by Nina Laurin
“What does he have to do with any of this?” I hiss.
“You two destroy everything you touch. Your whole family is like…like poison. You’re a disease, Andrea. My dad took you in like a stray dog. And you’ve never even spoken to him since he left. Oh, I remember. You were so happy he was finally gone. That you finally wrecked the family you loathed so much.”
That’s not entirely true. I did speak to him. On the phone. Once. Three years ago, right after my brother got out of prison. But I can’t really tell her that.
Leeanne plunks back down on the ledge and buries her face in her hands. “Why don’t you just fuck off,” she says without looking up, her voice muffled. “You think you know everything but you don’t know shit. So please, just go.”
A mean, angry retort dances on the tip of my tongue but I bite it back, thinking about everything I learned in the last few days. I’m overcome with a strange feeling. I feel like crossing the distance between us, grabbing her by the shoulders, and shaking the truth out of her. You think I don’t know anything, you hypocritical, deceitful bitch. If you only knew…
“You have no right to even be here,” Leeanne yells after me when I turn to walk away. Her voice cracks, hoarse and ugly. I realize at last that she really is stoned, and not just on cheap weed. I shut the door behind me and let the stifling semiquiet of the funeral home engulf me. There’s a photo on the big TV above the refreshment table, a family photo of Cynthia, Jim, and Leeanne from happier times. Leeanne is about twelve. She’s wearing this powder-blue twinset thing with rhinestones, one I remember well from school picture days.
I think I hear Cynthia calling my name, or maybe it’s someone else. Ignoring it, I make for the exit, walking as fast as basic politeness will allow. I need to get out of here.
As I turn around one last time, I see that the picture on the TV has changed to a portrait of Jim alone, from the same era—probably a professional photo for his doomed campaign. He somehow managed it, I find myself thinking. Managed to sneak away just in time to avoid answering for his actions. How very like him.
I wonder what all these respectful, black-clad guests would say if I told them what Jim and I talked about three years ago, when I called to let him know Eli had been released. When I asked him what I should do now.
He hung up on me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Hello, I’m a former student, and I’d like to contact someone who used to work here around the two thousands.”
I hope I sound normal. And not like a journalist. I imagine they’ve had their share of media attention in the last couple of days.
“A teacher?”
“No. A counselor. Mr. Ainsworth.”
A moment’s hesitation. “I’m sorry. I can’t give out confidential information.”
“I just need to contact Mr. Ainsworth. I could use an email address, anything.”
“Who may I ask is speaking?”
I draw a breath. “Andrea Warren.”
It hasn’t been Warren for a while, but the sound of the name has the intended effect. I hear a sharp intake of breath on the other end. The woman hesitates, clearly unsure how to react.
“Ms. Warren,” she finally says, her voice wavering between coldness and a clumsy attempt at kindness.
“Andrea,” I say, giving her a reprieve from having to utter the cursed name again. “It’s very important that I contact Mr. Ainsworth.”
After some more sighing and awkward attempts to stall, she ends up giving me the phone number. “I’m not sure the number is up to date,” she says apologetically. “Mr. Ainsworth hasn’t worked with us in over a decade.”
This much I gathered from the interview I just heard. I can’t help but wonder whether he quit because of what happened.
“That’s all right. Thank you.”
I expect her to say her polite goodbyes as quickly as she can, but instead, she hems and haws.
“Thank you,” I say again, prompting.
“Excuse me, Ms.…Andrea?”
“Yes?”
“Could you not tell him you got his number here?”
I start saying yes, of course, no problem. I’m not going to even think of asking why. But she supplies the answer of her own volition.
“I’m not sure he would want to talk to you.”
* * *
It’s early in the morning after another mostly sleepless night. The house is new construction so there aren’t creaky floorboards or an old roof to blame for any noise I heard or imagined in the dark. I made sure every window was closed, the door bolted, every curtain and blind closed tight. But still, I couldn’t shake the eerie feeling I had the other night before Sunny called, the feeling that I was being watched. I only nodded off once I turned on the bedside lamp on Milton’s side. Then I could tell myself he was right here, reading some paperback next to me while I drifted off to sleep, like he had done so often when we were together.
After a too-long shower and a too-large coffee, I made the first phone call. Now I sit and stare at my phone, wondering whether I can really go through with this. That secretary was right—I’m probably the last person he wants to hear from right now.
But I need to know. I need an explanation. The truth—as if the truth has ever done anyone any good.
I dial the number quickly before I can change my mind.
It only rings once before someone picks up.
“Mr. Ainsworth?” I say awkwardly into the silence.
“Andrea,” says the familiar voice. A heavy voice—the smoker’s rasp grates more than I remember. “They told me you’d be getting in touch.”
Really now, I think. So much for I’m not sure the number is up to date.
“I think I know what you’re calling about. I’ve been expecting it. It took longer than I thought.”
I’m not entirely sure what he means by the last phrase.
“The book, right?” he prompts. “The interview.”
“Yes.” I’m not sure if I should admit I hadn’t read the interview until now.
He gives a gravelly chuckle. “I wouldn’t have wanted to revisit it either. But now neither of us has a choice.”
