by Cora Brent
“We worked with Julianne,” says the woman who didn’t ring the doorbell. Her face creases into a mask of distress. “What a horrible shock. I can’t stop thinking about Caitlin and Mara.”
Neither one of those names mean a thing to me. “Yeah, me either.”
An arctic lake breeze blasts across my back and it has teeth. A flutter of color to the left forces me to notice a pair of pink tricycles I’d overlooked before. They’ve been carefully propped against the porch railing and the plastic streamers dangling from the handlebars are being played with by the wind.
The sight of those sad little tricycles is a crushing jolt. I know without being told that they must belong to Jules’s daughters. They are the most depressing objects I have ever laid eyes on.
With a squeal of old hinges, the front door cracks open. I follow the two women inside because I don’t see what’s to be gained from remaining on the front porch until I’m a block of ice.
The house is packed and all I see are the backs of heads. There’s a low buzz of mournful conversation. The stuffy air that comes from the crush of too many bodies is an abrupt change from the frigid outdoors.
Just as I thought, some of the faces that turn my way are recognizable but none of them are worth talking to. I must not look particularly friendly myself because no one utters a word of greeting.
The living room is so crammed that I’m forced to inch my way along the wall. The place is both familiar and unfamiliar. The walls have been painted a light yellow instead of a dreary brown. The black leather living room set has been replaced with a brown suede sectional. And everywhere I look there are pictures. Pictures of two pink-swaddled babies, two gap-toothed toddlers, and finally two beaming preschoolers who leave me feeling dizzy because they resemble their mother so strongly.
I’m not watching where I’m going and my elbow knocks an object off an end table.
It’s a good thing an area rug is underneath because the object is another framed photo. I have to crouch down to retrieve it. Then I get clobbered with a profound sense of loss when I turn it over to see the smiling face of Jules Aaronson. She’s balancing one tiny daughter on each knee while a summer version of Lake Stuart sparkles in the background. She was a pretty girl who grew up into a beautiful woman. I can remember having a crush on her before I understood what a crush was.
Jules deserved much better than a life cut brutally short on an icy road.
With supreme care, I set the picture back where it belongs on a scarred end table that’s always been in this spot and must be an Aaronson family antique.
I’ve now edged past the thickest clot of mourners and can see through the rectangular interior wall cutout into the dining room.
I can also see Gretchen Aaronson.
She presides over a long table that has been completely covered with drinks and fruit bowls and organized cheese trays that people like to take pictures of. Her bright red hair is a shade found in desert sunsets and spills softly past her shoulders, contrasting with the black fabric of a dress that molds to curves she didn’t have back when I knew her. To say that time has been good to Danny’s little sister is the understatement of the motherfucking year.
I’d prefer my cock to avoid twitching to life right now but he’s not listening. He likes what I’m seeing and he’s reminding me it’s been a while since he had any fun.
Gretchen steps back and tilts her head, surveying the scene. Redheads usually aren’t on my radar much, but great tits are and she’s sure as shit grown a set of those. Her shapely legs end in a pair of black high heels and the tensely pinched face I remember has replaced with delicate loveliness.
My hunger for her is instant and inescapable.
I don’t tend to go out of my way for women because they come to me easily enough, but if we were different people in different circumstances I might barge in there and find a reason to demand her attention.
A fading blonde wearing a tight red dress appears at Gretchen’s side and says something that changes Gretchen’s soft mouth into an angry line. I can’t hear Gretchen’s reply but it must be sharply worded because the woman stiffens before propping her hands on her bony hips. There are other people in the room and in between bites of cheese and crackers they watch the disturbance. There’s still no sign of Danny.
Red Dress turns around to glare at the table and sulkily chew on a crimson lower lip. I can’t believe I didn’t know her right away, but her hair is much shorter now and she’s lost a lot of weight. She’s Sharon Aaronson, or at least she used to be. I remember hearing that she’d remarried following the divorce so she’s probably called something else now. She doesn’t look like a woman heartbroken over the loss of her oldest daughter. She looks like she’s pissed that there’s no open bar around.
Sharon pivots and stalks out of the room. Gretchen watches her go, then sighs and shuts her eyes. She steps back to lean against the paneled wall and the grief stamped on her face tears me up almost as much as those pink tricycles did.
I should really win Mr. Asshole of the Year for checking out her tits a moment ago.
I’m not prepared for the sound of my name to suddenly float over the sadly bowed heads populating the living room. “Trent! Trent Cassini.”
It’s a woman’s voice, which means it’s not Danny’s. It’s not Gretchen’s either because she’s still standing against the dining room wall with her eyes miserably shut.
There’s no one else I’d be interested in talking to right now so I pretend not to hear and move in the opposite direction, past the sectional sofa which currently hosts two hookups from high school days gone by and a prematurely balding former member of the varsity baseball team.
So far my time in the Aaronson house is like receiving a visit from the ghost of Christmas past, except everything I see is a carnival version of what used to be.
The layout of the house remains as familiar to me as if I were only here yesterday and I pause beside the main staircase, wondering if I ought to go hunt for Danny upstairs. But no one else is going upstairs and it seems like this choice would attract a lot of attention. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s attention.
