The Spires

by Moretti, Kate

  “You son of a bitch,” Willa said softly; then she threw her glass in the direction of Jack’s chair. He ducked out of the way, and it shattered on the concrete patio. Willa took a final look at all of them before turning and marching into the house. She left the patio door wide open.

  There was a pulse of silence before Penelope said softly, “Jack, you’re kind of an ass.”

  “Look, am I wrong? I know her better than anyone. It’s not the first time I’ve yelled at her for acting like a selfish prick, and it won’t be the last,” Jack said. He grinned at Penelope and reached out, took her hand, his thumb caressing the inside of her palm and sending her heart into her throat. “Besides, I know I’m an ass.”

  Penelope gently pulled her hand away, her thoughts muddled with vodka. He always did this. When Jack and Willa fought, Jack came to Penelope. Touched her, made her quietly want, more than anything, to be on his team. To be Jack and Penelope, and Willa be the foil. She felt an impulse, dark and slippery, to encourage him. It would be easy. Yeah, you’re right. Willa is always catered to. She’s always late, always subtly rearranging our schedules to suit her, wrinkling her nose at dinner, declaring our evening activities. He wasn’t wrong; it could be maddening.

  But it was who she was.

  Penelope stood, followed Willa’s path into the house, downstairs, and knocked on her bedroom door. When she pushed the door open, Willa was sitting at her makeup vanity, fixing her hair.

  “I came to see if you’re okay?” Penelope asked her. She didn’t look like she’d been crying.

  “Why wouldn’t I be? Because of Jack?” She laughed, shrill and thin. “He can fuck himself.” She applied lipstick in a careful arc and pressed her lips together. Then she stood, looked at Penelope expectantly.

  “Will, where are you going?” Penelope asked her softly.

  “Out. I’m not staying here.” Her voice was cold.

  “Please don’t do this.”

  “Why? I already called Hal. He’ll be here in five minutes.”

  “The guy from the other night? When you came home crying?”

  “Oh, that wasn’t because of him. That was because some douchebag at the bar threw a drink at me.” Willa tossed her hair behind her shoulder and stood in front of Penelope, who was blocking the door.

  “Please don’t go. You’re mad.” Drama followed Willa—her fiery temper and quick mouth were both the things everyone loved and hated the most about her. If she went out tonight, who knew how it would go. Who she would anger, what would happen.

  Finally, she sighed and met Penelope’s eyes. “Of course I’m mad. He’s a shithead. You know this, right?”

  “You guys fight like brother and sister,” Penelope offered, trying not to fall into the same trap Jack tried to lure her into earlier. Pick a side.

  Willa reached out and hugged Penelope tight, held her breathless against her cheek, smelling like something candied. “I’ll be careful, okay?” She slipped through the door and was gone.

  Back outside, Bree quietly made up another pitcher of lemonade, which Flynn, Penelope, Jack, and Bree drank under the fireworks that started to explode all around them. Jack whistled “The Star-Spangled Banner” softly, and Penelope thought about Willa, out at a bar, angry and drinking. Maybe popping a pill or two.

  “No worries,” Jack whispered, patting Penelope’s shoulder. “She’ll be fine. She always is. You’ll pick up the pieces. Or I will.” He grinned. “I was too harsh. She’s just so . . . frustrating sometimes.” He disappeared inside the kitchen, and moments later, Penelope heard the distant strum of his guitar.

  She wondered if he felt bad about Willa. She contemplated following him, but before she could, Bree stood, swaying, and wandered into the kitchen. She heard, dimly, the click of the basement door.

  Flynn laughed softly. “She always pretends she’ll come back, but when she’s drunk, she just goes right to sleep.”

  “It’s only ten o’clock!” Penelope said. She was starting to forget the earlier fight, enjoying the fizz of the lemonade, the sour tang at the back of her throat, the heady fuzz of her mind. She turned and studied Flynn, aware that she had him alone for the first time since his overly kind speech about her—God, what a stupid game that was! “Thank you for the kind things you said about me.” Penelope’s tongue felt thick and her words awkward. “I feel so dumb for making up that idiotic story about Jack. I just thought we were being silly and—”

  “Yours was great,” Flynn cut her off, mercifully. “I was buzzed and emotional. I don’t get that way often.”

