That Summer

by Jennifer Weiner

  I Climbed Mount Katrina. Poe—Hal—had written that. So had Brad. Danny Rosen hadn’t, but several of the other boys in the class had made it part of their inscription. She paged through the yearbook, locating pictures of the Spring Fling, and saw one of the boys—Teddy Bloch—beside a tall blonde with feathered hair. She wore a white poufy dress, white flowers in a wrist corsage. “Ready” Teddy Bloch escorts St. Anne’s senior Katrina Detmer to the dance.

  Googling “Katrina Detmer” and “St. Anne’s” gave her a Facebook page and a hometown, which, when googled, gave her an address and a telephone number. This time when Diana stepped outside, it had gotten dark, and her stomach was growling—she’d skipped breakfast and lunch. When she pulled out her phone, she saw seven missed calls from Michael. As she stared at the screen, another call came through.

  Diana rejected the call, then sent a text. I’m fine. Just need to take care of something. I’ll be home as soon as I can.

  She got in her car and drove into town, found a diner, made herself eat some soup and half of a grilled cheese sandwich. There was a fancy-looking inn at the center of town, the kind of place that looked like it had “Ye Olde” somewhere in its name, where Emlen parents probably came for graduation and well-heeled alums stayed for reunions. She decided she’d prefer sleeping in her car to staying there, but, luckily, there was a Hampton Inn at the edge of town. She got a room, took a long, hot shower, and changed into the clothes she’d packed—her favorite sweatpants and one of Michael’s plaid shirts, which was soft against her skin, and smelled like him. Thus fortified, she dialed Katrina Detmer, who lived in a suburb outside of St. Paul, Minnesota.

  All through dinner, all through her shower, she’d tried to come up with a story. I’m a researcher. I’m a journalist. Or some version of the truth: I knew those boys the summer they graduated from Emlen. In the end, she went with the truth, which she relayed to Katrina Detmer as soon as she got the other woman on the phone.

  “My name is Diana Scalzi. I worked on Cape Cod the summer of 1987. I met a bunch of Emlen graduates who were on vacation there.”

  Katrina’s voice was low and husky, polite, but not especially warm. “Yes?”

  Diana curled her toes into the hotel-room floor. “One of the boys assaulted me at a party on the beach.”

  Diana could hear her blood pounding in her ears, in her temples. There was what felt like a very long pause. Then, angrily, Katrina said, “How did you get my name?”

  “From their yearbook.”

  “Excuse me?” Katrina’s voice had gotten louder.

  “The boy who—the boy who raped me—his name is Henry Shoemaker.”

  “Poe,” Katrina said immediately. “I never knew why they called him that. They all had those names. Raven and Bubs and Griff.”

  “I read Henry’s yearbook entry, and he mentioned you by name. And so did a few of the other boys in the class,” Diana said.

  “What did they write?”

  Diana swallowed hard. “It isn’t—it’s not very nice.”

  “You don’t say.” The other woman’s voice was hard-edged and scornful. “Look, either you tell me or I figure out how to get my hands on their yearbook.”

  Diana swallowed hard. “They all wrote ‘I climbed Mount Katrina.’ ”

  Silence. Then Katrina demanded, “How many of them wrote that? And which ones?” Before Diana could answer, Katrina said, “How’d you find me, anyhow? Who are you again?”

  Diana told her. “I saw the 1987 yearbook. You went to a dance with a boy named Teddy Bloch. There was a picture of the two of you, and your full name was in the caption. I just guessed that you were the Katrina in the…” Diana swallowed hard. “… other references.”

  “Jesus,” said Katrina, in a more muted voice. “Teddy was my boyfriend, for my whole senior year,” she said. “He came to see me almost every weekend. I knew all those boys. Not biblically, of course, which certainly seems to be the implication there, but I knew them.” Through the receiver, Diana heard her swallow. “I thought they were my friends.”

  “I understand,” Diana said. “The summer I knew Poe, I thought he liked me. That he wanted me to be his girlfriend.” Even now, her naivete burned at her, like a throatful of acid. “And that’s why I’m calling. I wanted to ask someone who knew him, back then.”

