The Kids Are Gonna Ask

by Gretchen Anthony

  “Mrs. McClair?”

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “Detective Blegen.”

  Oh dear. Maggie was deeply thankful for the assistance the Minneapolis police had given them, but that didn’t mean it was ever good to hear them on the other end of the line.

  “I’m calling to let you know that we’re planning to remove the blockade on the parkway soon. We haven’t had any incidents in two days, and the attention on your family seems to have died down significantly.”

  “Oh?” Maggie took the phone into the entryway and peeked through the front window. She didn’t see anyone. How incredible.

  “We plan to keep an officer in the area for a few days, just to monitor. I recommend you call us immediately if you ever have any concerns.”

  “Of course.”

  “And Mrs. McClair? Be careful who you let into your house. Who you socialize with. Extra caution is advised for the foreseeable future.”

  “Thank you, Detective Blegen. I will most certainly do that.”

  They hung up and Maggie had to take a moment to steady herself. Their world had gone from calm to chaos and back again in less time than it took her accountant to do her taxes.

  See, Mom, Bess whispered. I told you it would work out.

  Maggie scoffed. Easy for you to say. You flit in and out at whim. She busied herself, wiping the kitchen counters and checking the fullness of the trash bin under the sink. But Bess was still there. She could feel her waiting for Maggie to say the unsaid.

  Finally, Maggie could no longer resist. You said that other situation would work out, too. And you were dead wrong.

  Ha! Dead. Get it? Bess laughed.

  You hush, Maggie scolded. I don’t think your dying is funny at all.

  Maggie carried the teakettle to the sink and ran the water. The kettle slipped through her wet hands and hit the stainless steel basin with a clang.

  He didn’t kill me, Mom. The concrete killed me.

  You can’t keep denying it, Bess. It was him. He killed you.

  The phone rang suddenly, interrupting the argument.

  How perfect! Maggie threw down the towel she’d been using to wipe up her mess. I suppose this gives you an excuse to disappear again. Just as we’re starting to get somewhere.

  Bess didn’t reply. Because of course she wouldn’t.

  Maggie turned toward the phone and scowled. She knew who was calling. He called every day, without fail.

  “Hello?”

  “Maggs! When will we get this podcast going again?”

  “Hello, Sam.”

  “Did you see the article I just sent? Amaze-bombs, am I right?”

  Sam had always been generous with his emails, but recently the subject matter had changed. He used to send links to pieces about Thomas and Savannah—their search, their willingness to take such a public risk, the success of The Kids Are Gonna Ask. Now he sent articles about himself—the interviews he’d given, how successful he’d become, how Guava Media was changing the podcast world. All of it self-serving nonsense, and none of it helping to fix the mess he’d made for Savannah and Thomas. If George were around, he would have laid into Sam Tamblin with the ferocity of a German shepherd on an all-vegetable diet.

  Maggie took the phone to the kitchen table and sank into a chair. “I’m afraid I haven’t checked my email yet today, Mr. Tamblin. Another feature article on Guava Media? Or you, perhaps?” She looked down and noticed a faint stain on her skirt. She rubbed at it.

  “You’re breakin’ my heart, Maggs! You go shimmy open your laptop and read it. Full page. And they mention the kids.”

  If he only knew how effectively she was managing her surprise. This man. It had been nearly two weeks since the fiasco in New York, but had Sam asked about Savannah and Thomas? About how they were faring? Or expressed concern for their well-being? Had Saj called to offer help? Not that Maggie would have accepted. Guava Media’s mishandling of events was at the very least irresponsible, and at worst, criminal.

  “We need to get moving on the next episode, Maggs. Fans are scuh-ream-ing for it.”

  Maggie considered making a quip about absence and the fondness of the heart, but she’d learned that Sam Tamblin was allergic to metaphor. Instead, she dipped her finger into her glass of water and dabbed at the stain on her lap. It felt crusty. A dried drip of butter, perhaps?

