by Ann Leary
“She wanted to talk to me about Whit all the time. I mean, all the time. She asked me why I didn’t like to talk about him, and I said, ‘Whit’s not my father.’ I don’t know why she kept wanting me to focus on that.”
“I guess maybe it was because it wasn’t long after he died that you started feeling so bad again,” I said. “I guess she thought there was some sort of connection.”
“She used to say, ‘You’re allowed to miss him, Sally. You’re allowed to mourn him.’”
“Shhhh,” I said. “Let’s go to sleep.”
“But the weird thing was, she also said, ‘You’re allowed to be angry at him.… You’re allowed to hate him.’”
“Why?” I asked. “Why would she say a thing like that?”
“I don’t know,” Sally said. “Whit was great to us. He was great to everybody. Everybody loved him, I told her that. And he fucking cared about us, unlike our own father.”
(Our father is still alive. He’s a former actor, former addict. Now, apparently, he’s a “sober coach.” We haven’t seen him in years. He’s never sent our mother a dime.)
“I always told her how great Whit was,” Sally said. “I think she kept forgetting. She kept forgetting how much we cared about him.”
“Let’s go to sleep,” I whispered.
“She didn’t get how much we loved him. I can say that now. I don’t know why I couldn’t while he was alive. I don’t know why it’s so embarrassing. I loved him like a father.”
“Me, too,” I said.
“Why would I be angry? Why would I hate him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t go to sleep before me.”
“I won’t,” I said.
NINE
I never look at a clock when I wake up in Aunt Nan’s room because of the precise way the sun inches across my quilt and later creeps up the wall with each passing hour. You absorb time, over time, if you stay in the same place long enough. I’ve slept in this bed for over twenty-five years—outlasting the darkness of childhood nights (is there anything darker?). Then, later, drifting through the long dream of adolescence with its strange new flesh, warm odors, and tingling awkwardness. So I knew it was close to 10:15 when I awoke the next morning because of where the sun’s pallid stripe was draped across the lower corner of my bed. Sally’s bed was empty. I figured she had gone out for a walk, but when I sat down at my computer, I saw the e-mail.
FROM: [email protected]
TO: [email protected]
SUBJECT: I’m at Everett’s. Come have breakfast with us!!!
That was it. No message, just a few words in the subject line and all those exclamation points. I ran down the back stairs, then out the laundry room door so that Joan wouldn’t see me. I pushed open Everett’s door and went inside. I could hear Sally talking at a rapid clip. I didn’t like the tempo of her voice, not at all.
Everett was sitting on his bed. Sally was on the floor beside him, kneeling next to a pile of books. She was dressed in the skirt and blouse from the night before. She was yanking books from the bookshelf and examining their covers as she ranted.
“I know you must have it, because I went through all the books Joan donated to the library and it wasn’t in them and Joan said Whit gave you a lot of old books.”
“What are you looking for, Sal?” I asked.
She just kept tossing books around. Everett turned and gave me a sad look. He was tired. How long had Sally been here?
“Sal?” I said. “What’s the book about?”
“It’s a book about Plato. I was trying to explain to Ev about ‘The Allegory of the Cave.’ Tell him how obsessed Whit was with it, Charlotte. The man was fucking obsessed. Where the hell is that book?”
“Sally,” said Everett. “Let’s get something to eat, then maybe you’ll feel like sleeping.”
“Absolutely obsessed with it,” Sally continued. “I think you learn about it in college philosophy classes. It’s Plato. He could’ve learned about it at Holden, I don’t know. How are we supposed to know? We went to public school. We didn’t study Plato. But it’s basically this. Ev, listen—there are these people. They live in a cave. They’re shackled in such a way that they always face one wall of the cave. I guess they’re kneeling there on the ground or something, you know, all chained together. And they’re Greek, like Plato; this whole thing happened in Greece.”
Sally carried on with how the cave people spent their lives staring at images moving across the wall in front of them.
