by Sharon Potts
“I’d very much like that opportunity now. I feel that if I’m going to be Elise’s guardian, I need to start behaving more responsibly.”
Bud had the intelligent, understanding demeanor of a clergyman. The desk phone bringed softly. “Hold my calls, please, Gladys,” he said into the speaker box. He looked at Jeremy, waiting for him to continue.
“I was hoping you’d consider hiring me as an intern or an assistant auditor. Until I graduate, of course, and can sit for the CPA exam.
Bud put the pen down and brought his fingers to a steeple in front of his face. He had big, strong hands covered with freckles and golden hairs. “And how do you plan on graduating?” Bud said finally.
“I thought I’d take a couple of evening courses at Miami Intercontinental,” Jeremy said. “That is, unless you think it might interfere with my work here.” His mother had once told him if you want something, give the impression you already have it.
“Of course you know we want to do everything to help out you and Elise.” Bud let his chair snap forward, signaling that the meeting was over.
“I’d really appreciate it,” Jeremy hesitated a split second, “Bud. My mother often spoke about how much she admired you.”
Bud’s mouth twitched, as though he was containing a smile. “Did she, now?”
“She once said a gifted salesman could sell ice to Eskimos, but only Bud McNally could turn a company that sells ice to Eskimos into one of the hottest stocks on Wall Street.”
Bud let out a full-bodied laugh. “Your mama really said that?”
“She did.” Jeremy picked up the pawn he had been holding earlier.
“You play?” Bud said, still smiling.
“Excuse me?”
“Chess.”
“Oh, yeah. My dad taught me.”
“Take a move.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Go ahead. I always have a game in progress, but I’m usually playing both sides. It’s nice to deal with a fresh move from time to time.” Bud nodded toward the board. “Go ahead.”
About half the pieces had already been taken. A black rook was exposed to Jeremy’s bishop, but if he took it, he’d lose his bishop to Bud’s queen. But that would give him a shot at the black king. Jeremy took the rook.
“Interesting,” Bud said. He took Jeremy’s bishop, as though he’d been anticipating the move. “Thank you, Jeremy. That changes the direction of the game.”
Jeremy wasn’t certain whether he had done something right or wrong, or whether Bud expected him to take another move. But Bud leaned back in his chair. He was smiling, fatherly. A bond had been established.
“Tell you what,” Bud said. “Go out and buy yourself a few new suits, shirts, and a pair of wingtips. If you want to be an auditor, you’ll need to look like an auditor.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And get your butt over to Miami Intercontinental. You’re going to finish getting your degree, and when the time comes for you to sit for the CPA exam, I expect you to get the highest grades in the state. Y’ hear?”
Jeremy nodded.
“We owe that to your mama,” Bud said.
Chapter 8
Jeremy stood outside the registrar’s building with his class schedule. He had come here directly from Bud’s office, changing into jeans and a tee shirt in the car so he wouldn’t look out of place among the students.
Miami Intercontinental University. His father’s turf.
Jeremy’s parents had wanted Jeremy to attend MIU, but he had always known it wasn’t an option for him. The professors and students would all have recognized him as D.C.’s son and made comparisons, which Jeremy feared would have found him lacking. It was ironic that circumstances had brought him back here after all.
Imposing oak trees shaded the broad grassy areas and winding paths. Quite different from the urban campus of NYU where classes and dorms were housed in gray and red brick buildings that were indistinguishable from the rest of the city. Here at MIU, the administrative offices were in the original Spanish-style buildings. As though part of a master plan, the subsequent buildings had been constructed with the same red barrel-tiled roofs and beige stucco walls, which made the campus look a lot like a Spanish monastery.
Planning. Jeremy was surprised by how well his own plan was working out. He had a job at PCM and was now enrolled at MIU— giving him opportunities to get on the inside of both his parents’ worlds. Plant a mole, he’d suggested to Lieber the day before. He hadn’t imagined it would be himself.
