“Sure, bro.” He opened the door for the journalist and stepped through it after her.
The door swung slowly shut. Elsa’s expression was unreadable. I looked at Vee.
“What?” said Vee. “Are you going to tell me, We’re not gun people? Or all about how Mum stopped shooting?”
“Please don’t anticipate my reaction, Vee . . .”
“You can stop judging me. I promise I will never again do such an irresponsible thing.”
“I’m not judging you. If anything I’m judging your sister. What was she thinking?”
The next morning I drove Dan to the airport. He sat in silence all the way to the terminal. “No need to come in,” he said as I drew up.
“Wish you weren’t going to be so far away,” I called after him.
He stopped, turned, looked at me for a moment. “Me too, brother,” he said, and headed inside.
I was back by seven, making breakfast. The smell of coffee in the grinder, of oranges in the squeezer: these things made me feel Licia’s absence so keenly.
At home in D.C. she and I were always first up. Licia would sit at the breakfast bar, finishing her homework from the night before. Sometimes she would look across as I was fitting the filter into the coffee maker, or pressing oranges through the squeezer, and we would stop what we were doing and smile and say nothing. Then she would go back to her math, and I would return to making breakfast. I would cut bread and boil eggs and fill lunch boxes, and when I looked up she would be frowning quietly at her exercise book.
“I would like to be exceptional, Dad, of course I would,” she would say if I noticed she was struggling. “And maybe one day I will achieve something exceptional.”
“Licia,” I would say, “you are utterly exceptional to me.”
“I’m more a doer than a thinker, I guess. And you don’t need to over-praise me.”
She didn’t want my help. I would watch, a little heartbroken, as she forced her way through the problem, quietly speaking the numbers to herself. Mostly, though, this was a happy time. Just the two of us, without her sister there to remind Licia of what she was not.
On the countertop my phone chirruped. Already people were attaching hashtags to the video of our appeal: #blondgrrl and #islandheroine, as well as #Licia and #fightback. Dan had good instincts. In the video we looked united in our grief.
Dan had been right about Tvist too: the police had briefed the press about Licia. Thanks to them, people knew that a girl matching the description of my daughter shouted out a warning in the main house; that she comforted a boy she met in the woods; that she shielded that same boy from harm in the water despite the wound in her shoulder. Licia had cut short the massacre, it seemed, by throwing away the metal case so that the men had eventually run out of ammunition. She was a hero. An actual, all-American hero. Amid all the uncertainty, that one thought brought me comfort.
I didn’t like the picture of my daughter holding the pistol. I didn’t like the way the image began to mutate, to combine with images of the Andersens and calls to action. I hated the hashtags #blondgrrl and #fightback. But people were angry about the attacks on Garden Island and wanted revenge. They needed a hero too, and in my daughter they found someone they could believe in.
None of us had predicted that future for Licia.
Seventeen
The road was unsurfaced; neat hedges lined both sides. I drove across one cattle guard, then another, then a third. A hand-carved wooden sign stood to the left of the path:
Patriotic Order of the Temple Knight
Ahead of me a woman stepped into the road, smiling. I wound down the window, leaned out, smiled in return.
“Hei.”
“Hello,” I said.
Her white-blond hair spiraled into a stern bun. She was twenty, I guessed, but dressed like a woman of sixty in a gray smock and black lace-up shoes. A simple leather bag lay slung across her shoulder.
“I’m looking for the Order of the Temple Knight.”
She smiled. “Isn’t everyone?”
Beyond us ash trees stood protectively around a white farmhouse. The gabled roof sloped steeply to keep snow from gathering in winter.
She said, “You are in the wrong place, friend. Bror is seeing no one.”
I opened my door, got out. “You make it sound as if I am in the right place.”
This time the edges of her mouth twitched downward. “He is not expecting you. Ahead you will find the gate is locked.”
“Maybe I’ll climb the gate.”
From her bag she produced a phone. She held it up, took a picture of the car. She dialed a number, spoke in English, making sure I understood the threat.
“Bring dogs to gate number two.”
“My daughter is missing,” I said as calmly as I could.
She hesitated. “You’re not a journalist?”
“No.”
Her stance softened. I saw curiosity in her eyes. Sympathy, perhaps. “You seek Bror’s counsel?”
“He showed me kindness. He might remember me.”
From the farmhouse the sound of barking. She glanced toward the house.
“Please,” I said.
She studied my face for a moment. She reached out, put a hand on my elbow. “Are you the father of Alicia Curtis?”
“You know who she is?”
“Bror would not forgive me if I sent you away. Come.”
“And the dogs?”
She smiled. “No one is bringing the dogs.”
The kindness in her smile almost broke me.
I slid Franklin’s car seat out of its mount, slammed the car door shut. The sound cut harsh and sharp across the drowsy heat of the day. In the hedgerow the crickets fell silent, though Franklin did not wake.
“This way,” she said.
By the house was a large meadow. Above the meadow a sparrow hawk hung noiselessly, watching for the rustle of mice in the long grass below. I heard a cuckoo and, farther off, crows. We came to an iron gate. It slid open on silent hinges. The hawk hung in the air, wingtips shimmering. As we passed, it tilted and slid toward the far edge of the meadow, hung there watching silently down.