“The thing is,” Sally said, “these cave people? They think the things they see are real. They’ll see a rabbit bouncing by and they’ll go, ‘Hey, there’s that rabbit again.’ Then an urn goes gliding in front of them and somebody’s like, ‘Look, there’s the urn. I bet the frog comes next.’ Then, if the frog is next, they think that guy who predicted it is some kind of fucking genius. They don’t say, ‘Maybe that’s just a picture of a rabbit.’ Or ‘There’s the shadow of an urn.’ They think this stuff they’re seeing is real. Do you see what I’m saying, Everett?”
Everett yawned and nodded.
There was more. “One of the cave guys is able to leave the cave. I don’t know why he can leave when all the others can’t leave. It’s not important. Well, on his way out, this guy notices that behind the place where they’ve all been kneeling, shackled, their whole lives, there’s a fire, and in front of the fire, there’s a wall, and between the fire and the wall—”
Everett put his head in his hands.
“I know,” Sally said, “it’s confusing. Just try to envision it.”
Between the fire and the wall, she explained, people are crouching and they’re holding these stick puppets above them, moving them along the wall, and it’s the shadows of these puppets that the people of the cave have been watching all their lives.
“They’re not real. See, Everett?”
“Yup, not real,” Everett said. Sally was standing on her tiptoes, pulling books off the top shelves. Everett nudged me and mouthed, “All night long.”
“Sal?” I said.
“So the guy who’s leaving the cave, he’s like, ‘Okay, what the fuck is that?’ But he just walks past the whole puppet show setup, climbs out of the cave, and then he’s almost blinded by the sun. I mean, imagine you’re in a dark cave all your life, then one day you walk outside and—BAM! The sun. Right in your fucking eyes. You’d be fucking blind. So he can’t see at first, and he actually wants to go back to the cave because the light outside is so harsh, but slowly his eyes adjust and he sees that there’s a sun and stars and a moon and that he’s standing on real ground and there are real things all around him. Real trees, rabbits, frogs—”
“Okay, Sal. I get it. Can we—”
“And he notices that when the sun hits him a certain way, he makes this outline. This outline looks like him, but it’s not him. It’s a shadow. It’s all an illusion. That’s when the guy realizes that he’s spent his whole life looking at shadows!”
“Jesus,” said Everett. “When is this gonna end?”
“I know, right? The poor fucking guy,” Sally said. “So then he goes back to the cave. And now he can’t see when he’s inside the cave, but eventually his eyes get used to the cave again, and he sees all his friends and his family there, and he’s like, ‘Wake the fuck up, people.’ He realizes those aren’t real animals on that wall, they’re just—”
“Great story,” I said. “Let’s have breakfast. Everett? Hungry?”
“Okay, here’s my point,” Sally said. “Whit thought he was the guy who left the cave. I see that now. He thought the cave was that whole prep school, Upper East Side, corporate, Wall Street, socially conforming place that his family came from. He thought when he moved up here to Connecticut, he was finally seeing things as they really are, and Joan, you guys—all of us—we were real. Everything else was fake. When Perry and Spin came to visit, he tried to get them to feel as if they had left the cave, too. But you know, now I think we wer
e the ones living in the cave. I think Lakeside is the cave. I think Whit made all these shadows. Not on purpose, but I think we were the ones living in the cave all along.”
She turned away from the books and smiled at Everett and me. “Isn’t it funny how everything can suddenly be so clear?”
“Let’s all go back to sleep,” Everett said, stretching out next to me. “You should sleep, Sal.”
“Oh hey, by the way, Everett, you got an e-mail from Russ Wheldon and another from somebody named Lisa,” Sally said. I felt Everett freeze up.
“What the hell? How do you know that, Sally?”
“I used your computer to send Charlotte an e-mail.”
“But how did you get into my computer? I have that thing password-protected,” he said.
“Please,” Sally said.
“What?”
“It took me three guesses. TheChiefs. The name of your old band. Switch it to something random, like just some word with a hashtag and a number. And by the way, does my mom know you’re using her Wi-Fi?”
“Let’s eat,” I said. “Maybe if you have something to eat, Sally, you’ll be able to have a little rest.”
