They crunched chips. Between the pages, I crunched ideas for ridding my life of Simon and came up empty. He had me over a never-ending barrel. Kids like us were mostly left among the housekeepers to raise ourselves, but two weeks ago, our fathers—the Westwoods and Ascotts go back three generations—informed us we would be attending the University of Rochester together and we would be sharing a house.
“It’s an investment,” his father said of the half-million-dollar property we were to consider a dorm.
My father had chuckled and said, “It’s a tax break.” How very convenient.
There’s a disconnect that happens when you know your parents love money and wine more than they love you. It keeps you from saying, “Daddy, I’d rather not live with a psychopath.”
Simon and the boys ate another bag of Doritos and chased it with pints of ice cream. I read the same page of my book over and over. Eventually, Dozer ran to the Hornell GameStop for some update and Johnny left to score from his brother. The second their footfalls disappeared down the steps, the atmosphere in the boathouse attic shifted. A chill tiptoed along my arms and crawled all the way to my ear canals. The game paused, some Fallout character lunged mid-screen, and I knew what would happen when I turned my head.
Simon stood statue-like at my side, waiting on me to give him attention. There was a foot-long PVC plumbing pipe in his hand.
When I think of Simon, I think of hard edges and razor corners, but he was very visually soft. He had a round Angus Macfadyen face and a stomach that bulged between the buttons when he sat. Oddly enough, he’d collected me with those unassuming looks—the guy you swore couldn’t be controlling because he wasn’t beautiful and shiny. I was in too deep by the time I realized he’d charmed my parents and memorized all our security codes. Sometimes he would touch my hair or stroke my wrist or say he loved me, and then the threats would come. Not coldly, not cruelly, never like a villain. Just statements. “You betray me, and I can be in and out of here before your last shit begins to smell.” I nearly told my mom, but she launched into a soliloquy of why the Westwoods were vital to Ascotts in the wine world and how she grew up dirt-poor and couldn’t ever go back, so I never did.
He dug his fingernails into the skin around my elbow. His breath cannoned into his cheek, each word precise and laced with delight. “Hey, Pure Science.”
“Yes.”
I braced for a blow.
“I bet you can’t make a bomb.”
“There’s a big difference between can’t and won’t,” I said.
“Didn’t your mom ever tell you can’t and won’t never did anything?”
4. THE UPPER ORGAN PIPE CHAMBER
$12,345.30
When we moved into the chapel there was a mounted plaque beside what would become my bedroom door: Upper Organ Pipe Chamber. I decided to leave the wall of exposed pipes jutting through the floor—the Swell Division is the formal name—and I mounted the finicky brass plate to the door. With a renovation like ours—the slow, one-room-as-we-can-afford-it kind—I could have picked a boring square Sunday school room with more space, but here, I was surrounded by a deluge of old music and tradition. The organ could not be “played” anymore, but the honk that emitted was an all-encompassing, out-of-tune blast of air that dusted my room with the grit of God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. Dad occasionally struck the keys to be funny when Chan and I were alone in my room.
Living with Bus #21 was like rooming inside the Upper Organ Pipe Chamber.
Most of the time the brute stayed dormant, but you never knew when it would sound off and scare the bejesus out of you.
The time ticked from 4:00 to 4:01.
Were Rudy Guthrie or Caroline Ascott awake at that very minute? I prayed for the families of the other victims, questioning if grief moved among them like the creeping minute hand of a clock. 4:01 to 4:02. Was a mother in New Jersey lying on pink-and-purple-striped sheets, squeezing a Pillow Pet named Zippity Zebra, wishing she could bring herself to wash her daughter’s smell from the tear-soaked stuffed animal? 4:02 to 4:03. Did some father in New York trace the angles of a dry-cleaned suit, recalling that the last time he wore his black-and-gray tie was to his son’s funeral? 4:04. Down the lane, was Chandler Clayton lying stock-still, interrogating God?
Did they know about Accelerant Orange?
Did they know $12,345.30 was in Carter Stockton’s college fund?