Besides, I have no guarantee that Danny is around. I just assumed he would be. Gretchen would know where to find her brother but that’s an awkward encounter I’m not ready to have, especially because a moment ago I was up to my dick in thoughts about how good she’d look naked. Yet standing around out here in the open only increases the chances that I’ll get collared by some ex-girlfriend for an annoying conversation.
It’s also occurred to me that he might be here, although I doubt it. He has no connection to the Aaronson family and even if he had a reason to show up he probably wouldn’t. Liam Cassini is not real invested in doing the right thing.
The kitchen might be the most logical place to look next. This house was designed long before open floorplans were a thing so the kitchen is removed from the action at the back of the house. To get there I need to navigate a long hallway and squeeze past the couple who entered the house before me. They’re pressed against the wall and she’s got her arms hooked around his neck as she weeps against his shoulder.
“Nothing has ever been sadder,” she sniffles and I don’t know if her companion agrees or not but he appears to be pretty comfortable staying where he is with his hands parked on her ass.
The hallway is low-ceilinged and narrow, like it was built only to accommodate single file traffic. There’s no way to get by without them noticing.
“Hey.” She backs up a little and looks me over. Her name is Andrea. She used to be the cheerleading captain and once she jerked me off in the woods surrounding Rosebriar when I was bombed halfway out of my skull on Cassini Brewery’s best sour ale. “I know you! You’re-“
“Nope.” I cut her off and slide past before anyone can argue.
Two steps later there’s a volcano of yelling from the direction of the kitchen.
“You wouldn’t BELIEVE what I’ve had to put up with today! When I told
her it was the tackiest table display I’d ever seen and an insult to her sister’s memory, you should have seen the dirty look on her face!”
The strident pitch of that voice is burned into my memory. Sharon Aaronson was always loudly unhappy about something; her husband or her house or her kids or the weather. The kitchen seems like a less desirable destination now that I know she’s in it but there’s no other way to go unless I want to squeeze past Andrea and her date.
There’s a closed door ahead on the left. It used to lead to a den with a large television and a pair of mismatched sofas. I don’t know what it’s used for now but I take a chance in the hopes it might be empty. All these trips down memory lane are messing with my head and I need a minute.
No sooner have I shut the door behind me when I realize the room is indeed still a den.
However, it is not empty.
“Who are you?”
I can’t tell which little girl fired out the question. They sit huddled close together in a large brown armchair and stare at me with their mother’s wide green eyes.
The girl on the right frowns. “Why are you here?”
The girl on the left cocks her head and looks more wistful. “Did you know our mommy?”
Her sister elbows her. “He’s a stranger, Mara.”
I move slowly so I don’t alarm them and take a seat on a footstool that was randomly left by the door. The floor is casually littered with children’s books and stuffed animals. Cracker crumbs have been embedded in the brown carpet. The television is playing some movie where the cartoon characters break into song constantly. Right now they are singing about snow.
The girls watch me in their identical dark blue dresses that might have been worn for the holidays not too long ago.
“I’m not a stranger,” I assure them.
“I’ve never seen you before,” insists the first girl.
I try to remember what her name might be.
“I grew up just down the street. And yes, I knew your mommy. My name is Trent.”
“I’m Caitlin. This is Mara. You can tell which of us is which if you try. She has a freckle on her left cheek and I don’t. And my hair is shorter. See?” She demonstrates by touching her brown hair, which is cut just around her shoulders while her sister’s is a good four inches longer.
“I do see, yes.”
“I don’t like having my hair too long.”
I nod. “Got it.”
“Gramma doesn’t try,” says Mara and plays with the long satin sash on her dress. “She always gets us mixed up.”
Caitlin raises her chin. “She’s supposed to be in here watching us. Aunt Gretch said so. But Gramma said we were giving her a headache and she needed some air.”
They’re probably better off and I almost make the mistake of saying so before I catch myself.
For all I know, they are going to have to live with their sharp-tongued grandmother after today.
The thought is depressing as shit.
“I’m so very sorry about your mom,” I tell the girls. “I lost my mom too when I was a kid.”
Caitlin’s eyes cloud. Mara swallows and sniffs.
“Were you friends with our mommy?” Mara asks as she continues to sniff.
But both girls are looking at me with something like hope, eager to hear something nice about their mother.
My time around children has been nonexistent. I’ll have to avoid cursing.
“Your mom was a couple of years older than I was. But I always liked her. And I spent a lot of time here, some of it right in this room. My best friend was your Uncle Danny.”
“Oh!” Caitlin looks to her sister and then back at me. “Mommy told us about you. You’re Trentcassini.”
I’m surprised and I can’t help but chuckle at the way she spits out my name like it’s all one word. “That’s right.”
Mara points at the television. “Do you like Frozen?”
I have no clue what she means. “Sure.”
“We just started the movie again,” Caitlin says. “You stay and watch with us.”
