“She can’t stop talking about your speech at the United Way luncheon last week. Inspiring. That’s what I keep hearing. All the women were so impressed. They keep saying that they wished it was you running for governor.”
Patsy laughs politely. “I think we have a pretty good candidate fielding that one already.”
“Sure, yeah,” he says. “But he’s lucky to have you, that husband of yours. He’s walking a tight line, if you know what I mean, with all those young people he has working for him. Delaware’s a small place. We do things a certain way. Your daddy knows that, doesn’t he? He should talk some sense into your husband. That young man’s charming smile isn’t going to be enough. Let’s be honest, half the reason the party okayed Drew’s run is because of who his father-in-law is. Great man. Great.”
Patsy flares that smile again. I pause, awkwardly, to give her a chance to answer a new version of the same comment Representative Marks makes every time I see him, to anyone associated with Drew who will listen.
“I’ll tell him you think that. In fact, I told him I was coming tonight and he asked me to say hi to you—and you, too, Mrs. Marks. I think he misses it all.”
Marks nods with soberness that borders on bravado. “It hasn’t been the same since he decided to retire from public office. Is he well?”
“He’s fighting,” Patsy says. “He doesn’t know any other way.”
Marks’s wife, I forget her name, gives Patsy a hug. After, Marks puts out a hand and she places hers atop it. The contrast in their texture is mesmerizing.
“He’s a lucky man,” Marks says. “Brennan is. And give your father our best.”
I step up to the conversation. Marks turns and looks up at me.
“Liam. That brother of yours finally got you to come out again.”
We shake hands. I nod to his wife.
“He needs my truck,” I say with a smile.
Marks laughs like he’s sitting in someone’s basement playing poker. Patsy turns away, scanning the crowd.
“That’s why I like you. Real as the morning. Keep that brother of yours straight. Got it?”
“Sure,” I say. “But that’s what most people say to him, about me.”
Marks nods. “Yeah, it probably is.”
He and his wife walk away, leaving Patsy and me alone. We stand next to each other without speaking. She checks out the crowd again, looking for Drew.
“Does he know you’re here?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Have you talked to him?”
“Not today.”
She looks at me. The intimate smile is gone, replaced with something different, more practiced. Seeing the change, I’m caught off-balance, like my head is traveling through time.
“Does he ever talk about our mother?” I ask.
“No,” she says softly.
I suddenly feel light-headed.
“You remind me of her . . . sometimes.”
Patsy looks away quickly. I shouldn’t have said that. I know she wants me to move on. She has work to do, candidate’s wife that she is. That label is such a joke, though. And everyone knows it. A year before, she had been running a nonprofit for battered women. The local magazine, Delaware Today, had done a huge exposé on her when she stepped down to run Drew’s campaign. That wasn’t too surprising. A woman who had been dubbed an “under thirty person to watch,” the daughter of one of the most respected politicians in the state, running her husband’s gubernatorial campaign. Stories don’t get more intriguing than that.
A lot can change in a year. People whisper about it. Try to figure it out. But she plays the part well: the good wife, hanging at my brother’s side. That work, however, is not the only reason she wants to move on. It’s more than that. My proximity makes her nervous, but I can’t let it go. It almost feels like an addiction. Like it can take over my actions. I can’t give it up just yet. I want a little bit more.
“How are you?” I ask.
“Good,” she says, not looking at me. “I . . .”
Something stops her midsentence. She takes the slightest of steps backwards. I follow her eyes and see him, Drew. He’s staring at us. Then he waves Patsy over. Her smile returns and she hurries away from me without saying good-bye.
* * *
—
AS THE NIGHT drags on, I can’t stop watching Patsy. Everything about her is polished and smooth, like one of those worry stones. She glides among the people, from one conversation to another, and everyone watches her go. She is so distracting that I fail to see him coming over.
“Really, Liam?” my brother asks.
I startle, which really pisses me off. My brother and I are the same height. I look him up and down, the perfectly pressed and tailored pants, the red tie and white shirt, the hair slicked back. I showed up in a pair of jeans and a collared shirt, but I never took off my army jacket or gray hoodie. My hair is longer, darker, and looks like I used my fingers as a comb. His eyes are dark, almost black, and mine are lighter, closer to slate. But we share a blocky Irish face.
“What?” I ask, my voice weaker than I intended it to be.