Did they think about me thinking about them?
4:05 a.m.
I got up.
In ten minutes, I worked all the necessary maintenance to myself and crossed our yard to Gran’s. She wouldn’t be awake yet, but she wouldn’t mind if I accidentally woke her. After Granddad died, she put a twin bed on the sunporch, which meant I could visit her previous bedroom with minimal footfall. The house was familiarly warm and smelled of Bengay, cedar, and an orange-scented cleaning product. In every room there was a clock that ticked and a piece of art that had started its life as an ox yoke or a horseshoe or a watering can. Useful things on their second run of usefulness. I couldn’t stomach the clutter in such a small house, but I also couldn’t imagine her place any other way.
The space to the right of Gran’s closet was covered wall-to-wall in photos. The run-of-the-mill wedding, baby, life montage hung in the living room, but this wall was my grandparents’ semisecret stash. Them pretending to be Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire. There are dozens of famous couplings. Bonnie and Clyde. Scarlett and Rhett. Ilsa and Rick from Casablanca. (A classic I’ve seen rather than pretended I’ve seen, like people sometimes do.) Gran sewed the costumes and, believe it or not, Granddad did their makeup. The photos traveled through time. The crow’s-feet grew long and deep.
The last photo wasn’t framed. The snapshot got shoved into the edge of the dresser mirror. The edges were dented and dinged, as if Gran held it frequently.
Their relationship was written in grainy black-and-white squares with cheap, dusty frames. I’d fallen in love with falling in love in this room. Gran said their obsession started when the family camera—that’s what she called the No. 3 Autographic Kodak, because families didn’t own multiple cameras—was damaged in 1968. All the prints contained a strange ghostly shape in the corner. Granddad didn’t have the money to replace or repair the camera, so he consoled his young bride with promises to make art instead of memories. They’d made both.
This enigmatic display became who they were and how they spent their spare time. Now, many years later, beside every photo of Gran and Granddad, there was another photo taped to the frame. Those were the images I’d wanted to see this morning. They were of Chan and me. We’d replicated each of their replications. All with the family No. 3 Kodak.
Well, all but one.
The picture Gran and Granddad made in New York at Ellis Island.
The picture Chan and I were hoping to re-create the day the world blew up.
“You could take him with you,” Gran said from the doorway. “Get the last photo. Finish the project.”
The No. 3 was lost in the explosion. “We wouldn’t have your camera.”
“So use yours.”
“Who says I’m going back?”
“Me.”
“Like I have the money.”
“Use your greenhouse money.” I grew plants in our greenhouse and sold them at the farmers’ market from spring to fall. It wasn’t lucrative, but there was a small nest egg in my checking account.
She left my retort alone and shot a hair rubber band at my chest. “Let me put on my boulder holder and grab some coffee. We’ll go take photos better than these.”
Fifteen minutes later Gran and I were at the pond shore armed with my Canon, a straightened wire coat hanger, and some steel wool. The shot was for vanity. One I’d seen in a magazine. I’d exhausted things around here to shoot. Hawks and eagles. Moles and squirrels. Beavers. Butterflies. Dew drops. Spiderwebs. Old dilapidated buildings. Barns. I’d shot them all.
I explained that she needed to twirl like a bal
lerina for a thirty-second exposure shot. She explained she’d have to douse herself in an aspirin bath later, but I was worth it.
“When I say go, light the steel wool and spin the hanger in a circle.”
“Dizzy before daylight. That’s how I like things.”
Rings of sparks sprayed the ground. I snapped and then just watched her dance. People are such a delight when they’re fully alive. The image was a whirl of bright orangey-yellow light trails and umbrella-shaped flickers landing on the beaten grass. It resembled the long-exposure photos I’d seen of amusement park rides.
Gran fanned her sleeping gown like royalty. “How was I, darling?”
“Oh, like always, you were on fire.”
“Good to know I still have it.”
In spades.
