Another Jekyll, Another Hyde

by Daniel Nayeri

  I got rid of her the easy way. Don’t make me kill her.

  “Shut up. Shut up. Shut up,” he whispered, and power walked all the way to Annie’s house. Edward’s thoughts made no sense. Who was he talking about? Annie? Couldn’t be, since no one had “gotten rid” of her. Marla? Oh, God, Marla. The thought of her, of that night they spent together and her disappearance the morning after, made him feel queasy. Did he have something to do with her disappearance? Was she locked up in some basement somewhere, trying to breathe through a bloody gag? What about Roger? Could he feel and think in his coma? No matter how hard he tried, Thomas couldn’t remember laying a hand on him. But Marla seemed so sure that he did it, and then she vanished.

  He arrived at Annie’s building and ran up the stairs to burn off some steam. She only lived on the seventh floor. He knocked on the door and waited, tapping his foot like a preteen on a first date.

  Time to head home now. I’m warning you, Thomas.

  Go away, Edward. . . .

  He caught himself. Why the hell was he on a first-name basis with Vileroy’s evil body-snatching son, anyway? He straightened his collar and knocked again. Two voices were speaking behind the door. One of them laughed, then the door swung open. Annie’s mother stood there wearing jeans and a Dartmouth T-shirt, her nose covered in flour.

  “Um, T-t-homas,” she stammered. “Hi there.” Thomas had rarely seen Mrs. Longborn flustered like this. She was one of those people who never had a bad day. She was petite, like Annie, with long curly brown hair and a button nose that she crinkled when she was thinking of what to say. She had started her own handbag company that was later bought by a big-name designer. Now she spent her days being supermom. Annie was the only one at school who brought her lunches from home, usually some Moroccan or Indian experimental dish her mom packed for her.

  He said hello and waited to be invited in, but Annie’s mom looked confused. She was chewing the inside of her cheek and rubbing the tip of her nose with purple-stained hands. “We weren’t expecting you,” she said.

  “Sorry?” said Thomas. “I . . . Annie invited me for dinner.”

  There was another pause and Mrs. Longborn glanced back into the house, then she whispered, “But honey, you canceled.”

  Thomas just stood there, looking at his own stupid expression in the shiny glass of the hallway mirror, unable to remember what Mrs. Longborn was talking about.

  “Sweetie, are you OK?” she said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  Then Annie appeared at the door, fancy sketching pencils firmly planted in her hair. She, too, was wearing old jeans and had purple stuff all over her hands. “Thomas!” She didn’t look happy to see him at all. She crossed her arms and hung back from the door while her mom glanced back and forth between the two of them.

  “Look, why don’t you join us, then?” Mrs. Longborn said finally. She reached inside and took Annie’s hand and puller her closer. “We were just making an all-purple dinner to cheer us up. Right?” She looked at Annie with excited eyes.

  Annie rolled her eyes and said, “Mom!”

  “Sorry, honey, but he’s gonna find out soon enough that all the food’s purple. Nothing better than playing with food coloring to cure the blues.”

  “I wasn’t blue,” said Annie, arms still crossed. “I was perfectly happy. In fact, I was just about to go out with some people from NYU. Excuse me.”

  Mrs. Longborn laughed and threw her arm around her daughter. “Oh, stop now. Your friend’s here. Why can’t we share our purple dinner?”

  Annie shrugged. “Thought you were too busy,” she shot at Thomas.

  “Sorry,” said Thomas again. “I don’t know why . . . I mean, someone must have taken my phone. I don’t remember ever —”

  “Save it,” Annie said, and went back inside. “I’ve got a roast chicken to dye.”

  “Super gross,” said Mrs. Longborn, and she shut the door behind Thomas. “I call the drumstick!”

  Well, now we have to kill ’em both, don’t we? I call the mom.

  Thomas shifted the food around on his plate. It was by far the grossest thing he had ever faced at a dinner table — purple chicken, purple carrots, purple mashed potatoes with Denoix’s Purple Condiment. What were these chicks on?

  “So, um, you do this often?” he asked. “Dyeing dinner?”

  “Why not?” said Mrs. Longborn. She winked at Annie and took a bite of chicken. “It’s fun.”