  “Anyway, thank you. I’ll remember that probably forever. It was just so nice.”

  “It’s true, though. You don’t even know you do it. You’re the only one who ever listens to anyone. I mean, Bree is great. She’s my closest friend, but even she doesn’t really listen.” Flynn let out a sound of frustration and slapped a hand against his knee. “That sounds so pathetic. It’s not what I mean. I just mean . . . you have a gift. You can see people for who they are.”

  “Is it true that Black people don’t celebrate the Fourth of July?” Penelope asked. She felt bad that everyone had just talked over that fact—it had felt so alive to Penelope. Salient, even, baked into the person Flynn was. Or maybe who he had become later.

  “Yeah, sometimes. I mean, I’m sure there are Black families who do. We did when I was a kid, but my parents were white. Later, when I could choose my own friends, I hung out with the Black kids more. Earlier, well, my parents were friends with the church people. Anyway, my high school friends didn’t celebrate. My buddy’s dad made us listen to that Frederick Douglass speech. You know the one?”

  Penelope shook her head, embarrassed. She’d heard about it, maybe in a history class along the way. She’d never, that she could remember, listened to it.

  “Well, yeah, I mean, why would you know.” Flynn sighed then, heavy and sour. The last of the pops could be heard in the distance. He paused, picked his words carefully. “I mean, the fireworks were always fun, I guess. But most Black families don’t do it up the same way. It wasn’t our freedom, you know? Like the point of it is to celebrate these awe-inspiring national ideals that we’ve never seen or felt, you know?”

  Penelope didn’t know, which made her ashamed.

  “You think I see you?” Penelope asked, her voice wobbling then, as she thought about that first night in the house, Flynn’s face as he watched Jack and Bree together.

  Flynn turned to her, his dark eyes wide, framed with black lashes. “Yes.” He said simply. “And I . . . you.”

  “If I’m the only one who sees you, how can you be in love with someone who doesn’t? What kind of love is that?” Penelope asked, her heart flipping wildly. She was on the cusp of discovery, the slipping darkness of a confessional all around her.

  After all, they shared this, a long-kept secret. Could either of them admit it?

  “It’s the only kind I’ll ever be able to have. Do you ever feel like the world just isn’t ready for you? Or maybe that you’re not ready for the world?” But Flynn just shook his head, closed his eyes, and half laughed. “I mean, I could be one or the other, but Christ, not both.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  February 21, 2020

  The audit was over. Thank goodness. Penelope could breathe again. She took Friday off, slept late. Thursday night, Brett had slept in their bedroom, each of them firmly on their own side of the bed. Not angry, but functional.

  Penelope made breakfast in bed for Brett, but then he was up, showering.

  “Just going for a walk, okay? Not a run.”

  “Nothing strenuous. No yoga. You just had a blood transfusion.”

  “Everyone keeps saying that like I’m steps from death. It’s not a big deal. I’ve been on a message board. A lot of people with my condition go through this, and they’re fine. I just have to be more careful.”

  My condition. She was reminded that her husband had a condition now. She quelled the rising dread—as tenuous
as their connection had been lately, she very much wanted him to stay healthy. He was the father of her children. Despite her uncertainty about their future, all their struggles, she’d never want anything to happen to him.

  She watched him get dressed, wondering if she still loved him.

  He left for his walk, whistling. He’d never been a whistler before.

  In Linc’s bedroom, she gathered the laundry but didn’t touch anything else. His bed was perpetually made, not a sock on the floor, not a crumb on the desk.

  Tara’s room, on the other hand, was a different kettle of fish. She left a trail of disaster in her wake, always. Penelope started to gather stray clothing: socks, bras, nightgowns, boxer shorts that she preferred to sleep in, a mitten from the floor. A thin slip of plastic flew from a pair of jeans and landed neatly on the unmade bed. From a distance it looked like a credit card, light blue and shining. She moved closer. In Penelope’s mind, almost everything in a fifteen-year-old’s bedroom was her mother’s business. Almost. She reached out with one hand and clicked it open; the lid popped like a clamshell.