I was checking out the cereal collection in his kitchen when I saw a car pull into our driveway.
“Hey, who do we know with a silver car?” I called out.
Sally and Everett were behind me almost instantly. Now a man was getting out of the car. Sally and I followed Everett out the door.
“Looks like a trooper,” Everett said.
He wasn’t a tall man, nor was he terribly short. He might have been in his early thirties. I thought he was handsome.
He watched us approach from Joan’s front porch.
“Hey,” Sally said as she reached the steps. We were right behind her. I was still in my nightgown. Everett was pulling a T-shirt over his head as we walked.
“Can I help you with something?” Sally demanded, but before the man could reply, Joan had opened the door and greeted him with a smile.
“Hello, I’m Joan Whitman. Come in, come in.”
“Wait, Joan, just wait. I don’t know this guy. Who are you?” Sally asked, pressing herself into the doorway, inserting herself between the man and our mother.
“I’m Washington Fuentes, local state trooper. We’re looking into the series of home invasions.”
“Yes, yes,” said Joan. “Do come in.”
“Just wait, Joan,” Sally said. “What is it you want to ask my mother about?”
“Sally, honey, please. This man just wants to ask us if we saw anything, I’m sure.”
“Are you mother and daughter?” Fuentes asked Sally. He tilted his head a little as he looked at her. He might have been trying to see what was going on with her eyes. They were still quite red.
“Sorry, we don’t answer questions,” Sally said.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sally,” said Joan.
Fuentes smiled and said to Sally, “You won’t answer a question about whether you’re mother and daughter?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you an attorney?”
“No,” my mother said, answering for Sally. “She’s a musician, the first violin in the New York Symphony Orchestra.”
“What do you want?” Sally demanded.
“I just have a few questions for your mother.”
“Are you detaining her as a witness?”
“As I was starting to say, we’re asking people who live in the neighborhood—”
“So are you detaining her as a witness?”
“No.”
“Okay, then can you step back a little so we can close the door? Then will you please remove your vehicle from this property?”
“Okay, now that’s just enough,” said Joan. She pulled Sally into the house and glared at her. “Sally, this officer is investigating the break-ins, and I want to help him. It’s my obligation as a citizen to help,” Joan said.
“No, it’s not,” said Sally. “It’s not your obligation.”
The man turned to Everett and smiled. I had a feeling that Everett wasn’t smiling.
“You must be the caretaker of the property?” Fuentes looked at his notebook, then said, “Mr. Hastings?”
Everett was silent. He just stood there with his arms crossed.
“Wait,” Fuentes said, “Everett Hastings? I know you. You were a year behind me at Harwich High. We played baseball together.”
I felt Everett relax. He took a step closer, paused, and then laughed in disbelief. “HOLY SHIT! Washington? Washington Fuentes!”
They actually gave each other a hug. “You guys remember Washington, right? From high school? Washington, these are the Maynard girls—Charlotte and Sally.”
“Aren’t you Ramón Hernández’s son?” I asked. Now I did remember him. Ramón has a very lucrative landscaping business and knows everybody in this and all the surrounding towns.
“His nephew. My mom shipped me here for the last two years of high school,” said Washington. “She thought it would be good for me to live up here with my uncle, instead of down in the Bronx.”
“I don’t remember you,” Sally said.
“I remember you,” Fuentes said.
“What kind of name is Washington Fuentes?” Sally demanded.
“What kind of name is Fuentes?”
“No, what kind of name is Washington? Is it a family name?”
“No … my dad just liked the name. You know, it’s American.”
“So is it George Washington Fuentes?”
He smiled. “Nope, just Washington. Washington Fuentes. Like it says right there.” He pointed to his badge. “Can I ask a few quick questions and get it over with? I have to do the entire area, I have to talk to all your neighbors.”
Sally answered him with a short, disparaging laugh. Then she turned to our mother and said, “Joan, if you allow him in, you’re consenting to a search without a warrant.”
“I’m a Law and Order fan, too!” Washington said to Sally.