  “I know you said Savannah’s working on writing something, but we gotta get a move on. Shake the trees while they’re hot. Hey, speaking of which, three new potential show sponsors to consider: Fyrz, which is like part AI tool, part social-media amplifier. Very trend-forward—”

  Maggie then noticed she’d dribbled a bit of jam on her shirt. For heaven’s sake. She put the phone down and went to the sink to wipe it clean with a cloth. Her hands were sticky, and she took a moment to wash them, too.

  Sam Tamblin didn’t appear to have noticed her absence.

  “—then the last one. You ready for this? It’s going to blow your mind. Piper. Cubbins. Piper-effin’-Cubbins, Maggs! Are you hearing me?”

  She heard him, yes. Understood him, not at all. “Do you require any immediate action by us, Mr. Tamblin? Savannah and Thomas are still recovering from the events in New York. Speaking of which. Have you given any further thought to following up with Ms. Holmes? Do you think we’ll be receiving an apology?”

  Sam Tamblin suddenly sounded very distant and muffled.

  “What was that, Maggs? I’m headed into an eleva—”

  The line went dead.

  That man! That lying, selfish, conflict-avoiding man.

  Thirty-Nine

  Thomas

  The next morning, Thomas popped out of bed with a renewed sense of possibility. Jack was going to call. He knew it. He pulled a pair of sweatpants over his boxers, then grabbed a T-shirt off his floor, sniffed it and figured it wasn’t too bad for one more day. He threw it on and headed downstairs to grab a bagel.

  Nadine was standing in the kitchen.

  “Hey,” she said. “You look rested. Did you get some sleep last night?”

  “Yeah—um, wow.” Thomas felt a rush of relief he hadn’t come down in his underwear. “Aren’t you here early? You usually don’t come until after lunch.”

  “Dad made some excuse about wanting to work in the garden. Really, though, I think it just makes him feel better to stick around. He’s still worried about you guys.”

  “Ah.” Thomas felt for the waistband of his sweats, just to make sure he really did have pants on. He didn’t mind having Nadine and Chef Bart around so much lately. Usually it made him itchy to have too many extra people in the house. All those nights of coming home to Maggie’s new friend from tai chi class, or the woman Maggie met selling goat’s milk soap at the farmers market. But Nadine and her dad didn’t feel extra. Not anymore.

  “Hey,” he said. “Did you see any protesters outside when you came? I just looked out the front window and the street was practically empty. I couldn’t believe it.”

  Nadine considered. “No, come to think of it. There was a guy over by the Melbys’ place, but he had a trailer full of lawn mowers and stuff.”

  “They’ve got a lawn guy.” Thomas grabbed the bag of bagels and took one out. He offered one to Nadine, but she declined, so he popped his into the toaster and went to the refrigerator to find the cream cheese. Nadine went into the mudroom and returned holding Katherine Mansfield’s leash.

  “Want to come with?” she asked. “I’ve been taking Katherine Mansfield on her walks since you guys haven’t been able to. Now that the street’s empty, though—”

  Thomas felt a shot of panic through his chest. “I’m sort of—” He paused. It wasn’t that he was afraid to go out. In fact, he was dying to escape the house. But he didn’t want to leave and risk missing Jack’s call. Thomas had left the number for the house phon
e in his message because leaving his cell felt too private, another secret Savannah could accuse him of keeping. Now he kicked himself for not leaving both.

  “We can make it a quick one,” Nadine said, reading his hesitation. “If that helps.”

  “Um...” What were the odds that Jack would call in the next twenty minutes? “Sure,” he said, even before realizing he’d decided. He plucked his bagel from the toaster and tossed it in the air until it was cool enough to hold. Then he slathered cream cheese across the surface and threw on his shoes.

  Nadine grabbed Maggie’s oversize sunglasses from the counter. She handed them over and smiled. “Maybe you should put these on. Just in case.”

  “Funny girl.”

  They let the mudroom door slam behind them and made for the parkway. They came to the end of the alley and Thomas peeked around the corner from behind Mrs. Tellison’s overgrown lilac bush. Nothing. They turned onto the sidewalk.

