate flag, a pretty design until you stop and think what it stands for. And then you wonder what the hell is wrong with people.

  When Emmett finishes, our Rebel friend, wearing a faded T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off, goes over to the mirror and inspects his new tattoo. As Emmett cleans up his station, the man gives a low whistle of approval.

  “You like it?” Emmett asks.

  “It’s just like I pictured it. You’re a freaking artist.”

  Emmett nods slightly at the praise. He’s drawn the flag flapping, the familiar X of stars nearly obscured and the ends tattered, as if it’s been buffeted by a stiff wind for a long time. There are two ways to read this tattoo: either with pride that the flag is still there or with relief that it’s fading away. It’s clear how the redneck interprets it: he looks at his triceps with gleeful delight. I wonder what Emmett was thinking as he inked it. He never struck me as a bigot. Only a businessman who does what people ask for.

  Rebel pays and leaves and Emmett turns his full attention to me.

  “You look like shit,” he says. “Everything okay?”

  I think about that for a moment.

  When I don’t answer, he says, “I guess not.”

  I chew on a nail, trying to decide what to say.

  Emmett takes a look at his calendar and, after rubbing a hand across his bald head, shrugs, almost to himself.

  “This calls for a drink,” he says. He leans over the counter and grabs his keys and wallet. “Come on, my treat.”

  “The shop …,” I say halfheartedly.

  “It’s quiet today.”

  “You always say that,” I remind him.

  He smiles. “They’re all quiet,” he says, and holds out a hand for me to take. I look at his intimidating tats, his kind eyes, and then place my hand in his.

  “Okay,” I say. “Thanks.”

  Emmett doesn’t drive into town like I expected him to. We cruise past Main Street and onto the hilly, scenic roads of the countryside. There’s something relaxing about the rolling green hills, dotted with grazing horses and cows. It’s even nicer riding in his clean car than it was in the back of the truck. The windows are strategically down to let in the early summer breeze, and I actually calm down from last night’s upheaval.

  We’re halfway to Nashville when he turns into an unfamiliar state park and pulls into an overlook parking lot. We’re the only car there.

  “I thought we were going for a drink,” I say.

  He fishes around under the seat until he finds what he’s looking for and, with a flourish, produces a half-empty water bottle. “A drink,” he says, and hands it to me. It’s warm from being in the car so long.

  “Gross. How long has this been in here?”

  “Less than a couple of weeks,” he assures me. “Nothing but the best for you.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  We share a smile, the mood lighter than it was at the shop.

  “Want to take a look?” he asks, pointing at the view over the low stone wall that we’re parked against.

  I nod and we get out. There’s a soft breeze that feels like a caress, and the beautiful view stretches out from here to forever. Everything looks like a miniature set: tiny houses and farms; cute, diminutive trees and little roads that wind between hills—a perfect little Pleasantville. There’s just the very start of summer flowers: a few precocious black-eyed Susans and purple echinacea standing out amidst all the green.

  “Doesn’t even seem real,” Emmett says, echoing my thoughts. I can tell he comes here often. Nothing seems real from up here, not even my problems. The dichotomy of this ethereal loveliness and the ugliness of people is almost too great to comprehend. I don’t know how God can stand it.

  We sit down on the stone wall, legs dangling over the ledge, the ground at least a hundred feet beneath us and sloping down sharply to a valley far below.

  After about a minute of silence, Emmett turns to me and cocks an eyebrow.

  I still haven’t decided how much to tell him, and to stall for time, I automatically take a sip from the bottle. The water tastes like plastic, and I spit it out with a cry of disgust.

  “I can’t believe I just did that,” I say, wiping my mouth.

  “I can’t believe you did that either,” he says gravely, but fighting a smile. “I would never drink something that nasty.”

  I punch at his shoulder, but gently. I don’t want him to topple over the edge.

  With the mood light again, I smile at him, and then, because it seems he won’t mind, I lean against his side until I’m cradled against him. He feels solid, and I know it was silly to worry about knocking him off the wall. I have the feeling he could stay there for years, like a statue, if he wanted to.

  “A bunch of bad news came in all together,” I say, as if picking up in the middle of a conversation. “Sometimes it all seems to come at once and it’s too much, you know? More than I can fix.”

  “Like what?” he asks, a reporter wanting specifics.

  “My meds aren’t working like they should. I have a meeting tomorrow to discuss my options,” I say, disgust dripping from my voice. “Frank’s not happy with all the work I’m missing. If I give him the gory details, he’ll get off my back, but I don’t want to become the Friday feature. That man lives on gossip, grits and biscuits.”

  “Sounds like a country music song.”

  I snort.

  I’m skirting the big problem, but even here, in this idyllic setting, it’s hard to find the words. “And then, you remember my pet project, Jason the jerk?”

  He nods.

  “It’s bad.” I pause. “I found something of h
is, and I’m very concerned he’s going to do something …” My voice trails off. Somewhere, hidden in some tree, a bird trills.

  Emmett waits for me to continue. When I don’t, he prods me: “And by ‘something,’ I assume you mean something bad.”

  I nod.

  “Something very bad?”

  I nod again.

  “Something like robbing a bank?”

  “Worse, if you can believe it. And …” I rub a hand across my face hard, thinking quickly how much I should and shouldn’t reveal. “It’s complicated. My brother’s hanging out with him, and somehow they’re egging each other on. And even though Mo thinks it’s just a game—at least I think he thinks that—I have a very bad feeling that Jason’s taking this seriously.”

  “You’ve talked to Mo?”

  I nod silently.

  “Didn’t do much good, huh?”

  “Clearly. I’ve been up all night, and I don’t know what to do.”

  He sighs. “Well then, you need to go to the police with what you’ve found, Miriam.”

  He sees the look on my face.

  “It’s not like I think it’s a great option. But it’s your only one if you really think this thing, this disaster, is actually going to happen. If you don’t get them involved and then this comes to pass, you’ll always blame yourself.”

  “But I—I’m supposed to help Jason.” I’m nearly crying with frustration and fear.

  “Maybe stopping him is the best you can do for him.” Emmett’s voice is implacable, and not the least bit sympathetic. I don’t know if that is because he’s indifferent to Jason’s plight or because he’s lost patience with my one-track mind.

  I want to tell him more. I want to tell him everything. He’s so unflappable and practical. He would have good advice, assuming he believed me and didn’t try to commit me to the nearest insane asylum for delusions of grandeur. At least they don’t burn crazy heretics these days. Just dope ’em up and lock ’em down.

  But I don’t tell him. It’s no use. It’s too big a stretch of the imagination to think he could believe me, but even if he did, it would put him in a terrible position. This is Prometheus’s burden. I can’t set it down; I can’t pass it on.