  “But that’s the thing. I barely knew Poe. I mean, I knew him as one of Teddy’s friends, but I didn’t really know him.” Katrina’s voice was becoming increasingly higher, more distressed. “I certainly didn’t realize that I was a joke to them.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Diana, and listened as the woman breathed. When Katrina spoke again, her voice was clipped, angry and direct.

  “So what, then?” Before Diana could answer, Katrina said, “You want to know if Poe’s capable of raping someone. Because that’s what happened, right?”

  Diana shut her eyes. “Yes.”

  Katrina gave a mirthless laugh. “I guess anyone’s capable of anything, right? That’s our lesson for this evening. And I know it’s not your fault, but to tell you the truth, I wish you hadn’t called me. I could have probably died happy not knowing what they’d said.” There was a beep, letting Diana know that the call had been ended.

  Diana sat back on the bed and opened her notebook. The Mount Katrina joke had made her furious, but, still, nothing had upset her as much as the news of Hal Shoemaker’s wedding, to the other Diana. Especially not after it turned out that the other Diana, thirteen years Hal’s junior, was also one of his classmates’ sister. She flipped to the page where she’d written it, word for word:

  Your faithful correspondent is delighted to report that late bloomer Hal Shoemaker, aka the Last Man Standing, has finally tied the knot! Hal got hitched at the Four Seasons in Center City, Philadelphia, where he practices law, to Diana “Daisy” Rosen, a college student, and little sister to none other than our classmate Daniel Rosen. Danny played inadvertent matchmaker when he recommended Daisy’s services as a cooking instructor to Hal, who was looking for help for his father, Vernon Shoemaker (Emlen Class of 1963). Other Emlen classmates in attendance at the wedding included Danny’s brother, David (Class of 1985), Gerald Justin, Bryan Tavistock, Crosby Wolf, Richard Rutledge, and Brad Burlingham.

  “She’s his sister?” Diana had blurted, drawing stares from a few nearby students. She’d gotten up to take a turn around the library, attempting to make sense of it. Danny had witnessed her rape. He’d known about it and kept quiet. And then he’d served his sister up, on a platter, to the boy who’d done it. It didn’t make sense.

  Diana paced and fretted, mumbling to herself (out of earshot of the students), then dove back into her research. By the end of the afternoon, she knew that Daniel Rosen was married to a man. He and his husband lived in a small, artsy-looking town in New Jersey, across the river from New Hope, Pennsylvania, and he worked as a school counselor in Trenton.

  Bradley Telford Burlingham, the one who’d held her wrists and laughed, lived in Baltimore. He’d matriculated at Trinity College, but Diana couldn’t find any evidence of his having graduated. He’d gotten married in his late twenties, in Baltimore, his hometown, and he and his wife had started a family. There’d been a daughter, Lila, and a son, Austin. He’d popped up at the class’s tenth reunion, and again in 2003, having lost most of his hair and gained at least thirty pounds, in a picture with five Emlen men on a fishing boat, each of them holding a giant fish by its jaws. Hal Shoemaker was one of the other men, which meant he and Brad had stayed friends. How touching, Diana thought. Google had filled in some of the blanks, and LinkedIn had helped, too. Brad had held almost a dozen different jobs, mostly in marketing, in all kinds of different businesses. His current address was a not-especially-impressive-looking two-bedroom apartment in a neighborhood called Roland Park.

  She would start with him, Diana decided, and work her way up to Hal. She would pay Brad a visit, look him in the eye, let him see what he’d done; let him live with that knowledge, a
nd the knowledge of the world his daughter would eventually inherit, the world he’d made for her, and the rest of the girls and women.

  * * *

  The next morning, at six o’clock, she was driving down the street where Brad Burlingham lived. She found a parking spot with a view of the modest-looking development with two-story buildings clad in white stucco. At nine o’clock, a middle-aged man emerged from a second-story front door and locked it behind him. He made his way down two flights of steps, his breath steaming in a cloud in front of him. Brad’s red hair was mostly gone, his round, doll-like face had gotten broader, but it was still him. There was the snub nose; there was the smirk.

  Diana swallowed hard, feeling breathless, almost hearing her heart thump. The guy climbed behind the wheel of an undistinguished Honda, rolling down the window and lighting a cigarette before pulling out of his spot. Keeping a prudent distance, Diana trailed him as he drove down Roland Avenue. Less than a mile from home, he turned, without signaling, onto Deepdene Road, and then into the Starbucks parking lot. Coffee run, Diana figured, but changed her mind after he got out of the car holding a crumpled mass of green fabric in his hands.