  Birth control pills.

  “Mom. I was just trying to be responsible.” Tara, despite her trail of debris, had usually behaved responsibly. Penelope tried to breathe through her wild thoughts. Who? Why? How? She couldn’t even form questions—too afraid of scaring Tara away with an endless stream of inquisition. Too confused to figure out which to utter first.

  She settled on one. “Who?”

  Tara shifted on her bed, clicking the clamshell open and shut. “So. About six months ago—”

  “Six months!”

  “Mom!”

  Penelope shut up.

  “Six months ago, Matthew and I started hanging out. We were friends. Then we kissed. Now I think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend. Everyone acts like we are. We’ve never really talked about it, but Matthew is just nice, you know?”

  Penelope did know. Her heart thawed just a little. Matthew Yost was what most mothers would pick, if they could, for a daughter’s first boyfriend. He was polite, in the theater program with Tara, tall and handsome but not overly so, that he would know it. He had the right amount of confidence—the insecure boys would try to keep her down; the cocky boys would play games. Sometimes the dissecting, exacting thoughts of her analytical parenting mind shocked her.

  Penelope chose to stay quiet, and Tara rambled on, nervous, picking at the hem of her skirt.

  “We haven’t . . . you know. But I’m going to be sixteen soon. I thought, maybe? Anyway, I’d read on the internet that it can take months for pills to be effective. I thought, why not now?”

  “I agree with you,” Penelope said simply.

  “You do?” Tara’s head snapped up, astonished.

  “I do. It can take a long time to figure out the dosage, the side effects, what drug is right for you. By the time you’re ready for sex—”

  “Mom!”

  “If you can’t talk about it, can’t even say the word, you’re not ready. So don’t Mom me.” Penelope gave her daughter a stern look and continued. “By the time you’re ready, you want to make sure you’re fully protected. You should still use condoms”—she held up a hand to stem the inevitable mortified Mom!—“to protect from diseases, what have you. But it’s a good idea. However . . . I want to know how you got them. You should see a doctor, get a checkup anyway.”

  “I did see a doctor,” Tara said, her face changing. She looked almost proud of herself. “Willa took me.”

  “Willa!” Penelope felt the breath leave her lungs, a punch right in her core. She put a hand on her forehead to steady herself. “Tara. You have to talk to me. I am your mother. I will be there for you, but you need to come to me. Do you understand?”

  “Mom, don’t freak out. She’s your friend! She’s cool; I like her a lot. I hope she sticks around town. Anyway, I wasn’t sure how you’d react. And besides, I knew she’d be cool with it. She gave Linc condoms, and he’s a year younger.”

  Penelope stood, shaking out her fingertips, her hands numb, and felt like she was going to pass out. What in the hell was Willa thinking?

  “Linc. Are you serious?” Her voice came out deadly calm, and Tara shrank back, away from her.

  “Mom, it seems like you’re freaking out. Are you freaking out?”

  “I’m fine, Tara. You’re not the one who needs to worry here.”

  Penelope stood in the kitchen. Waiting. Seething. A pack of foil condoms in one hand, a thin plastic clamshell of pills in the other. Good God, what would Brett say? She’d confiscated the condoms from Linc with zero protest. He reached into his bedside table and tossed them to her without fanfare. I thought it was a little weird, anyway. I wasn’t even going to use them.

  She snapped a pic of the condoms and pills and started a text, then stopped. She would normally send Jaime this kind of thing. He would be appalled, then panic about Sasha. But. What if Willa and Jaime were together? She deleted the photo. Probably for the best. If cutting ties was her goal anyway, why not start now? Anger and distrust seemed like appropriate scissors for the task.

