by Suzy Vitello
“You’re aiding and abetting a criminal, Brady,” he says. “I think it’s illegal to break into someone’s privacy.”
“You did love her, didn’t you?”
Connor sucks in another hit. Doesn’t answer. Even though it’s totally dark now, I have the sense that all around us are living things. Crickets, crows, ivy.
We part ways and agree to meet the following day. It’s nearly 8:00 by the time I board the bus. When I finally see our porch light illuminating the driveway, and pad up toward the front door, I stop in my tracks beside Sabine’s Volvo. The barely shining map light is on, and there’s Dad, reclined in the driver’s seat, his eyes closed. In his fist is a bottle of something, and next to him, on the passenger’s seat, is the Ziploc baggie we’d brought to the coast, filled with the charred bits and fragments of his oldest daughter.
ten
Bowerman keeps me after class. This is starting to be a “thing,” this, let’s check in with the grieving girl and make sure she’s not self-harming. Seriously, I see them scanning my forearms, these teachers. I know they’re worried, but all of their scrutinizing makes me feel itchy.
She doesn’t scan me though, Bowerman. After the other students leave and she closes the door, she talks fast. “Mrs. Cupworth would like you, us, to visit with her this afternoon. Are you up for it?”
I think about my plan to meet Connor, but that’s not until later. “Cupworth? Why?”
“She smelled a rat that night, and she wants more information. You game?”
I’m intrigued, I admit, but I’ve let the whole Art Fair debacle go. I really don’t feel like revisiting the humiliation of last week. “I don’t know, Ms. Bowerman. I mean, what’s done is done.”
Bowerman grips my arms and looks me square, “Brady, that’s just it, it’s not done. Mrs. Cupworth loved your sketch. In fact, she bought it that night. She was disappointed with the decision to give the scholarship to Martha. When she heard about the extenuating circumstances surrounding your grades, she even said, ‘The child just lost a sibling, have a heart.’”
“Well, there’s always next year, right?”
Bowerman lets go of my arms, and her voice takes on a pleading tone. “Just come with me. She wants to meet you. She thinks, as do I, that you’re incredibly talented.”
Painting, sketching, it’s all fallen so far to the back burner. All I want to do is listen to Sabine’s voice. Listen to the messages on her phone. Find out what was really going on with her the day she died. But I nod anyway. Take the slip of paper Bowerman hands me. The address is another West Hills mansion. This one high up on Vista, above the jumper bridge, where Portland’s most devastated commit suicide year after year. “I have to be somewhere right after that, though. I hope she won’t think me rude if I just stay for a few minutes.”
“I’m sure that will be fine. Let’s hear what she has to say.”
At lunch, Martha flags me down. It’s out now, her relationship with Nick, and they’re inseparable. Helping each other through grief. They’ve managed to position themselves as virtuous. Elegiac, is what Mrs. McConnell might call it. They are soldiering forth, the way Sabine would have wanted. Her periodic best friend and her boyfriend aligned to honor her memory throughout time. Seeing them in the hall, holding hands, is like being pushed down on a bed of rusty nails.
“Brady, wait up.” she sings. Her boyfriend chorusing the notion.
“I need to get a bagel,” I say, and continue on down the hall to the student store—a retail establishment set up in an abandoned classroom, manned by Marketing for the Real World students. It’s a gut class, one you take for a guaranteed “A.”
“Mind if we join you?” says Martha.
I do, but I shrug.
Nick sidles up next to me, the Axe smell of him. “How you doin’?”
“Not great.”
“How’s the fam?”
By fam, I assume he means my parents. “As bad as can be expected,” I say.
“Yeah, well, I miss her too.”
Martha wedges in between us as we round the corner to the store, possessively taking Nick’s hand. “We haven’t seen you around at all the usual places, Brady. It’s like, you’ve just disappeared. People ask about you, you know.”
I want to change the subject. I haven’t been eating lunch with my usual group—the art kids and the brainiacs. I haven’t returned phone calls and texts, and I don’t “like” stuff on Facebook every other minute, so I suppose that’s cause for concern. It’s just, I really don’t know how to be me again. When your sister is the most popular girl in school, you’ve got a role. Now? I have no idea what my role is. Clearly, I’m not an “outstanding art student” anymore. Partially, thanks to Martha.
