by Heather Clay
Would Charlotte even be comforted by her presence here? The thought of her sister tending to those she loved after her own death made her jealous, actually, though she wasn’t proud of it. “Mom and Daddy are fine,” she heard Charlotte saying. “Ned is getting along.” Her voice sounded smug as it ricocheted through the halls of Knox’s imagination.
She should have tried harder. She should have answered all of Charlotte’s calls, instead of picking and choosing the moments that best suited her. She should have gotten more involved during the pregnancy, when it was suddenly clear that Charlotte wanted her to. But whenever this kind of guilt threatened to push her under, she’d proven capable of grasping on to a justification to hold her afloat. When Charlotte had first left home, she hadn’t answered any of the letters Knox had sent her at Walton, though Knox had primed herself to wait the four days it would take for a letter to arrive, then checked the mail daily for a response. Wasn’t that true?
She felt infinitesimally small, even as she thought it. Well, she was trying harder now.
Last night, Ben flashed a smile at her while she struggled to pull a sock onto his twisting foot, and Knox had stopped what she was doing to peck at his cool cheek with kiss after kiss. It was too early for smiles, but she’d seen one. When she looked up, Bruce was watching her, and it occurred to her to feel guilty. This wasn’t hers. But as soon as the thought came, it was gone. Thank God she was here, thank God the boys had someone else to love them, right now. Bruce seemed to thank her, too, with his look—she hadn’t imagined it, she thought—and the moment passed.
She and Bruce had developed a routine of their own, which shaped itself around the babies’ emergent schedule. They’d put the boys to bed a half hour earlier on successive nights this week, letting them cry for short bursts until they’d established a fairly consistent bedtime of eight-thirty. When the door to the boys’ room was closed and the baby monitor switched on, Bruce dialed a neighborhood place for hummus, warm pita, lamb sausages. Knox would open a bottle of red wine; she’d taken to stopping at a nearby liquor store on her short, daily walks with the boys (she’d appointed herself for this job after the last pediatrician’s visit; Bruce hadn’t volunteered to come along, and they didn’t discuss it). They would unfold a frayed tablecloth and drape it over the ottoman, sink onto the couch with their glasses and food containers to watch another installment of Bruce’s crime show, which seemed to run simultaneously on nine different channels as far as Knox could tell. She found herself missing Robbie as she ate—too quickly, without truly tasting—and watched more bullets entering skulls in slow motion, more bodies being dissected by teams of nubile forensic pathologists in tight slacks. She would refill her glass and vow to call her brother, her parents, Ned, as soon as the show was over—at which time she could only summon enough energy to climb up to her futon and arrange her body upon it, often without having brushed her teeth.
In the mornings, Bruce fetched the boys first; they were diapered and bouncing in their little seats on the kitchen floor when Knox appeared, dressed for breakfast. She finished making the bottles before sitting down to coffee with Bruce, who leafed through the Times without speaking to her while she fed one of the boys, then handed her the paper to read while he fed the other. They moved through their days in this kind of silent, increasingly efficient compromise, taking turns, trading off. For some reason, Knox found herself holding Ethan more often, and Bruce holding Ben, but otherwise it was like they’d been twinned, too, completing each other’s actions, sharing the whole of their days. Two weeks from the last one, there would be another pediatrician’s appointment, after which, if the boys were healthy, they could fly. Knox organized the changing table’s drawers. Bruce bought some faster-flow bottles, and the feeding times shortened.
The laundry needed doing now, though, or neither of the boys would have clean pajamas for their next nap. Knox pushed her legs up to a standing position and hoisted the duffel onto her shoulder. She remembered the towels she’d thrown into a corner of the room’s closet at different points in her hurried mornings over the past week and nudged the door, already slightly ajar, farther open with the toe of her boot.
The box she’d tossed them behind was too large to nudge aside without setting down the duffel; she dropped it to the floor and decided to drag the box out of the way altogether. She winced at the scrape the cardboard made against the wooden boards and stayed in a crouch as she impulsively opened it, lest she need to spring quickly to her feet and explain herself. She was trying to get at her towels. Was that all right? Did anyone mind?
On the top: Unopened bank statements, dog-eared magazines, birthday cards. A cocktail napkin with a phone number on it, a brochure from a small French hotel, a blank W-2 tax form. There were several Walton alumni magazines with covers that featured savage-looking girls wielding hockey sticks, or pale figures in theatrical costumes and stage makeup ill suited to their youth, captured during some soulful soliloquy. Knox rifled downward, discovering nothing of note but the all-too-familiar version of herself, still poking at objects as if they were alive, instead of the family members she’d investigated through the little spy missions she’d gone on as a kid. Why had she thought she could better find her family on her own, by sifting through the things that belonged to them, instead of trusting what she saw and heard in their presence? It was the secrets she trusted more, she thought. Here she was, looking for them again. What secrets? To what end?
