Both men were sipping white wine. Nellie sprawled on the back steps, eating a pear. Henry sat in his tree house for no other reason than to justify its existence. Ruth was in her room doing homework. She was starting off this school year the way she always did. Determined to be an excellent student, reading every assignment, copying over her notes. Nellie gave her until Halloween, if that, before she fell by her well-rutted wayside. Nellie was the student in the family. No one ever had to check her homework or call school asking to speak to her teachers. And, but for his daydreaming, Henry would have been right up there with her. Her mother was still at work. Frederic’s was doing all the models’ hair for the Springvale Hospital Ladies Auxiliary Fashion Show that night. Her mother had agreed to work, only to find out later it was for charity. She wouldn’t be paid. Not one penny, she’d grumbled on her way out the door. But it’s for such a good cause, Nellie’s father called after her. She hadn’t answered.
Lazlo’s easel stood by his chair. Until the sun began to set, he’d been sketching the tree house. Now, with nightfall crouched in the cooling shadows and a few crickets chirping weakly, Nellie was remembering how serene she always found the company of these two peaceful men.
Her father had been talking about his childhood. More and more lately, her mother had little patience for these slowly spun out reminiscences. Just the other day she’d rolled her hand for him to get to the point. Nellie hadn’t been sure if he even noticed, but she’d found it as alarming as her father’s description of the flood years ago: water seeping in under the door.
Now he was telling Lazlo about the Humboldts’ wanting the tree house torn down. Lazlo remembered running into Louisa Humboldt on the street a few times. But in his three and a half years here, he’d never met her brother. Tenley was very private, her father said. Always had been.
“Probably just kids he hates,” Lazlo said. “Not the tree house.”
“Maybe. He took his share of abuse as a kid, I’ll tell you that.”
“Yeah, well, growing up’s hard enough, but try being gay. I mean, talk about a square peg in a round world.”
“I know, couldn’t’ve been easy. But I don’t think that’s Tenley’s problem.”
“Problem? Oh, that’s very enlightened of you.” Lazlo sounded hurt. He was convinced that’s why he’d been fired.
“I’m sorry, but you know what I mean.”
“I guess,” Lazlo sighed. For a moment there was only the faint chirping.
“Anyway,” her father continued. “Tenley was one of those kids, you know, just always out of his element. If he ran, he’d trip over his own two feet. You’d throw him the ball, and it’d hit him in the face. Seems like he was always running home, crying. Then he just stopped coming around. I don’t know, I always felt bad, as if he blamed me or something.”
“Probably did. Blamed you and everyone else he thought fit in better than he did. The pain you go through as a kid—half the time you don’t even know why. Then, by the time you do, it’s too late. Too deep,” Lazlo said, tapping his chest.
Nellie sensed he meant himself as well. She watched the bats swooping close to the tree house.
“Maybe you’re right,” her father agreed.
“So just go talk to him,” Lazlo said. He was looking up at the tree. “I would’ve given anything for that when I was a kid.”
“Oh, well,” her father said with a slap of his thigh.
“A place to feel safe in,” Lazlo was saying.
You’re safe here, Lazlo, she wanted her father to say. As safe as anyone would feel, living in a crime scene, though that wouldn’t occur to her until days later.
Suddenly there was a loud bang, and Henry scurried down the ladder from the tree house. Her father and Lazlo jumped to their feet. It had been a car backfiring, not Tenley Humboldt “startling.”
IT WOULD BE a peace mission. On Saturday morning her father announced that they were all going to walk over to the Humboldts’ and discuss “the matter of the tree house.” They would present their case neighbor to neighbor. Her mother lowered the newspaper.
“You mean me?” she asked.
“Yes, all of us. What I’d like,” her father explained with a nod, “is for Henry to state his reasons for building the tree house and then Nellie—”
“Please, Ben, stop it. Don’t we have enough to worry about?”