  “Sounds like you and Savannah are getting along again,” Nadine said.

  “Yeah, sort of. I mean, she’s still mad at me, but it’s not like she doesn’t have a right to be. I should have told her about Jack. I’m trying to fix that.”

  Nadine asked how.

  “By telling her everything I know. Where he lives. Where he grew up. That he takes people out fishing for a living. Really, I don’t know all that much. But I just get this feeling he’s a good guy. Normal, you know?” Thomas noticed that Maggie had wrapped a scarf with bright yellow suns all over it around Katherine Mansfield’s neck. “Like, I doubt he dresses his dog up like a beauty show contestant.”

  “Aww.” Nadine tsked. “I like the scarves. I mean, boy dogs wear bandannas. It’s no different.”

  “Maybe.” Thomas decided if he ever owned a pet, it’d be a black Lab with nothing but a plain brown collar. “Thanks for encouraging me to get out, by the way. Feels like forever since I’ve breathed real air.” The past few nights his legs had taken on a life of their own, antsy and refusing to let him settle. They wanted to move. Wanted to run.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And thanks, I guess, for helping us out. Your dad making sure we’re eating well and all.”

  “He loves it.”

  They walked some more.

  “Do you love it?” he asked after a while.

  “What?”

  “Your dad’s job. Coming with him to our house. Helping him in the kitchen.” Thomas couldn’t imagine. All he ever wanted to do after he got home was eat, go up to his room, shut the door and find some peace and quiet.

  “I don’t always come with him,” Nadine said. “Just when I don’t feel like being home alone.”

  “God, I’d give anything to be home alone once in a while.” Last year, he’d returned from track practice to find an entire mariachi band in their backyard. Savannah was nowhere to be found, but Maggie was dancing around the patio holding a rose in her teeth while Chef Bart roasted corn on the grill. Thomas had heard—and smelled—the ruckus blocks away. He’d thought it was a food truck. “Seriously, what’s wrong with alone time?”

  “Sometimes it reminds me.”

  “Of what?”

  Nadine stayed quiet. “I figured you already knew,” she said finally. “From Maggie. Or Savannah.”

  “No.” Hardly the first time he was the last to hear something. “But it’s okay. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “My mom died when I was in sixth grade. A drug overdose.”

  “What?” He definitely had not known.

  “She struggled for a long time. That’s why my parents divorced. My dad had custody, and my mom was going through all these treatment programs. She was doing well. Looking good. We’d meet her sometimes. Together. Like, out for ice cream or something.

  “But then, she disappeared. One day we were supposed to meet her at the park and she never came.”

  Thomas didn’t realize they’d stopped walking until a mom with a stroller had to squeeze past them on the sidewalk. “What happened?”

  “We didn’t know for a long time. Dad filed a missing person’s report, asked her friends. She didn’t have much family. My grandparents both died before I was born, so—” She let the story end there.

  “Holy shit, Nadine.” They were the only words Thomas could find.

  “I know.”

  “I really had no idea.”

  She nodded and readjusted Katherine Mansfield’s leash around her hand. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s terrible, but I see a counselor, and he’s great. And my dad, of course. He and I have always been close. But there was a whole year we didn’t know where she was. I used to go to bed at night thinking that my dad secretly went out looking for her while I was asleep, like I’d wake up in the morning and there she’d be, eating breakfast in the kitchen. Or, for school events—concerts and stuff. I’d spend my whole time on stage searching the crowd for her face, convinced she was there.”

  Nadine kept her thoughts to herself for a moment. “Do you sometimes wonder if it was your fault somehow? I mean, I know it wasn’t. My dad and my counselor love to remind me of that. But what if she had to go out for diapers some night, and she met someone while she was out and that’s how she got started with the drugs. Or maybe I cried too much for her to handle, or—”

  Thomas knew the questions exactly. “Or maybe if she hadn’t been going where she was going that day, everything would have been different.”

  “Yeah.” Nadine glanced at him and winced. “Maybe all that stuff.”