She stopped herself and stuffed the damp towels into her bag. When she stood again, she found herself noticing the clothes, obviously exiled up here for various reasons: there was a sequined shift that looked like it might have been a one-off for a party, a thick, uncomfortable-looking fisherman’s turtleneck, several coats. A pale yellow silk slip hung by one strap from a metal hanger. Lopsided like that, it made Knox think of a pretty drunk, hanging on to the arm of someone who’d insisted he take her home. She fingered the soft material, picturing it against Charlotte’s skin, set off by her dark mass of hair. There was a yellow ribbon that tied at the neckline, and a half inch of yellow lace at the hem. This was the only thing that Knox drew to her face. On impulse, she reached for it, pulled her T-shirt off over her head, and shimmied the slip over her breasts, tugged it down, and stood in place, her heart beating fast. The stale perfumes of cedar chips and dry-cleaning fluid were a comfort to her, somehow—chastening, humble, familiar. She grazed her hand against the silk. Had Charlotte slept in this, worn it under her dresses, packed it for the delayed honeymoon she and Bruce had taken to Ankara? Had she bought it, then regretted the color? Charlotte’s laugh had been deep and knowing; she’d kept her mouth closed. The slip was loose on Knox at the top and hit her farther above the knees than it would have on her sister, whose height had been the only average thing about her appearance. Goddamnit, Knox thought, frightened by the images in her head, the power of them. What was wrong with her? She was wearing her dead sister’s clothes. Knox fished an old, dirty shirt of Ned’s out of the duffel and buttoned it onto herself quickly, tucked the hem of the slip into her jeans, thrusting her hands in a circle at her waistband until the material was smoothed out of sight. She began to cry.
“KNOX! There’s coffee.”
“I’ll be right down,” she called. She rubbed her palm against her face, and turned. As she moved down the stairs, the house phone rang.
In the kitchen, Bruce stood at the sink with his back to the door, the cordless in his hand. His free hand tapped against the leg of his jeans, and he looked over his shoulder as Knox came in, then turned back.
“I’ll think about it, Mina,” he said. He rocked on the balls of his feet. “I can tell you’ve put a lot of thought into it. Okay.” He paused. “Yeah, she’s been a lifesaver,” he said. “She just walked in. All right. Nice talking to you.”
Bruce’s face looked pinched when he turned fully around to hand her the phone. Knox took it, and he walked out the door.
“Mom?”
“Hi, honey
. How are you doing?”
“We’re okay.”
“It’s not easy to get ahold of you. But I’m sure you’re very busy.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“No, don’t apologize. I know how it is. How are the boys?”
Knox thought an apology was exactly what her mother had needed to extract before the conversation could move forward; as soon as Knox offered it, her voice had warmed, her speech had sped up a fraction.
“Hanging in there.” Did her mother really know what her days were like here, or want to, in much detail? Knox wasn’t sure how much to offer; she felt she could either provide her mother with some variation of fine, or give a thorough reporting of the diaper rash they were trying to prevent from spreading on Ben’s bum, the possibility that they might have to switch Ethan to a soy formula, the fact that she and Bruce had finally located the button on the bouncy seats that caused them to vibrate under the boys’ backs, which Ben liked and Ethan seemed to fear. There was no in-between.
“I was talking to Bruce just now about the memorial service.” Knox couldn’t prevent her stomach from dropping; speaking to her mother about this felt like admitting that there was nothing Knox could do to prevent or protect her mother from knowing that this had happened and would continue to be true. Knox’s old habit of reassuring and jollying when her sister’s name came up had been rendered impotent in a fell stroke, and now that she couldn’t do her job, Knox would rather avoid talking to her mother at all than failing her so utterly.
“How’s Dad,” she ventured.
“He’s—wait, let me finish.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“I need to know whether or not you, or Bruce, or just one of you, want to speak at the service, and if you do, roughly how long it will take and, I suppose, something about what you plan to say, or read, if you’d like to do a reading. I need this for the printer. We’re doing it at First Presbyterian because it’s just big enough, and you may remember we went to Dr. Houlihan’s funeral there since the new minister took over, and it was so lovely.”
“I remember.”
“It will be a full house, but if you want any of your friends there who might not be aware of the day, you’re responsible for letting them know. Anyone here will know from the paper, I suppose—Lindsay Acheson and Beth Foreman have called to see what they can do, and I think I’ll set aside several rows up front just for special friends of Charlotte’s, so if you think of people I might be leaving out, let me know. I can give you the full list once I’ve finalized it. Lindsay Acheson is so sweet.”
“Mama,” Knox said.
“Yes?”
“Those are Charlotte’s friends from grade school.”
“I know.”
“Well—has she even kept in touch with them?”
“They’re some of the oldest and dearest people in her life.”
“I just—are you inviting anyone from up here? Is Bruce doing that?”
“Your father and I don’t really know her New York friends. I’m sure Bruce will mention the date to anyone he thinks is important. Otherwise, maybe he’s planning to organize something up there, at some point.”
“I don’t think so, Mom. He hasn’t talked about it. He doesn’t even have time to sleep, right now.”
“Maybe not, but if you both could find time to help me with the program, I’d like to know what your contributions will be by the end of the week. Then I can send the printer the final version.”
“What about the wedding list? I could call information for a lot of those phone numbers—”
“Don’t do this, honey. I’ve been very busy with the arrangements. If people want to find out when and where a memorial service for one of their friends is going to be held, they certainly have the resources at hand to do so. I can’t worry about everybody.”