Our footsteps echoed off the white stone building ahead. In an upstairs window I caught movement. I looked up to see another female figure, also in gray. There, then gone. Like breath.
Above the open door hung another carved wooden sign:
You are entering a place of contemplation
“After you,” said the woman.
The air in the hallway was cool. I called out, “Hello?”
The timbers of the house flexed and creaked. I heard a large dog barking close by, then another. When I turned to look behind me the woman had disappeared.
“Hello?” I called out, louder this time.
“Ah.”
Bror stepped into view from a doorway halfway down. He pulled the door to, then turned, stood there in his gray vestment, arms open in welcome.
“Cal Curtis,” he said, as if I were his long-lost friend.
“Yes.” How did he know?
“And what a luminously beautiful child.”
“His name is Franklin.”
“You are welcome. Franklin is welcome. Perhaps your son would like to continue his nap on some lovely soft cushions?”
“He’ll be okay in his car seat. Thank you.” I set the seat on the flagstones.
“Handsome little fellow,” said Bror. “He will be fine there by the door. Now, we’re just finishing off . . .” With that same open-armed gesture, he turned away from me and into the room behind him.
I heard voices. A woman appeared. Heels and a pressed linen suit. She saw me and hesitated, a look of surprise on her face.
I stepped forward. “I’m Cal.”
Arno’s mother narrowed her eyes.
I said, “I’m Licia Curtis’s father.”
“I know who you are. I just . . .” She smiled, took my left hand. “Anyway, hello again. I’m Mari.”
�
��Hello, Mari. I didn’t expect to see you here either.”
She looked toward the side room. Bror emerged, his arm around Arno’s shoulder. The boy saw me and stopped. With empty eyes he looked at Bror. Bror bent down, whispered something. Arno nodded, walked slowly past me toward the front door.
“Nice to see you, Cal,” said Mari as she passed. “This is an extraordinary place. The man has something . . .” She took her son’s hand, and together they stood for a moment on the front step. Then they were gone.
I turned toward Bror. “That was unexpected,” I said.
“Sadly the boy is yet to speak. I do what I can to provide counsel.” That same reassuring gentleness. That same disarming smile. I tried to imagine Bror twenty years earlier, in the days before he became a priest, smoking cigarillos and talking earnestly about politics. I could not.
“Now,” he said. “Follow.” He waited until I drew level, then turned down the hallway. “I understand Police Chief Tvist is taking an interest in your case? Did he cite ‘exceptional operational circumstances’?”
I laughed. “Why?”
Bror was not smiling as he turned to me. “You must be careful of this man. He may not be the ally he appears to be. Coffee?”
“Coffee would be good,” I said.
The kitchen was a huge vaulted room, wood-beamed and white-painted, with glass doors that gave on to a vegetable garden. On the facing wall a single oil painting showed a young girl kneeling in a dark stone vault, gazing upon the tomb of a knight.
I stood listening. You could almost feel the house breathe, feel the timbers as they expanded and contracted.
From a cupboard above his head Bror took a stiff-sided paper bag. A single fruit fly zigzagged up into the air. It hovered above him like a mote of dust trapped in the sunlight. He caught my gaze, looked up, smiled. “Ineradicable little buggers. They come in on the coriander plants. Then they make the kitchen their own.” A twinkle in his eye, as if he were challenging me to challenge him.
My phone rang.
“Your wife, perhaps?”
I looked down at the screen. “Excuse me a moment.”
“Of course.”
I walked out into the hall.
“Cal. You disappeared. With Franklin. I got a little worried.”
“Franklin’s here, with me, sleeping peacefully.” I walked to the front door, stood on the porch, watching the doves in their pear tree. “I was about to call you. I’m having lunch.”
“Kind of a late lunch.”
“Coffee, really.”
“You’re in town? The car’s gone.”
I could feel the next lie coming. Yes, Elsa, I’m in town.
I stopped. I looked about me, at the gravel drive and the courtyard and the birds circling a tractor in the field below.
“I’m not in town. I’m at Bror’s farmhouse.”
“With Franklin.” The longest of pauses.
“You told me I could meet him.”
“I did.”
“Can I be honest with you?”
“Honesty’s always good . . .” she said cautiously.
“He’s actually kind of an amazing guy. I can see how you would have hit that . . . I mean, spiritually, at least . . .”
She laughed. “You’re not actually jealous?”
“He radiates something I don’t have. I wish I had his charisma.”
She gave a theatrical sigh. “You beautiful jealous lying fuck of a man.”
“Forgive me?”
“Sure. Just don’t go getting converted.”
I ended the call and returned to the kitchen. In the middle of the kitchen floor the young woman in the gray shift dress was standing with her head inclined toward Bror. She turned as I entered, stood facing me, hands folded formally at her waist. Her feet were bare now.
“Hello,” I said.
She glanced at Bror. Bror nodded.
“I was abrupt when you arrived.” She looked at me, then looked down at her feet. “I am contrite. You are the father of a heroine. You are always welcome here.” Far too young, I thought, to be speaking so formally.