  Thomas had run every if only scenario a thousand times in his head. Sometimes, he did it to prove that there was nothing he could have done, that his mom’s accident was totally random. Sometimes, though, he did it to torture himself. Because at least when he was mad at himself, he didn’t have to miss his mom.

  “How did you find out what happened to her?” Thomas wasn’t sure he actually wanted to know, but it felt wrong not to ask.

  “The police called. About a year later. Like I said, she’d struggled for a long time.”

  Thomas did the mental math. Nadine would have been in sixth grade, meaning she’d lost her mom a full year before he lost his, and she’d never even mentioned it. Two years counting her disappearance.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “All we’ve been talking about is our crazy McClair family. Seems kind of selfish now.”

  “Nah. I mean, yeah, you’ve all been pretty amped up lately. But shouldn’t you be? It’s a lot.” She paused. “I’ve never understood, anyhow, why people think they can’t feel bad just because someone else has it worse off. It’s not really a competition. At least, not one I’m interested in.”

  “You’d win, though.” He meant it as a joke, to lighten the moment. But he knew as soon as it came out how badly he’d aimed.

  Nadine lost her hint of a smile. “That’s what I’m saying. I don’t want to win. I don’t want to be the girl who always has the awful story attached to her. Do you like being the kid whose mom died when the overpass crumbled?”

  “No.” He didn’t like being that kid at all.

  “Savannah and I have talked about this. You guys didn’t have a choice—everybody heard about your mom’s accident. Me? At least I get to decide who to tell.”

  There was no world Thomas could imagine in which having your mom die wouldn’t feel awful. “How is that better?”

  “Because I only tell people as much as I trust them with the truth.” She stopped and adjusted Katherine Mansfield’s scarf where it had begun to bunch against the leash. “I don’t want to be secretive, but it’s also my story to share. You know?”

  He thought he did.

  “I think that’s made your search for your dad more difficult,” she said. “It’s so public. Everyone has an opinion.”

  “But without going public—” Thomas held up
a finger. “You know what? How about we change the subject?” He couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to debate the very personal choices he and Savannah had been forced to make. Not with Nadine. Not with anyone.

  “Sorry,” Nadine said, and Thomas could barely handle the hurt in her voice.

  “No, no, it’s just... No offense. Anyway, new topic, okay?”

  Nadine held out a hand to shake. “Okay.”

  Thomas walked a few more steps, gathering his thoughts. “So... I’ve been trying to figure something out lately. Normally, I’d talk to Nico, but he wouldn’t get it.”

  Nadine shot him a look and let out the kind of chuckle that said she didn’t think Nico got much of anything.

  “Have you been following the whole McClair Twin mess on Twitter?”

  Nadine stopped. “Are you talking about the weird stuff on Sam Tamblin’s account?”

  He was. Though, something told him not to show his cards yet. Like making her say it without prodding was some kind of proof. “What weird stuff on Sam Tamblin’s account?”

  “Okay.” Nadine handed him Katherine Mansfield’s leash and pulled out her phone. She scrolled for a few seconds, then leaned in, showing him her screen. “This was the first thing that caught my eye. He tweeted this on June 10—that’s before your first NPR interview, even.” She read the tweet aloud. “‘Those McClairs are hadly innocent children. More like overprivileged white kids. #paternallivesmatter.’ At first, I assumed it was a retweet, but even that would be strange. Why would your producer be retweeting something so mean? Then I noticed it’s not a retweet.”

  Thomas reached for her phone. “Can I see?” He knew the tweet she was talking about—it had been one of the first about them to go viral. It was still making the rounds, though now it was amended with a whole lot more hashtags like #McClairCryBabies and #IWantMySpermDaddy. “Are you saying you think Sam Tamblin wrote this tweet?”

  “Not sure.” Nadine reached for her phone and scrolled some more. “I can’t seem to find it right now, but at one point I thought I was able to trace its origins back to the very first retweet. It got picked up by what looked like a bot, but it went crazy from there.”