  “You don’t have to stay,” said Annie to Thomas. She didn’t seem quite so angry anymore, but it was obvious from her fidgeting during the first half of dinner that she was embarrassed to have needed a cheer-up dinner to get over Thomas canceling.

  That’s right, Thomas. You don’t have to stay.

  Edward, back off. . . .

  Thomas moved some carrots around on his plate. “Look, I’m really sorry. I don’t know who sent you that text.”

  “Sure,” she said, and took a bite of a dinner roll that looked more gray than purple.

  He figured maybe he should focus on winning over the mom. Annie was nowhere near ready to forgive and play nice.

  Who cares about the mom, numb nuts? She’s as good as dead.

  “The school pancake thing was nice, huh?” said Thomas, trying not to look at what he was putting in his mouth.

  “Oh, yes!” said Mrs. Longborn. “I helped organize some of that. I think everyone has been pretty disturbed lately . . . after, you know . . .” She touched Annie’s hair. Obviously, they’d spent a lot of time talking about Roger.

  “I went to see him today,” said Annie. “I just can’t figure out who’d do this.”

  “You don’t have to, hon,” said Mrs. Longborn. “The police can do that.”

  “I still have that weird diary page from Marla’s locker,” said Annie. “I’ve been Googling articles online on how to analyze handwriting. I tried to get samples of Marla’s and all her friends’ homework pages from their teachers, but they all said no.”

  Thomas could feel his heart pounding. His hands felt sweaty, and that queasy feeling came over him again. He gripped his napkin.

  I told you this would happen. . . .

  “Annie.” He swallowed hard. Suddenly he couldn’t think of what to say next. He started to say, Maybe you should leave it to the police. Then he changed his mind and moved in the direction of Can I see that paper again? But when he opened his mouth, what came out was “I’m so sorry about Roger. He’s a good guy.”

  Annie smiled for the first time. “Thanks,” she whispered. She started chewing her lips, as if she was embarrassed. “I’m gonna go check on the rice pudding.”

  Thomas’s stomach turned. “Purple rice pudding?”

  “Yeah,” said Annie excitedly. “It was the first thing we made this morning. We had to do it twice, because the milk kept clumping.”

  Mrs. Longborn brought a napkin to her lips, and Thomas thought he saw her hiding her laughter behind it. “I’ll pass, honey,” Annie’s mom said. “Calories.”

  “Actually, Annie,” said Thomas, “how about we go out for dessert? I was gonna show you this great place I know.”

  You just don’t listen.

  In the taxi downtown, Annie took his hand. “Your wrists look swollen,” she said, and he pulled his hand away. He rubbed his wrists with his thumbs and noticed that his watch was getting tight, leaving a red mark on his skin.

  “I don’t know why,” he said.

  “And you look a lot thinner lately,” she said. “And you’re acting weird. Have you been OK? You’re not still going to Elixir, are you?”

  “Nah,” said Thomas. He felt a little guilty for playing so innocent, but he had already put Annie through all kinds of crap. “Not since Roger. I’m really sorry about the text. I’ve just been having a hard time.”

  Annie nodded and took his hand again. “So where are we going?” she asked cheerfully, as though she was trying to distract him with happy thoughts.

  “My favorite place when I was a ki
d,” he said. “In Little Italy.”

  Annie laughed. “Even I know there’s no such thing as Little Italy anymore.”

  “Just wait.”

  Ten minutes later, the taxi pulled up in front of an unmarked building on Mulberry Street. Thomas had been texting in the cab, and two minutes after the taxi drove off, the old wooden door squeaked open and a diminutive man in a dirty apron peeked his head out and squinted at the dark street.

  “Tomaso! It’s you!” he shouted as soon as he saw them. He held out his thick hairy arms and rushed toward them. “Benvenuto! Benvenuto! How long is it been?” Thomas let Giorgio slap him on the back about a dozen times before he pulled away.

  “Couple months, I guess,” said Thomas.

  “Your pop go through with that remarriage thing?” asked Giorgio, rolling his eyes, then, spotting Annie, switching to a broad smile and a friendly wink. “Who is this?”