“I hear you might go to Penn State next year,” I manage, underlining the notion that soon, Nick will be moving on to the next thing, and Martha will be here, at Greenmeadow, alone.
“Might actually be staying in town. UP just offered.”
Of course. And the fact that Martha’s family is one of the campus’s major donors had nothing to do with that. The smell of rats abounds around here.
“We’re hoping to keep this guy in the home town, you know?” says Martha, all smiles.
“Nice,” I say. “OK, I’m going to get some lunch now. See you later.”
“Brady,” Martha says. “Are you mad at me?”
I stare at the incredulity of her remark. I’m thinking Fucknerian thoughts. Duplicity. Falsehoods. Back-stabbing. “Mad? Oh, Martha, that doesn’t even approach how I feel about you. And him.”
Martha truly looks hurt, but I don’t care. And Nick? You deserve each other, I think.
The two lovebirds stand there, holding hands in the hall, their stunned and stupid faces all plastered with concern. Then, I swirl away from them and march through the door to the Marketing for the Real World store to buy a stale pumpernickel bagel.
Lilith Cupworth’s mansion sits above the road at the end of a steep, curving drive. I walk up its smooth surface, noting the bank of lilies of the valley that grace the borders. Rhodies are blooming behind the flowers, and beyond that are trees from the historic register. An enormous Doug fir and a redwood and the hugest Ponderosa in Portland, all stamped with greenish copper plaques. This house once belonged to one of Portland’s founding lumbermen. All the fortunes in this town came from trees. I think about the Garden of Eden. The serpent. The apple tree. That ponderosa, I’d love to slap that on canvas. Maybe paint a heroin addict lying against it. A nice juxtaposition. I don’t know why these things occur to me so frequently. The majestic and the decrepit side-by-side.
The Cupworth House is grander than anything I’ve ever seen. The main building is brick, with a portico on one side. Ivy growing up and over the roof. The opposite side of the house is a sun porch with hundreds of tiny windows in a checkerboard pattern of clear and stained glass. Two thick vines of wisteria snake up from either end, coming together in the middle like the fingers on Michelangelo’s Hands of God.
I see Bowerman’s Camry parked next to some fancy foreign car. The brass knocker on the door is a ring in a lion’s mouth. It’s ice cold when I grab it, and I knock quickly and let it go. I expect a butler to answer, or one of those classically appointed French maids. It’s Mrs. Cupworth herself though, as the heavy door peels open. The outspoken dowager invites me into the foyer, and extends her smooth, manicured hand. “So good to finally meet you,” she says.
“Pleased,” I say, in that faux British tone I’ve seen a zillion times in the movies.
Bowerman has traded her usual Oregon Country Fair look for a blazer and pantsuit. Her dreads are roped back, in something approaching a chignon. She stands next to Lilith Cupworth conspiratorially, like I’ve interrupted a BFF session.
“Come,” says Cupworth, gesturing to that fantastic glass porch which, it turns out is called a conservatory. “I’ve made lemonade.”
Lilith Cupworth is dres
sed to the nines, as they say. Skirt, blouse, stockings, a full face. Her hair is what you talk about when you talk about blue haired old ladies. Her posture is ballerina perfect. I feel like a complete slouch in my usual tee-shirt dress, leggings and Keds outfit. She pours fresh-squeezed lemonade into the crystal goblet in front of me and offers an array of treats on a three-tiered platter. I put a linen napkin on my lap, but don’t reach for the pink macaroons that beckon, lest I get crumbs all over the perfect tea party setting.
“Mrs. Bowerman tells me you’ve applied to the San Francisco Art Institute?”
The lemonade is sour, and my mouth puckers around my answer, “The pre-college summer program. Yes. But that was before…”
Mrs. Cupworth leans toward me, “Before your sister passed. And let me say how sorry I am for your loss, dear.”
“Thanks. Thank you. I’m not sure whether I can go. This year.”