  Penelope had no earthly idea where Willa was, or when she’d be home. She didn’t know who would come home first—Brett or Willa. She doubted she’d be able to keep herself under control either way. In the ten days since her old friend had come, Penelope’s life had been turned upside down. Her husband was admitted to the hospital, her jewelry had gone missing (and been returned, causing Penelope to doubt herself over and over), her bedroom cleaned out, her closet organized, her closest ally, Jaime, newly untrustworthy. Penelope had no idea when Willa was planning to leave. But the entire situation was beginning to make her crazy.

  Penelope was about to text Brett when she heard the front door open and shut and then a lofty, “Hey, y’all!”

  Was it Penelope’s imagination, or was the southern accent getting thicker every day?

  Willa appeared in the kitchen doorway, a pink shiny shopping bag in one hand. Without speaking, Penelope held her hands out so that Willa could see the birth control.

  She laughed. She laughed. Penelope sucked in a breath and felt the rage pulse in her neck.

  “Oh, girl, don’t be mad.” She smiled, all sparkly teeth as she plopped the glittery bag on the countertop. “They were old enough, and frankly, Tara asked, so I thought, what the hell, might as well get it for the boy too. You are too pretty to be a grandma just yet, you know.”

  “Willa. I will not tolerate this. These are my kids.” Penelope slammed her palm on the countertop. “Willa, this is beyond the pale. Look, I’ll admit, twenty years ago, you did whatever you wanted, and I went along with it. Willa was the star, Penelope was the shadow. I am not that person anymore. I will be the one to buy them birth control. I will be the one to talk about major life milestones with them. Me. Their mother.”

  Penelope expected her to fall apart, beg forgiveness. A repeat of the scene the other night.

  “Look, I don’t have kids, okay? Maybe I don’t know what’s complete boundary pushing and what’s helping out. I thought I’ve been helping you! Tara asked me to get her birth control. I thought I was doing the right thing! You’ve been coming home and going right to sleep! Between work and Brett in the hospital, I’ve been holding it all down here.” Willa’s tone took an edge, something unguarded and sugary, like panic seeping in. “I would have told you! When life settled down.”

  “When would that be? When does my life settle down?” Penelope laughed, her voice brittle, her anger palpable. She could feel it, like snakes under her skin. “You don’t actually live here. You are not actually part of this family.”

  Willa looked like she’d been slapped. Her cheeks flushed, instant and furious pink. She whispered, “We were always family. Then.”

  Then. At the Church House. The words went unsaid but still set flame to Penelope’s blood. She battled guilt and anger and couldn’t come up with the words. Guilt for the way she’d let twenty years pass without even contacting anyo
ne, without checking on Willa. Did they understand that she couldn’t? That she couldn’t turn and face what happened the night of the fire? That despite everyone playing a small role in the tragedies that followed, that Penelope was the guiltiest of all? That she had the most to hide? None of them could understand.

  Guilt because she’d been subconsciously using Willa for over a week. With Willa here, dinners got made. The house got cleaned. The kids were picked up when Penelope was stuck at work. A free place to live felt like an even exchange. But now—with all the boundaries not just pushed but broken, her life splayed open and examined—was it actually fair? If Penelope invited boundary pushing when it suited her, did she have a right to anger when they were broken?

  Penelope took a deep breath.

  “That was then. This is now. I am not the same person. We are not the same people.” Penelope felt dangerously close to their own edge of truth. But she didn’t say it. Why not? Her stomach roiled, a slick flip, and she felt nauseated.

  “Look,” Willa said. She reached out, held Penelope’s hand. “Pip. I love you. I’ve always loved you, always will. I’m sorry about all the ways I seem to be . . . pushing boundaries. I know you don’t believe this, but I’m truly just trying to help, okay? Like the bills thing—”

  “What bills thing?”

  “He didn’t tell you?” Willa blinked twice, her lashes long and eyes bright blue and shining. Pools you could get lost in. “Brett called me from the hospital one day. He tried to call you, but he said you were at work. You didn’t always answer—couldn’t always answer, I should say. Anyway, he asked me to log on and pay your credit card bill. It was due, the late fees would pile up. He gave me the info, said he would tell you about it. Anyway, I did it, and it’s fine. Girl, that balance—you’re lucky, that’s all. That woulda been a whopper of a late fee.”