Not long ago, Dad and I were on our way to a Saturday-morning swap meet and he dialed down Green Day and told me he really thought I’d rebounded from the bombing better than he would have. And then he said, “You know, I think you get that from Mom.” I’ve thought about that a lot. I don’t feel rebounded, not in the slightest, but I do think having someone like Gran in my life makes it easier to keep living a full life with a damaged past rather than a damaged life.
In the still-dark, we packed my equipment and parted with her yelling, “Think about New York,” and my yelling, “Mind your own business, young lady.”
I slipped inside our kitchen door and stifled a yawn. Dad stood at the counter, making the same two peanut butter sandwiches he made every morning and placing them, along with two cans of Coke, in a lunch bag older than me. If he thought it strange I was awake, he kept his comments to himself. But then again, he kept most things to himself. I’d always liked that about him.
“Have a good one,” I said, starting toward the steps.
And he nodded, which meant, I will and You too.
“You’re gonna let me know if you want to replace the camera, yeah?”
This wasn’t kismet; he asked nearly every time he saw me packing gear.
“You know it was irreplaceable.”
“There are other working models.”
I loved that he knew that, but he had an imperfect understanding of my doting affection for the No. 3 Kodak. I didn’t love old cameras because I loved old cameras. I loved that old camera because its leather and bellows and glass ran down through my family like DNA. It had crossed oceans—from New York to England in 1879 and then back again in 1907.
“Thanks for asking, Dad.”
He poured the rest of his coffee into a thermos and left the kitchen with a grunt.
I decided the grunt was about last night. If I got my father alone and convinced him I’d never tell Mom what he really thought, he’d say, “Get married when you’re sixty-five and not a day sooner.” Truth was: he caved to Mom the way I caved to Chan. How many people in the world knew what they wanted apart from what people wanted for them? And of those who knew, how many were strong enough to fight the people they loved—people they never wanted to hurt—for the journey they desired?
Upstairs, I posted the best photo to my account, knowing it would get the attention it deserved. My photo project had done well. There were even a few likes from Nat Geo. Mostly because I’d thrown myself into the work and gone after shots that excited me. Now, I needed to throw myself at school, but instead, I pulled up my email, wondering if Carter Stockton had responded to my message.
There was a name I recognized in Facebook Messenger. Rudy Guthrie. 4:45 a.m. While I’d been playing with fire, another survivor had emailed me.
5. IMPORTANT THINGS HAPPEN IN THREES.
$17,592.00
According to press reports, Rudy Guthrie and Caroline Ascott were residents of Florida and New York, respectively. Months ago, I’d searched online, hoping to connect my fuzzy memories of who they’d been on June 15 with the tangible pieces of who they were now. I’d sent Facebook messages to every Rudy Guthrie under the age of twenty who lived in the United States and all the Carolines as well.
The message to the Rudys read: Are you the Rudy Guthrie who was on Charter Bus #21? I am the red beanie girl you nearly kissed in the bathroom of Down Yonder Bar. I’ve been looking for you.
That second sentence was like grabbing a rosebush; everything pricked. But the right Rudy probably needed proof I wasn’t the media scamming him for a story. More often than not, the Rudys answered my messages. There were any number of responses ranging from crude—I’d (((kiss))) you in the bathroom—to sympathetic—I’m not your Rudy, but I watched coverage of Bus #21 on the news. So sorry. Some Good Samaritan Rudys even offered to help. Had I considered the White Pages? Or a Google image search?
I’d snapped a photo of him in that bathroom hallway of Down Yonder—half turned and grinning—and I’d spent hours obsessing over the lost picture. Sometimes that film had a blue-tinted exposure. And always, when I imagined him, he lived in black-and-white, midnight tones streaking his dark hair.
His message:
Golden,
You found me in January, but I didn’t answer then because things are complicated. I’m reaching out now because of “Accelerant Orange.” Carter messaged me early this morning and said you contacted him. (He’s going to call you soon.) I never told him I had your info. It sounds like this thing is happening. I can’t believe the college fund already has $17,592.00. Can you?
Also, how are you?