“Brady would be a shoe-in,” Bowerman adds. “But, the timing might not be right.”
It’s then that I notice my drawing, set up on an easel at the edge of the conservatory. She’s put it in a sleek black frame, matted in gold. It looks real. Like art. She sees me gazing at it. “I was obviously quite taken with it, Brady. The eye you have. It really made me wonder what you could do with proper tools. Heavier paper? Maybe a Ritmo-type pencil?”
I glance around the room. Martha’s Mt. Hood is nowhere to be seen, and I feel bad that I’m pleased about that.
“Your teacher tells me that you’re quite an advocate. You’ve shared your thoughts on art education in the school paper?”
“I was interviewed once. But nothing I said was as, you know, articulate, as the speech you gave the other night. That was great what you said about being doomed if we cut art from the schools.” I’m aware that I sound like a complete idiot. I take another sip of lemonade just so I’ll stop embarrassing myself.
“Yes, well, I’ll cut to the chase here. Mrs. Bowerman let me in on the, well, circumstances regarding the rescinding of the scholarship, and I have to say, that sort of political ballyhoo is exactly what gets my dander up. I do not like being made a fool of, Brady, so, I thought I would bring you here to, well, prepare you, I suppose.”
“Prepare me?” “I’m going to make a bit of a stink. I’m due for one.”
A nastily happy thought occurs to me then. “Are you going to make Martha forfeit the prize?” I’m mortified, actually, at the lilt in my voice, the enthusiasm, as the words clatter out of me.
Bowerman intervenes. “No, Brady, that would be awkward. But, we are planning on calling up that reporter and setting her straight. We’d like to propose they do a feature on the vanishing funding for arts in the schools.”
Mrs. Cupworth starts talking before Bowerman’s even closed her mouth. It feels like they’re my parents, finishing each other’s sentences. Rehearsed co-conspirators. The dowager is excited, her cheeks are flushed, and one strand of her bluish coif has loosed over a penciled brow, “And, we feel that the school made you ineligible for the scholarship for self-serving reasons, Brady. You deserved to win that prize. And, in fact, I am planning to match the check. I would enjoy helping you explore the edges of your talent and passion for the visual arts, young lady. I’d like to explore a patronage, a place for you to sketch and paint as time allows.”
I really don’t know what to say. The generosity and enthusiasm of these two women is overwhelming. For a whole minute, I forget about Sabine and meeting up with Connor. I forget about the various sadnesses and betrayals, and a genuine joy seeps into the place under my ribs. Despite the cold, sour lemonade, I’m all warm inside.
And then my pocket buzzes with the announcement of an incoming text. I glance down and see that it’s Martha. She wants to talk. She didn’t like the way we left things. Just like that, the happy feeling drains away. It’s past 4:00. I’m supposed to meet Connor in half an hour. I look up and across the table at my host and my advocate, hoping that my face looks less anxious than I feel. I smile. “Mrs. Cupworth, Mrs. Bowerman, thank you. Thank you for your kindness. Both of you. I’d love to talk more about art and your thoughts, but I have some, um, urgent family things to attend to.”
Mrs. Cupworth takes in a breath, and then stands. She takes both my hands in hers, the way older, proper people do, and she says, “Dear, I’d like to continue this conversation when you have more time. Perhaps you could come again?”
The wisteria scratches the glass outside as the afternoon breeze picks up. “I’d love to,” I say, before slipping out of the mansion and down to the roads where the normal people live.
eleven
All the way down Vista, past the suicide bridge—where they just this week installed 9-foot screens to deter jumpers—past two Starbucks, and into the neighborhood that will lead to the park and then to Connor and whatever he’s found on Sabine’s phone, Martha’s texts intrudes.
We really need 2 talk.
Can u meet me at Sbux?
I hate that u r mad at me.
I’m mad at myself for even looking at them. Martha’s total OCD behavior when someone’s mad at her is endearing, in a way, but I really want to stay mad. How can she just charge forward with her life the way she has after Sabine’s death? And as for Nick? Was his Versace-slash-Johnny-Cash-Black grief just an act?