  She drove once around the block, slowly, then pulled into the parking lot of the Enoch Pratt Library across the street from the coffee shop. It was a crisp, clear February morning, the skies a cloudless blue, the temperature in the low forties. The trees were still bare, stretching their branches like claws into the sky. Dingy, patchy snow lined the lawns and the sides of the roads. Diana waited for an hour, watching as the morning rush swelled and dispersed. Then she put on some lipstick, slung her purse over her shoulder, and walked across the street.

  Brad was wearing his apron, standing with his shoulders slumped, behind the glass case of baked goods. He looked to be a solid twenty-five years older than the young people busily frothing milk or heating up croissants. The years had not been kind to him. His eyes were sunken, ringed with dark circles; his nose and cheeks were a constellation of burst capillaries.

  “Help you?” he asked, when Diana approached the counter.

  “I’d like a venti latte, please.”

  “Whole milk okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Can I get a name?”

  “Katrina.”

  She watched to see if he’d flinch, or twitch, or run screaming at the name, but all he did was speak to the barista, reach for a black marker, and misspell the name—Catrina—on the cup. He looked as if a resigned sigh had assumed human form, his every move telegraphing weariness and distaste. She wondered what the story was. Surely this wasn’t the glorious future an Emlen education was meant to assure, and, even if his marketing jobs hadn’t been especially impressive, they’d been several cuts above serving coffee. Had he fallen so far that his family couldn’t help; had he run through all their money; had he exhausted every favor he could have called in, every classmate he could have tapped for help?

  She sipped her drink, watching Brad noodling behind the counter, ignoring his coworkers, using the absolute minimal amount of energy to take orders and make change. When her latte was gone, she tossed the cup, left the shop, crossed the street, and spent the next seven hours with only a single bathroom break watching Brad’s car.

  At four o’clock, he emerged from the back door, with his apron balled up in his hands. He got behind the wheel of his car and started driving along Roland Avenue, in the opposite direction of his parents’ house. After another mile or so, he pulled into the lot of a restaurant. HAPPY HOUR 4–7. DOLLAR BEERS, TWO-DOLLAR WELL DRINKS, DOLLAR WINGS.

  Diana watched him through the restaurant’s windows as he said something to the hostess, and parked himself on a barstool. The bartender seemed to know him: there was a beer on a coaster waiting almost before he’d settled onto the stool. For the next two hours, Diana sat in the parking lot as Brad drank, head down, shoulders hunched, working his way through at least six beers, ignoring the basket of nuts at his elbow, and the other patrons and the help. When his glass was empty he’d jerk his chin toward it, and another beer would appear. At seven o’clock he put a bill down on the counter, dismounted his barstool, and, weaving slightly, made his way to his car.

  Is he going to drive like that? Diana wondered. It seemed that he was. He got behind the wheel and pulled out onto the street, crossing the yellow line as he did it. The car in the opposite lane honked. Brad jerked the car back and drove down Roland Avenue, crossing over the yellow line at least half a dozen times during the five-minute ride back home.

  She watched him go plodding back up to his apartment. Then she drove back to the bar. By the time she walked through the door, Brad’s seat had been taken by a young woman deep in conversation with her date. It took Diana a few minutes, and a prominently displayed twenty-dollar bill, to attract the young female bartender’s attention. When she said, “Help you?” Diana pointed to Brad’s seat.

  “The guy who was sitting there a little while ago. The bald one. Do you know his name?”

  The bartender was dressed in a white button-down shirt and suspenders. She gave Diana a shrug. “I know he’s told me. Brad? Bart? Some name like that.”

  “Is he a good customer?” The bar was crowded by then, hot and noisy, and Diana had to shout to be heard.

  The young woman smirked. “He stays for hours, and that”—she pointed at his seat—“is prime happy-hour real estate. Sits there pounding dollar beers like it’s his job. Puts down a ten-dollar bill to cover a seven-dollar-and-twenty-cent tab. Or sometimes it’s a twenty, and he’ll ask for eleven bucks back.” She rolled her eyes, pale blue beneath stubby black lashes. “A real prince.”