She says this as if I have no say in the matter. But I don’t really want to leave them in here alone. Their grim little faces are a reminder that I know how they feel. I was older when my own mother died. Two months past my thirteenth birthday. But the choking suffocation of loss must be the same no matter what age you are.
“I’d like that,” I tell the girls and do my best to look like I’m interested in what’s happening onscreen.
The twins sing along and recite the dialogue together so it’s clear they’ve already watched this movie a hundred times before. The shy one, Mara, keeps glancing at me like she’s worried I’m not enjoying myself so I make an effort to seem as interested as possible. In between all the singing and dancing I take a look around the room where Danny and I used to play video games a million years ago.
The far wall is still a shrine to Rosebriar, the old summer resort that was owned by the Aaronson family for generations and has since been sold off and left to rot while developers haggle over what to do with the land. Most of the framed wall photos are a lot older than I am, featuring people dressed in clothes that now look like theater costumes. Lots of polyester and checkered pants and fake hair. There’s a faded eight by ten shot of a little boy standing on a polished wood stage in front of a line of smiling people. The boy is probably the same age as the twins and I can’t remember being told that he is Alex Aaronson but I know this to be the case. Directly behind him stands a petite brunette weighted down with a huge rose bouquet and I know she’s a famous singer but I’d never heard of any of her music and didn’t bother to remember her.
“Let It Go is the next song,” Caitlin informs me. “So you need to sing along.”
Mara is less bossy. “We’ll help you, Trentcassini.”
“Thanks,” I’m unsure what I’ve just signed up for.
It’s funny that the girls know my name. Jules wouldn’t have much reason to talk about me at length. I guess they might have heard stories about me from their uncle, although I was under the impression Danny was too busy to visit often.
“Get ready to sing,” Caitlin says just as the worn brass doorknob shakes.
I brace for an unpleasant reunion with the Aaronson matriarch, who never liked me much, but it’s not Sharon who walks through the door.
Up close it’s easier to see that Gretchen has been crying. Her eyes are red and puffy but she’s no less pretty. She shows no shock at finding me in here with her nieces. Maybe she’s all shocked out after the sudden loss of her sister.
I raise my hand in a pathetic wave. “Hey there, Gretchen.”
I really have no talent for sounding friendly.
Gretchen stares at me. “Trent.”
Seconds of silence pass. Seconds that I should be filling with condolences or a hug or whatever.
I don’t do any of that.
Instead I just stay where I am, hunched on the footstool like an unshaven troll while Gretchen eyes me from the doorway.
“Gramma left us in here,” Caitlin pipes up. “But Trentcassini likes Frozen too.”
That breaks the ice and Gretchen’s mouth twitches. “Does he?”
“Yup.”
I’m no good at eloquent statements so I don’t bother trying to supply any. “I’m sorry about Jules. I didn’t mean to intrude today.”
Gretchen throws me an odd look. “You’re not intruding, Trent. I saw you walk in. I’m sure you’re looking for Danny.”
“Is he around?”
“Somewhere.” She briskly runs her palms over her hips and turns to the twins.
Mara rests her head on Caitlin’s shoulder. I watch Gretchen get choked up and try to disguise it by clearing her throat. She holds out slender hands, ringless and unmanicured, which is fine by me. I don’t know why anyone thinks gobs of jewelry and glittery fake nails looks good. I like the fact that nothing about Gretchen appears to be fake.
I can’t explain why these thou
ghts are running through my head and I kind of wish they’d stop.
“Come on, girls.” Gretchen makes a brave and unconvincing attempt to sound cheerful. “Let’s go get you something to eat.”
They hop right off the chair in unison and dash to her. Caitlin is through the door in a flash but Mara clings to Gretchen’s waist for a second before following her sister.
“No running please,” Gretchen warns. Then she looks at me over her shoulder. “I really don’t know where Danny went. He’s processing his shock. Check the carriage house.”
I don’t get a chance to respond. Gretchen exits with grace in a cloud of fruity perfume while I take the time to admire her ass.
That’s right.
I have no shame.
2
Trent
The ‘carriage house’ has always been a hilarious way to refer to the single window structure that looks like a fancy shed with electricity. Set on a foundation in the far corner of the backyard, I’m sure no one has ever stored an actual carriage inside.
I remember when the exterior of the carriage house matched the cloudy grey of the main house. Danny and I painted it one summer afternoon when we were bored. His mother sure had fits over that but his dad was the one who gave us the money for the paint and said we could pick whatever color we wanted. We picked electric blue. The carriage house is still electric blue.
There are more toys in the backyard, more evidence of Jules living here with her two girls. A plastic play pool has been propped up against the cinderblock fence. A maple tree has been cut down to a thick stump and a fat baby doll poses on top of it.
No one has decided to hang out in the backyard to enjoy the frigid temperature. A snow sky presses overhead. I heard we might be looking at a couple of inches tonight.
My knuckles are already stiff when I rap sharply on the carriage house door. Danny must have been standing nearby on the other side because he answers in two seconds.
Danny Aaronson was my first friend and my best friend. Right now he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week and his black suit appears to have been trampled by horses before he decided to throw it on.