“I believe Milla wishes to apologize,” said Bror, his hand on her arm.
She smiled, her gaze still averted. “I do. I wish to apologize.” She glanced up at me, eyes dancing, smiled the most charming of smiles.
“No need,” I said.
“I believe there is,” she said. Again she averted her gaze.
Bror said, “I’m sure Cal understands that your instinct is to protect, Milla, and that you were dutifully protecting me.” He looked at me. I nodded. “And perhaps you will serve him with coffee? As a token of your contrition?”
“Gladly.” She turned toward the counter.
Strange to see this woman so submissive, when before—
“How is your extraordinary wife?” asked Bror, breaking my thought.
“She’s well,” I said. “All things considered. She sends her very best.”
My mind flashed to an image of Elsa, fresh from the shower, throwing her arms around this strange otherworldly man.
Bror stepped toward me, studied my face. He smiled a wry smile. “You have my respect. To take on a woman so committed to her cause requires moral strength.”
I laughed, but he was serious.
“Elsa set a standard that I could not meet. Her radical honesty defeated me in the end. Though she inspired me perhaps to seek out my own calling.” He smiled, placed a hand on my forearm. “But total honesty is not easy when you are dealing with a missing child. People blame each other, and say things that are better left unsaid. Are you being kind to one another?”
“We are.”
“Good.”
He turned toward the woman Milla, who handed him two cups of coffee. He nodded, and she returned to the counter, where she stood watching us, her hands folded at her waist. Bror turned, offered me a cup. Milla hovered by the sink. I smiled. She half smiled, then looked away.
“Will you not join us in a cup?” I said.
Her eyes flicked to me, then away. Bror sent her a look that I could not read. Now she was slipping from the room. Sound of bare feet on dry stone, the gentle swish of her shift dress.
“That was kind of you,” said Bror. “But unnecessary. Tell me, why are you standing here before me?”
“I want to know who you are.”
“Ah.” He considered this. “How very direct. Do you mean the Patriotic Order of the Temple Knight? Or do you mean the student who once knew your wife?”
“Is there a difference?”
“Locking horns with the priest.” He smiled a wry smile. “This is the job of the satirist, no? You are wondering if we are in some way connected to those men and their brutal acts? After all, we—and they—carry the name of the Knights Templar.”
“I have asked myself that question.”
“The Patriotic Order of the Temple Knight is a chivalric order, committed to honor and valor. With our young followers we meditate on the figure of the crusader knight, whom we consider the most complete embodiment of courage and honor. We seek inspiration from his deeds. But he is a metaphor. Which should be obvious. We are not literal knights and nor is he. We do not wish to rampage through the Middle East, spilling the blood of our Muslim brothers. Though we do have some very fine horses in our paddock.”
“And those other Knights Templar?”
“The—quote-unquote—Tactical Brigades?”
I nodded.
He shook his head. “These boys have a narrow understanding of metaphor: the gun is the lance; the boat is the horse; the refugee is the Saracen. They lack the intelligence to understand that this is a ridiculous proposition. But they outwitted our police. And their talk about employing children as actual soldiers? If that’s where we are headed in the West, then we know from other countries it’s a terrifyingly effective tactic, no? What decent man would dare to return fire, knowing his target was thirteen?”
“These men admire you. They quote you v
ery widely.”
“We’ve taken down our websites. All materials. You can’t even google us now. I will not have these acts on my conscience.” A sorrowful look passed across his features. “I sincerely hope better people admire us too. What I teach—the praxis our true followers observe—is more akin to Buddhism or Sufism. Balance duty with pleasure. Take time out to breathe.”
“I still don’t really understand what you believe.”
“Cherish and protect those you love. Beyond that I don’t really care what my followers believe. It’s the praxis that counts. Live the good life. Know the consoling qualities of a good cup of coffee . . .”
“You brought me coffee on the day of the massacre.”
A sober look. “You really mustn’t thank me.”
“Still, it did console me a little. To know we were not completely alone.”
He studied me for a moment. “You’re father to a heroine. To two heroines, most likely. These things run in the family, you know.”
I laughed. “I’m not a hero, Bror.”
He laughed gently. “And yet you married the most exceptional woman. Let us take with us our coffee as we walk.”
We stood at the top of a rise that looked down over the outbuildings. A single vast shed, two stories high, painted red; and beside the shed a lower building, long and narrow and painted black, where the horses were stabled in winter and the dogs were housed all year around. In a field beyond the outbuildings three young women in shift dresses were crouched, turning the earth with trowels and hoes, each working her way along a neatly plowed row of potato plants. One paused for a moment, rubbed the dry earth off her hands. She glanced up the hill toward Bror, who nodded in her direction. The girl nodded back and picked up her trowel. How happy they looked in their work; how comfortable Bror seemed in his role of protector and guide.
“Okay,” I said. “Where do I sign?”
“I would welcome you as a member today.” He turned to me. His eyes searched mine. “If I thought for a moment you were sincere.”
“Almost makes me want to get down on my knees and pray.”
He laughed. “Then let us pray together.”
“I said almost.”
Love and Other Lies Page 14