He checks out the crowd, nodding and smiling at the people there, all of whom paid fifty dollars to his campaign for the privilege of attending. He looks like some king holding court. I have to turn my head to keep from saying something stupid.
“The numbers are still bad,” Drew says.
I look at him. “Okay.”
“Don’t act like it doesn’t matter to you.”
I see Bob. His eyes catch mine and he walks toward us.
“Hi, boss,” he says. “Did Karen get you the numbers?”
Drew’s expression changes. A smile appears on his face as he nods and pats the older man on the shoulder.
“How are you holding up? Patsy wanted to make sure you say yes to our dinner invite. A happy wife is a happy life, right?”
Bob laughs. “Definitely, as long as you’re not cooking.”
“Hey,” my brother says, charmingly hurt.
“Just kidding, boss. Back to the numbers, though. It’s not as bad as it looks. In the city you’re dead even.”
“With a Republican,” Drew says, slowly shaking his head.
“Well, yeah. But remember what we talked about. He’s an incumbent. And he’s been around for a long time. As we ramp up and more people see you, things will change. I was talking to Lauren about the new messaging, about you two losing your parents and how you took care of Liam. It’s testing well with fund-raisers.”
“You mean with the old schoolers.”
“They’re important, Drew.”
“I know. Hopefully, my father-in-law can help there,” Drew says.
“We’ll see. Lauren mentioned that the two of you were working on something. Something viral, she said. Hope it’s not catching!” He laughs. My brother does, too. Bob puts an arm around me. “Plus, we have the best signpost digger in the state working for us.”
That gets Drew genuinely laughing, harder than it should. My cheeks turn red. Bob seems to notice my reaction. I can see him rethink what he just said, and how my brother took it.
“Not to mention,” Bob adds, “the unions love this guy. I was just talking to the head of the building trades and he was going on about how real Liam is. They love that. Real men.”
“It’s all good,” I say.
Drew just stares for a second before speaking. “Can you do me a favor? Can you have Karen call that nonprofit on Orange, the one that helps orphans?”
“Children and Families First?” Bob asks.
“Sure,” Drew says. “See if they have an event in the next couple of days that I can attend. It’d be a good chance to see how it plays.”
“Karen?” Bob asks. “Not Lauren?”
Drew shakes his head. “I h
ave Lauren working on something else.”
“Oh, yeah. The virus. I forgot.”
“And, Bob, I want you getting more involved in our social media.”
Bob nods. “I’ll see what I can do. You ever think about making wacky YouTube videos?”
I laugh. When Drew does, I can tell it’s fake, but Bob has no clue. He just thinks everything is fun and games. That everything is just great.
“Gotta go,” he says, walking away with a huge smile on his face.
I turn to Drew. He’s watching Bob. I have so much to say to him. The words feel like the tide rising inside me, like if I stand here for another minute, there won’t be any stopping them. In that moment, I see Lauren Branch. She is across the room but watching the two of us. She heads toward us.
“I have to go.”
I take a step but his hand falls on my shoulder, fingers pressing into the fabric of my jacket. I will not turn. I will not look at him.
“Should I be worried about you?” he asks.
I pull away without answering. Because if I did, it would bring with it a tidal wave of pain.
5
When I think about my mother, my mind paints the most beautiful picture. Her face shines so brightly, framed by her dark hair and the full green trees behind her. She’s looking down, like the painting of the Madonna I once saw, where she holds her baby and her head tilts. She has this smile on her face. It is something I remember so perfectly. Something I see almost every day when I close my eyes. It was like her joy might jump right off the canvas of my memories, surrounding me with warm arms. Like a shield, it would push everything else back. Together, we could hide in that perfect moment.
It happened when I was ten. It was early in the afternoon and we were in the backyard. Mom knelt in the grass, one hand palm down on the ground. She held the other up and a caterpillar circled the tip of one of her long fingers.
“That’s one of those gypsy moths,” I said, staring at it, fixated by the way the long hairs on the side brushed against my mother’s skin.
“It is,” she said softly.
“Drew said they’re bad.”
She laughed and that smile might as well have controlled my entire world.
“Does it look bad?”
I leaned closer. Slowly, I moved my hand to hers. I pointed and gently touched the soft hairs. The caterpillar’s black head turned and seemed to look me in the eye. Then it moved. I felt so many tiny legs crawling onto my skin.