“What? I don’t even know what that is,” Sally said. (Not true—she actually spent a summer binge-watching the show and now she thinks she’s a legal expert.)
“Oh, for goodness sake, Sally. I have nothing to hide. Come in,” Joan said.
“Thank you, ma’am. I won’t take up much of your time,” Fuentes said.
“Come in, come in. Mi casa es su casa!” Joan said.
“Muchas gracias, señora!” said Washington, following our mother into the house.
“Coffee, Mr. Volentes?”
“Yes please to the coffee. Oh, and it’s Fuentes, ma’am.”
“Oh, I am sorry. And I’m usually so good with names. I have a splendid memory.”
“Nice kitchen,” Fuentes said once we were inside. “I like old places. It’s very quaint.”
“That’s what everybody says about this kitchen,” said Sally.
“Rustic, too,” I offered. “Sometimes people call it rustic.”
“Looks like you got something in your eyes, Sally.”
“Yes, unfortunately, Sally did get something in her eyes, Officer,” replied Joan. “And if there’s anybody who needs questioning about a crime, it’s me, for almost blinding my poor daughter last night.”
“Joan,” Sally said. “It was an accident.”
“Nonetheless … you see, Officer, last night—oh, this is actually related to your investigation, because I have never felt unsafe in this town until yesterday and I’ve lived here almost all my life. Half the time, I don’t even lock the door, but last night, after what we heard about poor Mildred—”
“So did you notice any unusual cars in the neighborhood yesterday?” Fuentes asked.
“No, and I ran by there early in the morning. I run five miles a day, rain or shine—”
The five-mile brag had begun.
When Joan was finished with all the details about her heart rate and her many activities that provide the oxygen that fuels her enormous brain, she managed to a
nswer the few questions Fuentes had. And she was absolutely no help.
“I guess that’s all I have for now,” said Fuentes. He thanked Joan for her information and the coffee and then Sally led him to the front door. I followed.
“Well, I hope you find your cleaner, Washington Fuentes,” Sally said. “Do you still live in town?”
“Actually, I’ve just moved back. I was assigned to Bridgeport when I first joined the state police. I’ve been living there for a few years. Heard that a spot opened up here in Litchfield County and thought I’d try for it. Just got stationed here last month. I’m staying at my uncle’s until I find my own place. It’s nice to be back here, away from the city. Pretty quiet except for these B and E’s. Anyway, it’s been great seeing you. You really haven’t changed, Sally.”
“You must have changed a lot, because I still have no recollection of you whatsoever, Officer Fuentes.”
“Hey, you know, please don’t call me Fuentes. My friends call me Washington.”
“Well, I’m not your friend,” said Sally.
TEN
A very unbalanced troll who calls herself Tricksortreats had returned to my blog and was cluttering up my comments section with her nastiness. My readers are loyal and they can’t wait to take down anyone who flames me, but I don’t moderate comments. It’s another gimmick that has gotten me attention in the blog community. I don’t block—I actually like to engage—but there are a handful of readers who want the blog to be a “safe place” and they see Tricksortreats as “hostile” and “threatening to the community.” Some of my readers told me they worry that I have enough on my plate as it is, given that Wyatt needs to see a specialist about his abnormal bone growth. I’ve tried to ignore it (I guess I was in denial), but he’s developing a sort of hunch in his back. Curvature of the spine isn’t terribly uncommon for children with his disorder. He might need some painful and possibly dangerous surgery and, at the very least, a lot of physical therapy. Otherwise, he’ll be a hunchback when he’s an adult.
So far, about fifty comments had been posted in response to Tricks’s nastiness. I posted that I was inclined to ignore her, that she obviously has some serious psychiatric problems and if we ignore her, she’ll likely return to Trollville and leave us all alone. Then I drew a stick-figure drawing of Topher and me in our bedroom. I’m wrapped up like a mummy in the sheets and he’s humping the curtains like a dog because I’m too exhausted for sex. The “too exhausted for sex” theme is one of the most popular. I’m always guaranteed three hundred comments at least after a post like that.