Students were walking to class, some in groups, many hurrying along by themselves. Jeremy wondered as they passed him if any had known his father. Professor Stroeb had been very popular amongst his students.
“D.C.,” his mother had once said, “you need to turn some of your charm on the administration.”
“Why bother?” his father had said. “Their minds have rusted shut. But the youth, Rachel, the youth are hungry and eager to learn. I have an opportunity to shape them, to mold them, to teach them how to think.”
“But the students aren’t the ones you should be trying to impress. Just because you’re tenured, D.C., doesn’t mean you’re untouchable.”
Unpopular with the administration. Could anyone at MIU have had a motive to kill his father? Had his father’s outspokenness been a bigger deal than Jeremy had realized? And once again Jeremy was angry with himself— like the time in second grade when he had refused to pay attention to a story his teacher was reading. Only toward the end of her recitation did Jeremy become engaged in the protagonist’s plight. And then, he was curious to know what had happened at the beginning. But the story was over, and Jeremy would never know what he had missed.
Jeremy headed across the campus to his father’s office. Air-conditioning units stuck out of windows in the three-story building and dripped water onto the hibiscus bushes and croton beneath them. The entrance door stuck as Jeremy pushed it open, layers of chipped paint creating the friction. Terrazzo floors, cracked and in need of polishing, lined the narrow hallways. Bulletin boards covered all available wall space, each buried under layers of announcements.
The air was mildewed, but it was a familiar smell and comforting to Jeremy as he ran up the steps to his father’s third-floor office. The door was closed, and it didn’t occur to Jeremy to knock. In fact, it hadn’t occurred to Jeremy that the office might be in any condition other than the way his father had left it. So when he pushed open the door, he was taken aback by the cartons, piles of papers, and general state of disarray. Then he saw a pair of worn army boots sticking out from behind his father’s desk. They were attached to legs in tight, rolled-up jeans. A head popped out next, like a jack-in-the-box, and the expression on the young woman’s face was pure horror. What had she been doing that he’d disturbed with his sudden appearance?
The woman’s face settled as though in relief. “Merde. Do you know how much you resemble him?” She had an accent— probably French— and pale eyes flecked with hazel, like a cat’s. Her hair was a mass of copper curls gathered up on top of her head, but dripping over her forehead and shoulders.
She patted off the dirt or dust from the back of her jeans. She was petite and delicate— built a lot like Elise. “You’re Jeremy, no?” she asked, extending her hand. She had small hands with bitten-down nails. “I’m Marina Champlain. I worked very closely with your father. I’m his graduate assistant. Was, I mean.”
Marina Champlain. You’d remember her if you’d met her, Lieber had said.
Jeremy hadn’t released her hand. He dropped it, self-conscious.
“I didn’t recognize you at first,” Marina said. “At the … at the Castillos’ house, you had a beard— like Miami Vice, no? And long hair. I saw you get out of a limo. You missed the funeral. Someone said your flight was delayed. But they should have waited for you. His son. Their son. I’m sorry, I’m rambling, but I want to tell you how much I grieve for you and your sister.” Her eyes were watering and her narrow nose ha
d turned red. She opened a booklet that was lying on a pile on the desk, but Jeremy could tell she wasn’t seeing it. “He spoke of you and Elise all the time,” she said.
How well she seemed to know his father, but Jeremy hadn’t even been aware of her existence.
“So you’ve come to say good-bye to your father’s office?”
“Actually, I just registered for a couple of night classes.”
“I thought you were traveling. Finding yourself.”
“Is that how my father put it?”
Her black bra strap slipped off her shoulder and stuck out of the sleeve of her white tee shirt. She adjusted it. “He was hoping you’d come home. So now it seems you have.”
“Yes. I suppose I have.”
“To take care of things, yes?”
“Kind of like that.”
She waved her hand over the papers and cartons, reminding Jeremy of a conductor cueing an orchestra. “I’m organizing,” she said. “It’s a lot of work. Your father was a great man. But one thing he wasn’t was organized.”