“I need to know what you were talking about,” I say.
“I’m not going to tell you on the phone.”
I barely have time to start composing a reply in my head, pleading and furious at the same time, when he adds, “We should meet. Do you mind coming here? I’m not very mobile these days.”
Slightly dazed, I jot down the address.
* * *
I’m surprised and dismayed when I arrive at my destination. For some reason, I pictured a suburban house but one that kept some edge, had a high-powered barbecue on a vast terrace, a wine cellar. But Gregory Ainsworth lives in a rented apartment, in a building not quite nice enough to have been repurposed for yuppie condos. At least the elevator works. When I ring the bell, I wait for more than a couple of minutes until I hear shuffling behind the door. But when he unlocks it and lets me in, I begin to understand.
He’s hooked up to an oxygen tank. Under his snug-fitting knitted cap, I suspect he’s hiding a bare scalp. He looks thinner than I remember but not yet emaciated. Not like someone on the final stretch before losing the fight, but not like someone who’s winning it either. I don’t dare ask what he has, and he doesn’t supply the information. He just gestures for me to follow him, and I do.
The furniture is minimal, but there’s a couch and an armchair. He settles into the chair, and having no other options, I perch on the edge of the couch.
“So, he finally did it,” Ainsworth says, wasting no time. “Killed someone else.”
I must look taken aback, because he gives a grim smirk. “If there’s anything this thing taught me”—he gestures around him, meaning the oxygen tank maybe, or the apartment, or me, or my brother, or the whole situation—“it’s not to waste time pointlessly. He did kill someone again. Just like I thought he would.”
“We don’t know t
hat for sure,” I say, because it feels like I should. But it comes out uncertain, subdued.
“Please don’t tell me that you of all people showed up here to take his side.”
“I just—”
“Or else you would have been here much sooner. Before he bludgeoned some girl’s head into a pulp. But it’s too late now—he did, and everyone is losing their minds because it doesn’t really play into the redemption narrative, does it?”
“Is that what you thought? Did you believe it?”
“Believe what?”
“What you said in the interview. That he should have gotten a harsher sentence.”
He sighs, hovering on the edge of breaking into a fit of coughs. His eyes are watering but he speaks up, voice slightly strained. “What do you think?”
“The book was biased. If you said something else, then Jonathan Whoever wouldn’t have included it.”
He acquiesces with a nod. “True. And apart from the fact there were some things I couldn’t divulge, not the entirety of that interview made it into the book. Because lawyers and…you can imagine.” He waves his hand dismissively. “But I really did think it, for what it’s worth.”
I ignore the last remark. “That’s why I’m here. I want to know the things that didn’t make it into the book.”
He examines me shrewdly. His eyes may be rheumy but his gaze is still sharp. “Really? You know, I could sell it to a journalist for a decent sum. Or even to that Lamb fellow. He called me, you know. Left a message. I could practically hear cash register sounds in his voice.” He chuckles. “I didn’t call back.”
“But you answered my call.”
“I did. Because there’s a chance I might not have anything to lose, but the flip side is, I might not have much use for that money either.”
I nod.
“And something tells me you, too, know more than you let on.”
I contain a shiver. It takes some effort to look him straight in the eye.
“So let’s call it an exchange of knowledge. Satisfy my curiosity before I pass, and I’ll return the favor.”
I stay silent.
“Well?”
“Okay.”
“You first.”
“That depends on what you want to know. I was a child then too.” I don’t like the way he’s smirking.
“Okay, okay. Fair enough. You can ask me one thing. Then I’ll ask you. Deal?”
I give a short nod and jump into it. “What were you talking about? What was the gym class incident? Did he get into a fight?”
Ainsworth holds my gaze. “No. What really happened—and you’re not going to like this…The teacher caught him before class. He was in the equipment room. He had pinned a girl down on top of some mats and pulled down her jeans.”
He says it with perfect calm but it’s enough to knock the breath right out of me.
“You’re saying that he—”
“He tried to. You understand now why it didn’t make it into the book? No one knew what to do. Only that it had to be handled as quietly as possible. Can you imagine the fallout if this had gotten out? For the girl, first and foremost. Think of the rumors that would have been started. You know how people, especially preteens, can be to a girl who was in that situation. But also for the school and the girl’s parents—there would have been utter chaos. And nothing had actually happened, thank God—”
“So you covered it up.”
“We handled it,” he says firmly. “They sent your brother to me to try to figure out what exactly happened and so I could explain to him that what he’d done was unacceptable, and—”
“But he didn’t actually face any consequences,” I point out.
“If we’d suspended him, your parents would have wanted to know why, and so would the other kids. It would have gotten out.”
“Of course.” I should be indignant, maybe even enraged, but my mind is numb. I’m trying to piece it all together, figure out how what he just told me fits into the bigger picture, but I feel like too many pieces are still missing.
“And the way he reacted when I talked to him, well—you’ve read it. That’s exactly how it happened. No embellishments.” His calm is starting to fray at the edges. He suppresses a couple of coughs, badly. “He admitted that he tried to assault that girl, and I suspect he’s done more than try with…others.”
