Читать книгу What We Remember - Michael Thomas Ford - Страница 11

1991

The house looked the same as it had the last time he’d visited. Actually, it looked the same as it had the day he’d left for his first year of college five years before. The same red-and-white dishtowels—not the exact ones, but identical to their predecessors—were hanging from the rack near the sink. The same pig cookie jar was on the counter. The same yellow paint was on the walls.

Celeste, though, looked different. Her face was worn, her eyes tired. Her hair, normally tied back neatly in a ponytail, fell loose about her shoulders. When she hugged James, she rested her head against his shoulder.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.

James held her for a moment. When she pulled away, Celeste sighed. “It’s been quite a morning.”

“You told her,” James said. “I thought we agreed—”

“We had to,” Celeste interrupted. “It was going to be on the news. We didn’t want her to find out that way.”

“So how did she take it?” asked James.

Celeste sighed. “About as well as you think she did,” she answered. “She didn’t believe us at first, but Nate finally convinced her. She wanted to go see the body.”

“You didn’t let her, did you?”

Celeste shook her head. “Of course not. Nate told her that I had already ID’d it and that it was at the morgue.”

“It,” James said.

“What?” asked Celeste.

“It,” James repeated. “You called Dad ‘it.’”

“The body, then,” Celeste said. She reached for a pack of cigarettes that was lying on the table. After shaking one out, she lit it and took a deep drag.

“When did you start smoking again?” James asked her, going to the refrigerator and opening it.

“About twelve hours ago,” his sister told him. “They’re Nate’s.”

James removed a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator. He got a glass from the cupboard beside the sink, filled it, and sat down at the table, across from Celeste. “Has Billy made an appearance?” he asked.

Celeste blew out a stream of smoke and tapped the ash from her cigarette into an empty Coke can. “You could say that,” she said. “He passed out in the bathroom. I told Nate to leave him there, but he insisted on carrying Billy up to his room. He didn’t want Mom to be upset.”

James shook his head. “Is he still asleep?”

“No,” said Celeste. “He left about an hour ago. I don’t know where he went.”

“It’s probably best he’s not here,” James suggested. “He’s not going to be much help.”

“James?”

The voice coming from the hallway was soft, almost fearful. James rose as his mother emerged from the shadows into the light of the kitchen. When she saw him her face lit up. “It is you,” she said.

James allowed her to take him in her arms. She kissed his cheek, then held his hands as she stepped back to look at him. “You’ve gained weight,” she said.

“It hasn’t been that long, Mom,” he told her.

“Over a year,” said his mother. “Not even at Christmas. That girl kept you from me.”

“Charly didn’t keep me from you, Mom,” James said. “In fact, she wanted to come. I had to work.”

“Work,” his mother said mockingly. “What’s so important that you can’t come see your family at Christmas?”

“I told you,” James explained. “Senator Leland was trying to get a big environmental protection bill through the legislature. I had to work on it.”

“Nonsense,” his mother said. “Those eagles or marshes or whatever foolishness you’re worried about could have taken a few days off for Christmas. I think you just don’t want us to meet this girl of yours.”

“Of course I do, Mom,” James said. “And she wants to meet you. But that’s not why I’m here.”

His mother went to the refrigerator. “Let me make you some dinner,” she said. “You must be starving.”

“I don’t want anything, Mom,” said James. “I want to talk about Dad.”

His mother began rooting around in the refrigerator, ignoring him. James looked at Celeste, who raised one eyebrow and lit a second cigarette. “Mom—” James began again.

“You don’t like lettuce, do you?” she interrupted. “Or is that Billy who doesn’t like lettuce? I can never remember.”

“Mom, come sit down,” said James. He got up and went to her, shutting the refrigerator door and taking her arm. “Let’s talk about this,” he said.

His mother allowed herself to be led back to the table, where she sat down. She looked at Celeste and frowned. “Put that out,” she said.

Celeste obeyed, stubbing the cigarette out on the top of the soda can, then dropping it through the hole. Her mother took the can and placed it on the other side of the table.

“I know this must be a big shock,” James said. “I think first we—”

“I’m going to go to bed,” his mother said. “I’m tired, and I want to go to bed.”

“But don’t you think we—” James tried.

“No, I don’t,” said his mother, standing up. “I think we should let Nate do his job. After all, that’s what our taxes are for. That and the roads.” She touched James’s shoulder. “I’m happy you’re here. You know where your room is. I’ll see you in the morning. Good night, Celeste.”

“Night, Mom,” Celeste answered.

James watched his mother leave. Celeste stood and picked up her coat from the back of her chair. “Like she said,” she told James.

“What, I get here and everyone leaves?” he said.

“I’ve been here all day, James,” Celeste reminded him. “It’s your turn. I’ll see you in the morning.”