“Shouldn’t his family have been invited to go through his things first?” Jeremy said.
She covered her mouth, looking genuinely dismayed. “I’m so sorry, but I don’t know, Jeremy.” She pronounced his name with a soft ‘j’ as though she was saying it in French. “Dr. Winter asked me to go through your father’s papers. But I’ll stop if you’d like to do it yourself.”
“That’s okay,” Jeremy said, annoyed by the dean’s eagerness to get the office cleared out. “Just keep doing what you were doing.”
He flipped through some files behind his father’s desk. The corner of the credenza was blackened and the wall behind it was shades of brown.
“You know about the fire, yes?” Marina asked.
Vaguely, Jeremy remembered his mother e-mailing him about a fire in his dad’s office a couple of months ago. “Tell me,” Jeremy said.
“It was this past November, just after your father’s paper against the Cuban embargo came out. It’s believed some students— anti-Castro extremists— set the fire. Many Cubans are upset with your father’s politics.”
“Okay,” Jeremy said slowly, thinking, “but why would anyone think extremists set the fire? Maybe my dad just left a cigarette burning.”
She shook her head adamantly. Her lips were disproportionately small and round— like a perfect red circle. “They spray painted the door,” Marina said. “Cuba Libre. The battle cry of the Cuban exiles.”
“Was anyone caught?” Jeremy asked.
“It seems not.”
“Did my father write anything else after that that might upset them?”
She opened her mouth to answer, then froze.
“Can I help you, sir?” said a tight male voice in the doorway. Jeremy recognized his father’s former boss, Dr. Winter. Winter was wearing a navy blazer, pressed gray pants, and a blue shirt. The uniform of the cognitive elite. On his feet, small for such a tall man, were tasseled leather loafers.
“Ah.” The dean’s face changed in recognition, as he stroked his shiny bald head. “You’re D.C.’s son, right?” Winter extended his hand. “You can’t miss the resemblance. I’m so sorry for your loss.” He paused for a second. “Jeremy, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Thank you.”
“Your father leaves quite a void.”
“Yes,” Jeremy said. “Yes, he does.”
Marina had backed into the corner, her arms crossed in front of her chest.
Winter seemed to be waiting for Jeremy to say something. He tapped his tasseled loafer against the floor.
“I see you’re clearing out my father’s office,” Jeremy said. “I was wondering why the family wasn’t asked to go through my father’s things first.”
“But of course you were.” Winter looked offended.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Perhaps you should check with your uncle. He’s already been through your father’s belongings.”
“He had no right to do that.”
“I’m sorry? Isn’t he responsible for you and your sister?”
“No. He is not.”
“Then I apologize. A misunderstanding. But I don’t believe your uncle took much. A few pictures, a clock. I’m sure he’s planning on giving them to you. No reason to get all worked up. And after Ms. Champlain’s finished organizing, you’re welcome to come back and go through the papers again.” Jeremy felt the pressure of Winter’s hand on his shoulder as the dean coaxed him out of the office. “Again, Jeremy. So sorry for your loss. Your father will surely be missed by everyone here.”
Jeremy glanced back at Marina. She had picked up some papers, but she looked sad. Terribly sad.
Chapter 9
Elise was floating— weightless, disembodied, connected to the world only by a thin hose, an umbilical cord. Breathing, yet not really breathing. Immersed in darkness. An embryo— that’s what she was. And she was terrified of emerging from the protective womb.
She stood beneath a cluster of palm trees at the edge of her high school’s campus. Her friends were sitting on benches in the grassy quad between the buildings where they had their classes. They were on break. She could hear their laughter, even in the distance.
Elise had driven here this afternoon, like Jeremy had told her to do. He said it would make it easier for her tomorrow. Would it? Would anything ever be easy again?