The week after my sister died, Nick was glued to our house. We were all zombies, sitting around the kitchen table, writing Sabine’s obituary. Deciding what picture to put in the paper. Where to have the big gathering after the funeral, whether to call it “a celebration of life” or “a memorial service.” It was like putting on some theater production with a week to cast the show, write it, rehearse our lines, decide on a venue and print out the tickets. All the while struggling in the numbness and disbelief that we’d lost Sabine.
We needed Nick for so many things. The Greenmeadow choir sang at her funeral, and Nick arranged that. He got the graphic design department at school to create the programs. And then there were the bread-and-butter details. Stuff like, In lieu of flowers, please send remembrances to The Humane Society. Martha came up with that—even though we weren’t exactly known for being one of those dog families. Why not cancer? I wondered. Why not the environment? Or even arts education? Naturally, I could see why we didn’t choose the cheerleading squad.
“When a child dies, it’s customary to choose an animal-related charity,” Martha assured us. And Martha would know that sort of stuff, so The Humane Society it was.
Ironically, I’m pretty sure that was the beginning of Nick and Martha’s romance. And it happened under our roof, poring over the details of Sabine’s send-off. Nick helped with errands around town, and Martha coordinated casseroles. They both brainstormed the death announcement with Mom and ran interference when reporters wanted to talk with us. And then Martha color-coded all of my sister’s clothes, tidied up her room—staging it as though it were for sale. She created “the museum of Sabine,” explaining that she wanted to spare us the pain of having to sift through Sabine’s things until we were ready, but when we were ready, she explained, it would be easier to deal with an orderly version of her life.
At first, I was grateful for their company. Dad was a mess. Not sleeping, not really awake. He sat in the family room in front of the flat screen for hours in a half-conscious state. A bottle of Jameson’s by his side. Mom, meanwhile, was an animated robot. Like some alien creature had inhabited her body, she was constantly moving from one thing to the next, check-off lists in hand. It was only after the service that she started to sputter and falter—forgetting to turn off burners, leaving her phone at home while slipping the remote to the TV in her purse. Having Nick see all of this, be around it, began to feel weird. His presence—the perfect 18-yr-old boy with everything to live for, everything ahead of him—began to remind me in deep, ugly ways that my sister would never grow any older. Soon, I would be the older sister. I would be a senior, then a high school graduate. College, ca
reer, marriage, kids, middle age, on and on I’d continue, and Sabine would always be eighteen. “They were so in love,” Mom exclaimed, wistfully, evening after evening, thumbing through the Spring Fling photos Martha had already glued into an album.
I began to resent that Nick and Martha would just show up at our house. They wouldn’t even knock half the time, just show up, bearing bereavement cards and flowers and poems. Whole classes had created science fair-type triptych boards of scribbled condolences. Our living room was a roadside death remembrance, with stuffed animals and mass candles and the occasional brass crucifix spread out in front of our fireplace. When more sympathy swag came Mom was always, “so touched,” and Dad, well, he’d just nod and grunt. Occasionally lift one of these well-wishings up to his nose and sniff it. As if there was a way to evoke Sabine from the odor of a dried herb garland.
Finally, I realized it was up to me to stop the madness. I asked Martha to back off. Nicely, but firmly. And Nick, well, he got the message too when I asked him to haul all the stuff to our storage unit. “Mom and Dad, they need a break from it,” I told him, and handed him the key to our 10-by-10 foot space at SelfStor along with Mom’s Subaru fob.
So Nick moved on. The most popular girl at school had died tragically, and her lover’s stock soared. Nick was surrounded by groupies and mourners—an entourage of sobbing teenagers following him around. Connor, the killer, meanwhile, went from being a fairly popular kid to the bearer of the plague. And one day, they had it out.
I was AWOL when it happened, so everything I know, I heard from Martha and other gossips, like Cathi Serge. Apparently, Connor just walked up to Nick, right there in the hall, amid the black balloons and the hankies and the plastic flowers and the magnetic RIP, and balled up his meaty fist—the same hand that held and then failed to hold my sister as she flipped and stretched and leapt through the air. Connor shoved that fist into Nick’s perfect jaw.