When Celeste had left, James locked the kitchen door and turned off the light. He then checked the front door and, finding it secured, carried his bag up the stairs to the second floor. His parents’ room was the first off the landing, a location that had caused no end of consternation to James when, as a teenager, he had come in past his curfew. Now he was the one to stop and peer through the mostly closed door. His mother was in the bathroom that adjoined the room. He heard water running and the sound of teeth being brushed.

Celeste’s room was next, on the same side of the hall as their parents’. Billy’s and his rooms were on the other side, Billy’s closest to the stairs and James’s the farthest from it. The door to Billy’s room was shut, and James did not open it, continuing on to his own room.

It was exactly as he’d left it. Stepping inside, time seemed to telescope backward, taking him to 1986. He was eighteen again, packing for college and anxious to be out of his parents’ house. He was looking ahead, reveling in the possibilities, but also worried that his mother would not be able to handle things without him around to help.

“And here I am again,” he said out loud as he dropped his bag on the bed and sat down beside it. The mattress squeaked in protest, and he suddenly remembered how self-conscious he’d sometimes felt when, pleasuring himself before falling asleep, he had worried that the sound would give him away.

He looked at his watch. It was almost eleven. Back in Seattle Charly would probably just have gotten home. Kicking off his shoes, he stretched out on the bed, flipped open his cell phone, and dialed her number. He half hoped he would get her voice mail, but she picked up on the third ring.

“Hey,” James said. “It’s me.”

“Hey, me,” said Charly. “How was the flight?”

“Okay,” James told her. “I sat next to an accountant on the way to Chicago, but from there to Albany I had the row to myself.”

“An accountant,” Charly said. “How awful for you.”

James laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “So how was your day?”

“Tell me about your mother first,” said Charly.

“Oooh, you’re good,” James said. “Here I thought I would be able to get away with not talking about me. I bow to your superior skills, counselor.”

“I didn’t go to law school for nothing,” said Charly. “So what’s going on? How’s your mother?”

James hesitated. He had been going out with Charly for more than a year. He thought she might even be The One. Despite this, there was a lot about his family he had yet to tell her.

“It’s not my mother,” he said. “It’s my father.”

“Your father?” Charly repeated. “Your father’s dead.”

“Right,” said James.

“Cancer, right?” Charly said. “I think that’s what you told me.”

“That’s what I told you,” James agreed. “But that’s not quite the whole story.”

Charly said nothing. James knew it was one of her lawyer tricks—keep silent until the witness gets nervous and starts talking. She often used it on him during arguments. He hated it, mostly because it worked.

“Seven—almost eight—years ago my father disappeared,” James began. “A few days later my mother received a letter from him. He said that he’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer, and that he didn’t want us to watch him get sick and die. So he killed himself.”

Charly still said nothing. James could picture her face, composed and beautiful. He often wondered how witnesses could look at that face and not fall apart on the spot, it had that effect.

“They never found my father’s body,” he continued. “We had a headstone made, and there was a memorial service, but there’s no body in his grave.” He hesitated, knowing that Charly was waiting for his revelation. “Well, they found him.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that this morning?” Charly asked.

James cleared his throat. “I wasn’t sure I believed it myself,” he answered.

“But it’s true?” said Charly.

“I think so,” James said. “Celeste says so, but I haven’t seen for myself.”

“How is your mother handling it?”

“There’s more,” said James. “They didn’t just find his body. It looks like someone murdered him.”

“But the letter—” Celeste said immediately.

“I know,” said James. “Get out of lawyer mode for a minute, okay? That’s all I know right now.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Charly said. She sounded frustrated, and James had to smile a little bit at the way she immediately started examining the evidence of the case.

“I’ll find out more tomorrow,” he said.

There was a long pause before Charly said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I already told you, I wasn’t sure that—”

“Not about what’s happening now,” Charly interrupted. “I mean about your father killing himself.”

“I don’t know,” said James. “I guess because it’s not exactly a shining moment in my family’s history.”

“Nobody’s family is perfect, James,” Charly countered. “I wouldn’t have thought any less of them—or of you—because of it.”

“No,” James agreed. “I don’t think you would have.”

“We’ve been over this before,” said Charly. “If we’re going to be together, you have to trust me.”

“I do,” James assured her. “I do trust you.”

“I hope you really believe that,” said Charly.

There was a long silence, during which James had to fight the urge to hang up. Finally, to his relief, Charly said, “Get some rest. You’re going to have a hell of a day tomorrow, I bet. Tell your mother I’m very sorry and I wish her son had told me the truth.”

“Very funny,” said James.

“I love you,” Charly said.

“Me too,” James told her. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He clicked off and closed the phone, setting it on the bedside table. I couldn’t even tell her I love her, he scolded himself. After all of that. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. Why was he such a dick? Charly was right; he had to trust her if they were going to stay together. He couldn’t keep hiding things from her. He had to tell her the whole story. The problem was, he wasn’t sure he knew what it was.