She watched her classmates in their school uniforms— khaki pants and navy or green polo shirts. Megan spied her and waved. The others turned toward her, signaling for her to join them. They’d all come to the funeral, then to the Castillos’ house. They’d embraced her, cried on her shoulder. “Oh, Elise,” they’d said, “we’re so, so sorry.”
Elise took a step back so that she was blocked from their view by one of the trees. She breathed in the bark. She wasn’t ready. Not yet. Maybe never.
“Hey.” She was jarred by Carlos’s soft voice. Where had he come from? “I didn’t think you’d be in today.”
“I’m-I’m practicing.”
Carlos nodded as though he understood, though she doubted he did. There was a couple of days’ growth of shiny facial hair, so faint that he probably wouldn’t be sent to the office for not shaving. His blond hair was matted down from the band of a baseball cap. Her boyfriend. He was her boyfriend. She should be happy to see him, right?
“So, you’re back at the house,” he said. “Is it like weird being there?”
Of course it’s weird. It’s horrible without them. “It’s okay,” she said. “Jeremy’s home.”
He scratched his cheek. “Are you angry with me?”
“Why would I be angry, Carlos?”
“I don’t know. I was afraid maybe you felt like I deserted you.”
“I haven’t exactly wanted to see anyone.”
“So you’re not angry?”
“I said I’m not.”
“Yeah. Okay then.” He scraped off a sliver of bark with his fingernail. “So, like, do you want to hang out?”
She shook her head.
“That’s cool.”
The bell rang signaling the next class. Carlos looked relieved.
“Maybe you’d better go,” Elise said.
“Yeah. I’ve got chemistry.” He hesitated, as though he was going to kiss her, then stood back. “So I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah.”
Her friends had left their perches in the quad and were coming toward her.
“And thanks,” Carlos said.
“For what?”
“For not ratting me out.”
She wanted to ask him what he was talking about, but her friends were swarming around her. “Poor baby.” Megan held out her arms. “Poor, poor baby.”
Elise returned home a little after three, and got out of her silver Volvo, not even sure how the car had driven itself from school. Autopilot— she was on autopilot. Flora’s car was gone. Elise remembered the housekeeper had said she was leaving early today
for a doctor’s appointment.
She unlocked the front door. Her uncle had had the locks changed, but as she pushed the door open, her heart made a strange hiccup. Something told her to expect darkness, silence, an unfamiliar smell, a standing shadow. Like in her dream. And for an instant, she wanted to turn and run. But the foyer was brightly lit, classical music playing in the background. Geezer, lying by the entranceway table, wagged his tail but didn’t get up.
Elise stepped back out on the front stoop, closing the door, but not locking it. She tried to steady her trembling. Why was she doing this? Why was she making herself relive the worst moment of her life? But that night was a black hole to her. That’s all she could see. Blackness. But there was something else. She knew there was something else.
She remembered putting her key in the lock. But it hadn’t turned. It was already open. And she’d pushed on the door.
She did it now. Pushing the door, trying to imagine the darkness, the silence, the smell, the shadow. But it didn’t work. She saw only the brightly lit foyer, the photos on the wall, the empty vase on the entranceway table, Geezer watching her.
They’d left their luggage on the floor of the foyer that night. In a pile with their laptops and winter coats. The burglar had taken the laptops, her uncle had said.
The burglar. But it hadn’t been a burglar. She knew at a gut level it couldn’t have been a burglar.
The unlocked door. The laptops. Nothing else taken.
Someone had planned to kill them. A voice in her head kept telling her so. It spoke to her in her sleep.
It was the same voice that accused her. A soft voice, like an echo. Why did you disobey your parents? How could you have left them alone? Alone to be killed?
But what if she’d stayed home instead of sneaking out? She’d be dead herself, wouldn’t she? Would that have been better? Sometimes, she wished it were so. At least she wouldn’t feel this pain. A pain that wouldn’t go away. But she hadn’t been home that night. And now she was here, alive, in this world. Could her living have some purpose?