“That’s exactly my point. Let’s defuse the situation. Handle it in a civilized manner. I’ve known the Humboldts my entire life. There’s no reason for this kind of rancor.”
“Nellie.” She took a deep breath. “You and Henry, go make your beds, okay?” She was struggling either not to cry or not to lose her temper. Or both.
Damn. Nellie didn’t want to leave the kitchen. This promised to be a blowout, no two ways about it. But Henry wanted no part of it. He ran upstairs and closed his bedroom door. Nellie lingered on the stairway. She intercepted Ruth on her sleepy way down. She was still in her nightgown. Nellie could hear them, but not what they were saying. Ruth hunched behind her on the top step, their cheeks against the balustrade. The muffled volley suddenly stopped.
“Who are you?” her mother suddenly cried. “I don’t even know who you are anymore! Do you even know what’s going on? Do you care? We have no money for anything! We’re involved in a murder trial, a murder trial, Ben, and all you can think about is that damn tree house out there?”
“Sandy!” her father called as a door slammed.
“Poor Mom,” Ruth sighed.
“What do you mean?” Nellie asked.
“It’s like she’s just seeing it all for the first time.”
“All what?”
“Like.” She winced the wince of the obvious. “Like, Ben.”
“What?”
“C’mon, Nellie, get real, will you? He’s, like, from another planet. You think that’s how fathers are? They just let everything go to hell like that?”
“Shut up, Ruth! Just shut up!”
“You’re the one that asked me,” she sniffed past her down the stairs.
“He’s your father, too, you know!” Nellie spat after her. And with that, Ruth glanced back but clearly knew better than to say what she was thinking. As did Nellie.
THEY DID GO to the Humboldts’—Nellie, her father, and Henry. Miss Humboldt’s chin quivered as her father asked if they might speak with her and Tenley. She left them on the porch while she checked to see if her brother was up to a visit.
“That’s a golden chain tree,” her father said, pointing to the pretty tree next to the steps. “Don’t ever eat the seeds though. They’re poisonous.”
As if we would: Nellie and Henry exchanged glances. The argument with her mother had drained all fervor from her father’s high-minded mission. But now it was a matter of principle. And so there could be no backing down—even if he was nervous, which Nellie was surprised to see that he was.
Returning, Miss Humboldt opened the door and led them into the blindingly beautiful living room. In the far corner Tenley sat cross-legged on an enormous white chair. His folded arms hugged a gold-tasseled pillow close to his chest. He was wearing a silky black shirt and silky black pants and on his feet what looked like ballet slippers, soft and black. His hair fell loosely to his shoulders.
The three of them sat on the long curved sofa across from him. Miss Humboldt lowered herself into the chair next to her brother. Her father began by apologizing for not having come here first and telling them that Henry wanted to build a tree house. And once Henry got started, the project had taken on a life of its own, the way such things do when you’re young. Just eight years old, her father said, and Tenley’s grip tightened on the pillow. In any event, her father continued, the tree house was there, and he was sure, given their long relationship through childhood till now as neighbors, as well as being the longest residents on the street, that they could come to some mutual agreement here. For instance, if privacy was the issue, the tree house window facing the Humboldt’s could be
boarded up. And anytime the children got too rambunctious, all Tenley or Louisa had to do was call.
“Call?” Tenley repeated. “So here it comes now, full circle.” With every indignant glance at his sister, she blinked, lips moving wordlessly.
“Well, it’s only fair,” her father was saying. “Children can be noisy, and why should you have to put up with their commotion?”
“Hm, that’s right. I still can’t expect peace in my own yard, can I?” Tenley said.
“Of course you should,” her father said. “That’s your right. That’s exactly why we’re here.”
“Oh, really?” Another glance at his sister. Her face reddened.
“Remember us, all our commotion?” Her father smiled with the memory. “All the children on the street? Twenty, anyway. Two or three in every house. Never a lack of playmates, that’s for sure.”
“Some things you don’t forget. Ever. They persist and persist.”