“Okay.”
“Thank you.”
Knox stood looking around: there were unwashed dishes tilting against one another in the sink, the sandy, yellow residue of dry formula on the counter. A cotton undershirt no bigger than her hand hung limp over the back of a chair rung. She was suddenly so, so tired. Fatigue raked through her like a swoon, but she steadied herself.
“Have you talked to Ned?”
“No.”
“I saw him at the barn; he mentioned he’s been having trouble getting hold of you.”
For years, Knox thought wryly, and her shame instantly compounded.
“Don’t worry about that. He knows I’m all right.”
Knox’s mother breathed into the receiver. Knox could picture her at the desk in her beautiful library, the tarnished light there, the daintiness of her crossed ankles, her leather flats on the carpet. She could smell her flowery perfume. Had she finally allowed herself to get far enough away to be homesick?
“I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing, Knox,” Mina said. “We all do.”
They hung up. Knox looked around, rolled up the sleeves of Ned’s shirt, and started in on the mess.
SHE FOUND BRUCE stretched out beside Ben, on a blanket that had been laid on the living room floor. Bruce’s feet were bare, his long body arranged in a straight line. He held a gaudy, rhinestoned compact open in front of Ben’s face, and passed the mirror back and forth in front of his eyes.
“This was in the bathroom cabinet,” Bruce said, looking up. “Don’t worry, I’m not putting makeup on him.”
“I didn’t think so,” Knox said, wiping her hands, still damp from cleaning, against the front of her jeans. She smiled.
“I thought it would be interesting for him to see himself,” Bruce said. “He seems to like it.”
Knox watched Ben’s face. His mouth hung open in what looked like astonishment. His tongue worked against his bottom lip, and he didn’t look away from the mirror once. Who did he think that was? In the world he existed in, did he think his reflection was just another baby, hovering and staring?
“Is Ethan still napping?”
“Yep. The phone didn’t seem to wake him up.”
Knox sat in the chair opposite Bruce and Ben and closed her eyes. Even as she did so, she told herself not to get too comfortable inside this reprieve; Ethan would be up soon enough.
“So, your mother.”
Knox opened her eyes. Bruce wasn’t looking at her.
“She seems to have a lot of plans,” Bruce said, his voice even.
“She’s worked up a head of steam, that’s for sure,” Knox said. “She wasn’t like this when I left.”
“The service. Where I’m going to stay. How long. She mentioned some place across the road where we could have our own space. A guesthouse or something.”
Her parents had recently acquired a pocket of land that lay catty-corner to the yearling division. There was a house on it that her mother had yet to redo, a hollow relic from the thirties; the architect had referenced a much older Georgian style with some skill, but neglect had left it a mess; the last time Knox had walked through its rooms, she’d wondered how they could ever recover.
“She didn’t mention that.”
Bruce smiled at her from the floor, but there was something hard in his features, too. “She’s been working to get it ready for me. She wanted a list of everything I thought the boys would need for the ‘nursery.’”
“She must think it’s important not to have us in your hair while you’re down there.”
“That’s the thing. I have this weird feeling that she plans to keep me there. It’s a lot of trouble to go to for a few days.”
“No. I’m sure it’s just something for her to put her energy into right now,” Knox said.
“I just wish—”
Knox waited.
“I wish we didn’t have to put the boys through this, so early. Make them travel. Everything feels like it’s happening too soon.”
“Yeah.”
“I wonder why we all have to go through it. Wouldn’t it be easier not to put ourselves through it? All those people.”
/> We, he’d said. Knox’s mind caught. Of course, she wasn’t necessarily included in the we.
“I think the boys will be okay,” Knox said, not wanting to think, right now, of Lindsay Acheson’s plump, smiling face, of Beth Foreman—who’d called Knox “stork” in school—attempting to wrap any of them up in her arms, of Mrs. Howard’s lisped condolences.
“They’re portable,” she continued. “They’ll roll with things.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.” Knox sighed. “But my family needs this. My mother needs this, it seems.” Knox felt herself returning to her usual role of loyalist, of translator. She felt like contradicting herself and her automatic explanations.
“Part of me is afraid that I don’t. That gathering a million rubberneckers together won’t make me feel better. It’s supposed to, right? I’ll do it, but I’m not going to say anything. There’s nothing I feel ready to say. Jesus.”
“It’s what has to happen next, Bruce. It might as well be now, as opposed to a year from now.” A year from now, where would they be? The boys walking, or trying to. Laughing, speaking. Would they have lost the grave suggestions of understanding that Knox felt she recognized in their faces now—especially Ethan’s? Would they move further away from the knowledge of how they’d come to be here, instead of closer to it, as they grew? Knox couldn’t picture herself a year from now, back in her cabin, driving to work, writing evaluations. Bruce, she supposed, would be writing out instructions for the nanny before he left for work. She could only glimpse this if she concentrated very hard: there he was gnawing on a piece of dry toast as he chased two squealing toddlers down a hallway, his tie looped around his neck. It seemed more like an image from a movie, or an advertisement for deodorant, than something real and foregone.