(When people ask me that, I say: I’m FINE, SUPER fine, ALWAYS, always fine, couldn’t be better. So I’ll understand if you do the same, but you don’t have to.)
Peace—
Rudy
Peace. That was a nice touch. My current condition ranged from jittery to more jittery to the jitteriest I’d been in months. I didn’t know what to say.
In the end, I sent him this message:
Rudy,
I understand not writing back. No worries.
Thank you for letting me reach out to Carter on my own.
The college fund is . . . overwhelming, remarkable; I’m awed. I CAN’T believe strangers care so much. When I was showering this morning, I thought: a stranger took something precious from me, but half a million strangers are trying to give it back. What a wicked, crazy, wonderful world!
It is very nice to talk to you again.
HOW ARE YOU?
Peace—
Golden
I attached the photo of the steel wool, pressed Send. The floor swayed like I was balanced on tippy toes atop the Braxton Springs community pool high dive. Talking to Rudy had only ever gotten me into trouble. It took me five minutes to realize I was shoving my right foot into my left shoe and I’d put my T-shirt on backward.
“Go! Shake a leg!” Based on Mom’s volume and a wealth of experience, she was probably standing at the bottom of the steps. “Honey! Did you fall asleep?” One foot on the next step. Two feet.
She was coming for me.
“I’m almost ready,” I called, even though I’d done nothing to my curls and I couldn’t find my bobby pins. I hadn’t even printed my homework. Despite being late, I hastily stapled my Orwell paper and googled promise rings. Because I had no idea where to wear that sucker. Google said: Some girls wear them on chains around their necks, but left-hand ring finger was the consensus. Noted. Becky Cable was going to have a million questions when I saw her in the hall. School. Jesus. I guessed I really did have to go.
I finished my makeup. My hair looked like swamp shrub, but I was out of time. When I climbed into Chan’s truck, seventeen minutes late, Chan was drinking cola from a plastic cup and doodling in his sketchbook. He didn’t comment on the time, because school wasn’t a priority, but he’d been watching the clock.
He said, “You haven’t posted a photo of your ring yet?”
“It’s not nature.”
“Neither is steel wool.”
“Fire is.”
“Diamonds and gold come from the earth. Can’t get any more nature than that.”
“Maybe it�
�ll be tomorrow’s image,” I said, and then we rode to school in silence.
When Chan dropped me at the gym for first period he said, “I love you” and I said, “I love you,” and I considered how the same words, the exact same words, could mean different things to different people. Like how Bob Dylan, Elvis Costello, and the Beatles all sang a song “I Want You,” and You was most certainly a different You to each singer. What if love could be a different love to Chan and me? What if that’s what I needed to say instead of the creed we’d said the night before?
There was an old adage that said Important things happens in threes. They ganged up on you like a wombful of triplets. And that’s how I felt. Ganged up on by Chan’s engagement and Carter’s announcements and anxious that whatever was happening in the ether probably wasn’t done happening.
I put the ring in my backpack and escaped to my locker, glad Chan started school on the other end of the building and never walked me to homeroom. Unfortunately, I’d never been good with combinations. After every school break, I found myself in the secretaries’ office asking for the numbers as if I’d never known them. ATM cards and pins or codes to open my phone: I wasn’t to be trusted. Yesterday, I entered the combination six times and could not remember it today for the life of me. I walked toward the office, knowing a text to Chan would solve the problem.
The secretary leaned her freshly-dieted-I’ve-lost-twenty-pounds-and-gotten-Botoxed face through the round hole in the glass partition. “Let me see it.”
“See what?” I assumed she’d guess why I was here, my being a regular customer and all.
“Your ring, Golden Jennings. Your ring.”
“Oh.”
I froze. “I’ll trade you a peek for a locker combination,” I said, buying myself enough time to dig the diamond from my bag.
She reeled the numbers off without checking a sheet. “Forty, twenty-five, seventeen. Now, show me that hand, missy.” I pressed my fingers to the glass. Appropriate, audible sigh. “Fancy,” she said, even though it wasn’t. “What’s the story?”
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