Her father’s head drew back with the sibilance. “Of course. I’m sure they do.”
“No, Ben, because you have no idea what I’m talking about. None. None at all.”
“Well, I’m sorry for that, then. Because I want to.”
If only she could have sat next to Henry instead of her father. She needed someone to jam her leg into. She couldn’t take the pressure. And worst of all, her father wasn’t getting it. Miss Humboldt was, though. Staring at her brother, she looked ready to burst.
“All I ever wanted was to be left alone. What was wrong with that?” Tenley asked.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” her father answered quietly.
“Then why wasn’t I? The apples, those disgusting, slimy, rotten apples, it felt like hundreds of them hitting me. Like explosions, smashing into me. In my own yard. Why? What did I do wrong? Why couldn’t you just all leave me alone?”
For a moment her father seemed in deep scrutiny of his clasped hands. But his eyes were closed. He finally spoke. “Because we were just children?” His ragged question hung in the silence. “I don’t know. But, Tenley, I … I … I don’t think I ever d … d … did any of that. I didn’t. I’m pretty sure—”
“Actually, you were the worst.”
He sat forward. “How? What did I do? I never—”
“Oh no, you never did anything! You just let it happen.”
And with her father’s sigh, she knew that it was true.
Chapter 21
“I’M TOLD THIS FINN COWIE’S A REAL GENTLEMAN. YOU’LL BE in good hands,” her father said as he drove. Even though it was a cool, bright September morning, the sky looked milky, probably because her glasses were so smudged. Squinting through a two-day scrim of fingerprints and water spots had soft-focused life to a dreamlike state, turning tension and agitation to this blur of passing cars and buildings as her father continued to assure her over the persistent, racing whir from the engine that there wasn’t anything to be nervous about. This was way beyond nerves. She didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to be on their way to the district attorney’s office when she should’ve been in class like every other normal kid in America. Her backpack was next to her on the seat. Afterward, she’d be dropped off at school.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be in there with you. The whole time,” he called over the noise. He drove even slower. Probably nothing, he’d assured her mother as they were leaving; fan belt’s a little loose, that’s all. The whirring pitched higher now that they’d stopped for the red light.
“It’s just to go over everything before the trial starts. Pretty routine, that’s all. The law, you see, it’s all about formality and procedure. Certain ways of doing things. Steps to follow. Keeps us civilized,” he said with a punctuating nod. “I almost went to law school. Sometimes, I—”
Behind them, a horn blared. The light had changed to green. They turned, and there it was, almost a block long, grim, dull orangey brick with sandstone columns. The courthouse parking lot was full. She wondered how many murder trials were going on in there. They found a space farther down the street.
“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine,” her father said, turning off the noisy engine. He patted her leg. “And you look lovely, by the way. Very pretty.”
They were both dressed up. According to her father in his dark gray funeral and wedding suit, it showed respect for the law. There was no way her tacky outfit showed respect for anything other than her mother, who’d refused to let her wear pants. So here she was in her sister’s hand-me-downs, a blue-and-yellow skirt that was too short and a frilly white blouse that was baggy. Her mother had insisted she carry Ruth’s fringed leather pocketbook. Just in case, she’d said. In case what? In case you need it, she’d said with her warning look. For what, a little shoplifting afterward, like Ruth? she wondered, trying to lighten her foul mood. The navy-blue flats, also Ruth’s, were rubbing her heels raw.
“You haven’t had much to say,” her father said. “Nerves, huh?” Ticking his fingers on the steering wheel and clearing his throat, he was the nervous one.
“Sometimes I just like to be quiet, that’s all.” She yawned. If she seemed calm, then maybe she’d feel it.
“Okay,” he said softly. He checked his watch. “We’ve got a couple minutes. Unless you want to go now.”