  “Does he ever come in here with anyone else?”

  The woman crossed her arms against her chest and stared at Diana with narrowed eyes. “Why? You his wife or something?”

  Diana shook her head.

  The bartender considered, then gave a shrug. “I’ve never seen him here with a girl. Or a guy. He doesn’t really talk to anyone. He just drinks.”

  Diana slid the money across the bar in thanks and went to the hotel room she’d rented, paying cash at the front desk, giving the name Julie Christie.

  She watched Brad for three weekdays in a row, and every day was the same. At nine or so he’d come shuffling out of the house and drive to work. After work he’d go to the bar. After the bar he’d drive home, and park in the driveway before going inside, head hanging and hands dangling at his sides. By the end of the third night, Diana’s rage and loathing had been joined by a pinprick of pity. She stubbed it out fiercely, imagining she was grinding a lit cigarette butt out with her heel. She told herself that she had to act soon, before that ember came back and started a conflagration.

  On Saturday, things were different. Nine o’clock came and went without Brad’s emergence. At noon, a late-model sedan purred up to his building. The back doors opened, eventually disgorging two kids—either teens or tweens, Diana couldn’t tell because of their winter coats and hats. They each wore a backpack, and each carried an overnight bag. Lila and Austin, I presume, Diana thought, but she rolled down her window in time to hear a woman call from the driver’s seat: “Eli, Claudia, be good for your dad!”

  Eli and Claudia both said, “We will, Mom!” They walked up the stairs, neither one looking especially enthusiastic as they climbed, and disappeared through the front door. The next morning at eleven, Diana was back in place to watch the children, in the same winter coats, leave the building and climb back into their mother’s car. She figured the woman to be Brad’s second ex-wife; the children, his second ex-family. And she knew she couldn’t wait any longer. The restaurant needed her. So did her husband. It was time to go home.

  Diana smoothed her hair. She bent down to make sure her sneakers’ laces were tied. She’d worn jeans, a dark-blue hooded sweatshirt; unremarkable, anonymous clothes that would let her fade into a crowd and move fast if she had to. She freshened her lipstick, working hard to keep her hand steady, and returned it to
her makeup case, which she placed in her purse, right next to the ladies’ Colt revolver she’d purchased the week before. She locked her car, walked up the stairs, and stood on the windswept portico, knocking on Brad Burlingham’s door.

  “Hold on!” she heard him call. A minute later, he was standing in front of her, in a T-shirt, sweatpants, and bare feet. “Yes?”

  “Brad Burlingham?”

  “Yes?” His forehead furrowed as he squinted at her. “Have we met?” His eyes widened as he leaned backward into the warmth of his apartment. “Are you serving me?”

  For a minute, she couldn’t make sense of the words. “What?”

  “If you’re a process server, you have to say so.”

  She shook her head. “I just want to talk to you.”

  “Who are you?” he asked, peering at her.

  “You don’t remember?” She looked at him, waiting for the click; waiting for something to show in his posture or on his face. When nothing did, she said, “Cape Cod. 1987. Corn Hill Beach.” Those words, finally, registered. She saw the smallest flare of panic in his eyes, and pushed past him into his apartment, waiting there, until, shoulders slumped, Brad turned to face her and pulled the door shut behind him.

  In the living room, she saw the detritus of the children’s visit: video-game controllers on the floor, a bowl of potato chips on a coffee table, next to a copy of the AA Big Book.

  “Come on in,” said Brad, with an ironic, courtly gesture. “Make yourself at home.” Diana waited a minute, then took a seat, perched on the edge of an armchair that was one of a matched set, upholstered in a fawn-colored velvet. She wondered if he’d gotten them in the divorce, carted them out of the marital house and brought them here, to this sad-single-dad apartment.

  “I recognize you now,” he said. “From Starbucks. You came in a few days ago, right?” Before she could answer, he said, “It’s a rehab job.” He sat down heavily on the couch, which was brown leather, enormous, and out of proportion to the daintier armchairs. “Probably wondering what an Emlen man’s doing, steaming lattes.” He shrugged. “When you go to rehab, at a twelve-step place, they tell you to get a job like that. In the service industry, or as a custodian. Stocking shelves, mopping floors. We’re supposed to be of use and stay humble. And it helps to have somewhere to go in the morning.”