  “This is Annie,” said Thomas. Giorgio lunged for Annie’s hand with both of his and shook with such ferocity that she laughed.

  “Welcome to Quattro Formaggi!” he said.

  “I thought that restaurant closed last year,” said Annie. “I read about some huge local petition to bring it back.”

  Giorgio nodded several times. “Yes, yes, we close for public. We open for special guest only. Tomaso is family. His mother, God rest her, was the goddaughter to my wife, God rest her, too. Come. Now I cook for you.”

  “Now?” said Annie. “It’s almost eleven.”

  “Never late for cooking,” said Giorgio.

  As they followed Giorgio inside, Annie turned to Thomas and mouthed, “Wow!” This is perfect, he thought, the best way to make it up to her. When he was five or six, Thomas used to come to Quattro Formaggi with his mother. They would come in through the back door, and Giorgio would make Thomas a bowl of spaghetti with massive meatballs. Then his mother would say, “Giorgy, help me. I need fat and sugar!” And he would laugh and make her fried brownies with leftover cake batter.

  Thomas had never invited anyone here before. After his mother died, he came alone once or twice, but then stopped altogether when it didn’t fill the hole. But he had never considered taking Belle or any of his previous girlfriends.

  “What you think of fried brownies?” said Giorgio as he started heating up oil.

  “Love them!” said Annie. “Well, actually, I’ve never had them.”

  “They’re Tomaso’s favorite,” said Giorgio.

  Thomas reached into the fridge for the batter. It was exactly where it had always been. And all through the night, Edward didn’t say a word.

  Journal entry #27

  You know what’s sad, Dr. Alma? I was thinking I should give to charity. My dad gives a lot already, but I was going to take your advice to stop dwelling on my situation, right? So I was going to give some of my own money. But the first thing I think is that any organization I give to is probably going to spend it on more marketing or on administrative costs. Hookers for the CEOs. It never gets to anyone who needs it. How cynical is that?

  Maybe I should just find a homeless guy and give him a grand. Dirty hobo would spend it on meth.

  I always thought that maybe those guys on the street talking to themselves were unstable. Lazy, urine-soaked animals. But they could be suffering. Maybe they have what I have. Next time I see one of those people parasites I should crush his skull with my golf cleats and hide the body with Marla see if I can help.

  Wait . . . I just read what I wrote. . . . I didn’t write all this.

  Things are getting better, thought Thomas as he sat in the open-air Marlowe courtyard. When was the last time he just sat someplace? The atrium was walled off from the city streets with ivy-covered stone. An arboretum, with cherry trees, a koi pond, and ornate benches, had been donated by the father of a Japanese exchange student. In the corner, the cafeteria had set up a gelato stand.

  Thomas used to spend every lunch period here. The stone arches of the entryway seemed so intimidating his freshman year. All the uniformed kids seemed so put together. They hung out in packs from their charter prep schools. But Thomas had spent half of eighth grade mourning his mom and the other half in a Semester at Sea program. His father had insisted. He learned to sail, studied biology in the Galápagos, and spent his free time by himself watching the ocean. He talked to his mother, and the rest of the kids didn’t hassle him about it.

  When he arrived at Marlowe, it seemed that the sailing might have been a bad call. Everyone already knew everyone else. He was behind in three different subjects, and he felt like a tool in a full uniform. He spent the first few lunches at that same picnic table in the atrium, talking on the phone so he wouldn’t have to deal with the social scene. He’d call his dad. His dad would always say, “Hi, buddy! Hold on a sec.” Then he’d speak to whoever was in his office at the time: “This is important. Can we resume this meeting in an hour?”

  They’d talk about sports scores, or the game they’d played the night before, or all the legal wranglings of his dad’s business deals. Thomas never mentioned his mom. His dad never asked him how school was going. Until one day, Thomas walked out to the atrium and saw Connor Wirth sitting at the same table. “I heard you’re a good swimmer,” said Connor. The rest was history. Thomas joined the swim team, his dad went back to having meetings during his lunch hour, and they still met up online in the evenings or else Thomas would eat dinner at his dad’s office.