“Not yet!” she said before he could open the door. They sat, staring at traffic. She kept thinking of Mr. Cooper’s tie, up and down, up and down, a pulse beat on his shirt front. She wondered if he’d been angry or scared. It couldn’t be a very nice feeling, having a kid in charge of his entire future, especially a kid whose name he couldn’t remember half the time. Maybe she should just confront him. Tell him time was running out and she couldn’t keep his secret for much longer, not with Max’s life on the line. At least if he turned himself in, then he wouldn’t have to be always worrying about being caught, a dread she well knew, having lived it last summer, always afraid of Bucky implicating her and Henry in the stolen bike scheme, which could still very well happen, she realized, a cold sweat prickling her back. Just then, there came a roar. “Daddy!” she gasped as the earth rumbled and the whole car shook.
“Just a garbage truck,” he said, looking in the mirror. “But he’s going way too fast.”
“So! How come you didn’t go? To law school, I mean,” she asked in a rush, needing containment, safety, even if it was only his voice.
He sighed. “Sometimes it’s a matter of thinking too much. Of wanting so much to make the right decision that you end up not making any decision at all. You know what I mean?” he asked, as if still trying to make sense of it.
“Not me. I just do things,” she said with a shrug. Though in a million years it wasn’t true, not with the Australian letters under the floorboard and Jessica’s relentless pestering and her guilt about Max. But her father needed to tell her things he couldn’t share with anyone else, and she wanted to help him. It pained her to think Ruth might be right, that he was hapless and weak. “You know that book Get Tough!?”
“Sure. Uncle Seth’s book. Now there was a man of action. Omaha Beach. Three times they shot him, and he just kept crawling and crawling.”
“No, I know,” she said quickly. “His book, that’s what I do. I know all the holds, I study them, and it makes me feel—” She groped for the word.
“Strong?”
“More than that. Something else.”
“Empowered?” he asked, smiling when she said yes, that was it, kind of. “Very good,” he declared with the wag of a warning finger. “But a lot of people make that same mistake. They think it’s all about physical strength. And most of the time force is the greatest weakness of all. You can’t go too far wrong if you just remember this. Mark Twain said it. ‘How curious that physical courage should be so common in the world, and moral courage so rare.’ ”
In the stray of his eyes to the traffic again and the solemn lift of his chin, she saw the virtue he felt possessing such a truth, and how apart it set him, safe from her and her petty problems. And suddenly
she was stung by his smug dismissal of everything she’d discovered and needed to be true, stung by the quiet tyranny of his kindness, the serene self-absorption that never needed or asked a thing from her or from anyone. For the first time she understood her mother’s frustration. He could as well live alone with his books, on an island somewhere, unreachable, and be just as content as now.
“I hate these stupid shoes!” she said, kicking them off. “They’re killing my feet. I don’t know why I had to wear them or these stupid clothes.”
“Nellie.” He took her hand in his. “I wish you didn’t have to go through this. If I could, I’d go in there and do it for you. Bad enough putting any child through something like this, but when it’s your own—” He shook his head. “Just doesn’t seem right.”
“So do you think he’s innocent then?” she asked, more challenge than question.
“Oh no. That’s not what I meant. It just seems they have all the evidence they need, so why drag you into it?”
“Because I was there,” she said bitterly. “I’m the only one that was.”
By the time she’d wedged her shoes back on and was limping up the wide granite steps, they were late. “Wait!” she said before he pushed open the glass door. “I’m going to tell them the truth, you know.”
“Well, of course.”
“You know what I mean.” A breeze kept lifting the hem of her stupid skirt. Two women hurried toward them so they stepped aside, next to one of the massive fluted columns. With the cold stone pressing against her arm, she knew what she had to do.
“You mean Mr. Cooper?”
She nodded. It would be the hardest thing she’d ever done. But she had courage, she did, more than enough, more than he knew, physical and moral.
“Nellie, you know why he was there. The offer … I told you. He couldn’t get me at the store, so he came to the house, and I wasn’t there, so he called me.”
Light from a Distant Star Page 27