I’m hovering on the edge of the couch, my every muscle taut with tension. “Others? Who?”
He finally succumbs and starts to cough. It goes on for a minute or two before he gets the coughing back under control. His lips look ashen.
“Listen, it’s just…It’s what people like him do. It was obvious. Isn’t that why you came into my office that day?”
I’m stricken. I don’t know what to say. The numbness only grows deeper. He thought I was there to tell him my brother…molested me? Abused me? Worse? I shut my eyes but it’s not enough to shut out this room, reeking of medicine and a subtle undercurrent of decay. He is losing the battle, I realize with the same strange calm. He just doesn’t quite look the part yet. But he’s dying, and he knows it, deep down.
On the heels of that realization comes another. Should I tell him? Tell him the truth, as I know it? Not the whole truth—just about that day, the real reason I was there. That I came to tell him I thought someone abused Eli. That I was there to ask him what to do.
Ainsworth must notice my agitation, because he shifts in his armchair and speaks up. “Look, you can tell me. I won’t repeat it to anyone—don’t worry. I have no one to tell at this point. I understand why you didn’t want anyone to know.” He nods sympathetically at my neck and arms. I haven’t bothered to wear a turtleneck, and I’m wearing Milton’s T-shirt again. The wider neckline shows more than usual.
Except this isn’t about my burn scars; it’s not even about my dead mother or the childhood I lost that day. My jaw grinds, and my eyes fill with tears. I don’t have the wherewithal to hide them, and he interprets them like I thought he would.
“I’m so sorry, Andrea. I’m sorry you had to go through all that. I wish you hadn’t run out of the office while I was gone—I went to get the principal because after the incident that winter…You understand. And I’m sorry I was a coward when it mattered. I should have called you in and listened. I’m not saying I could have prevented what happened to your parents, but…”
I squeeze my eyes shut, and the tears run down my cheeks, leaving two cool trails. I sniffle and hastily wipe my nose with the back of my hand. He holds out a box of tissues. I don’t take one.
“You couldn’t have,” I say. My voice wavers just enough. “Don’t blame yourself.”
He’s too far to reach out and try to hold my hand. I stand up. “Thank you. Thank you for telling me the truth.”
“There’s nothing to thank me for.” His voice drips with bitterness. His eyes are full of water again—oh God, is he crying too? The whole thing is grotesque in that Lifetime movie, Oprah way. But maybe it’s for the best if I can exploit it.
“Just tell me one thing. I won’t tell a soul—I promise. Who was the girl?”
He blinks, looks up at me, and I think that he finally saw through my game. That he’s about to throw me out of his apartment without telling me a thing. But to my surprise and relief, he heaves a deep sigh that rattles in his lungs.
“I guess I might as well. I trust you’ll respect her privacy.”
I hold my breath.
“It was Leeanne,” he says finally. “Leeanne Boudreaux.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Leeanne Boudreaux, my stepsister.
Yeah, they covered it up out of concern for the girl. What utter bullshit. They covered it up out of concern for their own asses and for what would have happened if the school’s greatest benefactor had learned that his daughter had been sexually assaulted by one of the students. I guess it was easy enough to talk Leeanne into keeping her mouth shut. Threaten with the stigma but also promise to boost her grades just a tiny
bit. Piece of cake.
After all, nothing bad really happened, right?
It’s the middle of the afternoon, I’m behind the wheel of my rented car, and I have no idea what to do with myself. Finally, I pull up to a Starbucks drive-through and get one of those giant coffees—full sugar and the whipped cream on top, please. In the parking lot, I try to hold back my nausea as I sip the concoction.
Should I call Leeanne, or something? And what—apologize?
At least now it’s clear why she singled me out to make my life a living hell.
But at the same time, I can’t stop thinking about my brother. The list of lies grows longer by one. He never told me—of course he didn’t. I can’t think of a way he could have made it sound like he was the victim.
What the hell did you do, Eli? What else did you lie to me about?
I can’t think of many ways to find out.
From the start, I had been lying to myself that I wasn’t going to do this, when I knew full well that I was. Isn’t that why I rented the hard-to-track car? Or why I switched my phone off before I even pulled the unremarkable little Ford out of the parking lot, even though I told myself I was going home?
The drive to northeast Denver takes less than a half hour. The whole time, my preservation instinct and basic common sense are screaming at me in my head, making my hands tighten on the steering wheel, this close to just twisting it, making an illegal U-turn and going back. Going home. Maybe calling Milton—no, definitely calling Milton. Thank God my switched-off phone is in the glove compartment, and it’s staying there.
I want no part in this. I shouldn’t be involved. And if only I could, I’d—
I make the last turn and find myself on the street. I expected something more—police cars, or at least police tape. But there’s nothing. I suppose forensics are done with it, having analyzed every inch of the place, every droplet of blood splatter, every piece of tooth and bone. Then Adele’s body was taken to some lab so they could poke and prod at it some more, inspect the ridges of fractured bones and empty eye sockets, test the blood. Try to pry the answers from it.