  As Thomas opened his laptop and clicked VIDEO CHAT, he took a mental account of everything in his life that was positive. First positive thing: He had quit W. Dr. Alma had said that dwelling on the “negative elements” in his life would become a mild form of neurosis. Thomas had taken a joke from Connor’s book and said, “What if my mild neuroticism is wild eroticism? Would that create some kind of tear in the space-time continuum, Doctor?” She didn’t even crack a smile. He was embarrassed that he ever said it.

  Thomas opened the chat application and clicked on the username Sir-Yachts-Alot.

  Second positive thing: He was crazy well prepared for the debate practice next hour. All that time in his room taking it easy after weeks of W-induced hallucinogenic nights out at Elixir had given him plenty of study time. He had read the briefs twice. At least, he thought it was twice. He knew he had read them once, then lost track, then he either read them again or recycled through the memory of reading them. OK, maybe he wasn’t totally clear of the W in his system.

  The chat window popped open on his screen with a time-lagged shot of his dad. “Hey, buddy. What’s up?” said Mr. Goodman-Brown.

  Third positive thing: When it came down to it, he was a pretty lucky person. Sure, he had only one parent, but he was a good one.

  “Nothing, Dad. Just wanted to say I was sorry that the pancake social didn’t go so well.” Thomas dragged one of the PDFs of the debate briefings over the chat window so he wouldn’t see his dad’s face.

  Over his earbuds, Thomas heard his dad say, “Don’t worry about it. We’ll get you and Edward together some other time.”

  Thomas smiled to himself. “What do you think of him?”

  His dad paused. Thomas heard him breathe out through his nose. Then he said, “Tell you the truth, Thomas, he seemed like an arrogant little prick who drinks too much Muscle Milk.” Thomas laughed. His dad went on, “But, hey, he’s Nicola’s problem until he goes to some party college. I already told her that this isn’t the Disney Channel, and you’re my priority. If Eddie Munster messes with you or your GPA, I’ll teach him why rich white fifty-somethings make the best Bond villains.”

  Fourth positive thing: His dad wasn’t completely under Vileroy’s thumb, and he had no clue about Thomas’s little problem.

  Thomas moved the PDF file away from the chat window. His dad was smiling at him. Thomas realized it was the first private conversation they had had since Nicola invaded. The look in his eyes told Thomas that the old man was about to say something corny, like, “I’m proud of you, son.” Thomas couldn’
t get all weepy in the middle of the atrium, so he said, “Was that your banker version of a death threat, Pops?”

  His dad shrugged. “Sorry. I’m not gangsta enough, Charles Thomas Goodman-Brown the Third (nonconsecutive), but I’m sure there’s someone on the Yale alumni board who could help me get rid of a body. That or I’ll just find out which hedge fund he invests in and drive his portfolio into the ground.”

  The bell rang for passing period.

  “I could be the Notorious A.I.G. . . . You know . . . as my street name.”

  “Sure, Dad. I gotta go. Wanna game later?”

  “No problem. I’ll just run a Fortune 500 while I wait.”

  Thomas rolled his eyes and shut the laptop.

  As he packed up his gear, Thomas let himself believe that things were definitely looking up. And to top it all off, his date with Annie had somehow — despite every possible factor to the contrary — gone well. For the rest of the night, they had avoided the subjects of crazy Marla’s disappearance, Roger’s assault, and the police lockdown of Marlowe — pretty much everything that had happened that semester. Debate was a great subject for him. Graphic design was a good one for her. The rest of the night was about good Italian food, the old days, and favorite movies.

  It was a pretty little picture, full of pastels and highlights. A few dark corners hinted at “the troubled times,” but overall, Thomas figured he had weathered the storm. Now if he stayed the course, et cetera, et cetera, he’d be out on the other side, wondering why he ever took W or attended a silly thing like therapy. If he were a painter, he could have used the anguish to do some work critics could call “raw and visceral.” For lawyers, the dark nights of the soul were good only when a criminal slammed the table in the interrogation room and said, “Man, you’re just a rich white punk in a thousand-dollar suit.” Then he could slam the table, too, or turn over the whole thing, if it wasn’t bolted to the floor, and say, “You don’t know what I’ve been through either, and the last time I wore a thousand-dollar suit was at my christening. . . . This one could post bail on a school shooting. Now, sit down.”