“Not really,” I answered as it moved onto the back of my hand. “But Dad told Drew that they kill all of our plants. And they make our yard look like crap.”
She touched my cheek. “Can’t you think of a better word than that?”
I wasn’t sure what she meant at first. I don’t even think I could remember what it was that I said. She didn’t seem to mind, though.
“They’re just doing what they need to do to survive,” she said. “That doesn’t make them bad.”
Her big, light eyes seemed to bore into mine. I was only ten, but even then I felt like her words meant far more than what I heard. For some reason, they made me think about my dad. And the look on his face when my mom hugged him.
“Does Dad think you’re bad?” I asked.
“Liam!” she said, her eyebrows furrowing. “Why would you ask that?”
I shrugged and held my other hand out. The caterpillar crossed over onto that palm. I petted its hair again, still surprised that it was so soft.
“Baby, look at me,” my mom said. When I did, she touched my face again. “Your father works really hard so we can have this life. This house. This beautiful yard. And he doesn’t ask much from us, does he? Sometimes, his face might look upset. Or like he’s thinking of something else. But he loves you. And your brother.”
“You, too?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “Me, too.”
My mother looked like she wanted to say more. Instead, her eyes lowered. Her hand moved from my face. Her fingernail brushed my palm. Then the caterpillar left me, moving to her painted nail. Her arm lifted back up as the gypsy moth moved across the prominent bones of her wrist.
For a time, she simply watched it. I remember thinking that she was going to take it inside and put it in a jar. We could keep it as a pet and she could watch it like that anytime she wanted. Instead, her hand moved to the grass and she waited patiently as the caterpillar slipped off her and down to the ground below the lush green blades.
Surprised, I moved quickly, trying to scoop it back up. But she touched my arm, stopping me.
“Let it go free,” she said.
As I looked into her eyes, trying to understand something that no ten-year-old could, I heard my name.
“Liam!”
I ignored it. I couldn’t stop watching her. The halves of so many questions filled my head. For just a second, I thought the woman kneeling beside me was a stranger. That something had happened and my mother had disappeared. Before that day, I saw her only as this shining, perfect presence in my life. One that held me grounded. She was the softness in my life. The carefree moments. The random trips to get ice cream. The long walks along the creek, hopping across the water on treacherously slick stones. She was perfect Halloween costumes and spontaneous Christmas carols.
Staring at her, I saw that something had changed. Either inside of her or inside of me. I sensed secrets. Fears. Danger. The sensation clung to me. Holding me still.
“Liam!”
She blinked, and the moment flashed out of existence. At once the start of something and the end of something. What, though, I had no way of knowing.
“Your friend is here,” she said, waving a hand. “Go play.”
I turned and saw Carter appearing in our side yard.
“Hey,” he called at me.
I stood up. I turned back to look at her one last time. But, no matter how hard I try, I can’t picture what she looked like in that moment. Did she look like what my mother was? Or what she would become? I just can’t remember.
The moment passed, though, and I went back to just being a kid. I followed Carter into the woods. We stood by the rock ledge, kicking at leaves and throwing small rocks.
“What do you want to do?”
“Let’s spy on the Smiths, see if they’re at the fort.”
“Cool.”
We got into it, Carter and I, creeping through the underbrush while making covert hand signals to each other. When I heard voices carry through the still forest, my heart thumped inside my chest. A perfectly shaped stick lay on the dried leaves beside me. I picked it up, peering down its length like the barrel of a rifle. In my mind, I became a soldier, a sniper maybe, ready to kill in utter and complete silence.
As we moved closer, I could make out words. Keith Smith was my age. He had his friend Ivan with him, a little kid with a giant chip on his shoulder. Ivan and I had almost been in a fight at the bus stop three times. Carter didn’t like him any better than I did.
They appeared below us, working on the fort. Carter moved closer to me so we could whisper back and forth.
“We should attack,” I said.
“Yeah.”
We broke from cover, screaming, and I swung my stick like a club. Carter roared behind me and I heard his feet crashing through the thick covering of leaves. Keith looked up over the shadow of his shelter and saw me.
“Get out of here!” Keith yelled.
I screamed over him, through him. The stick rose above my head. He took a step back. I feigned a swing at his head and hit the side of his fort instead. The sound echoed around us. A piece of bark flew through the air but otherwise the fort remained intact.
“Get out!”
Carter and I stopped a few feet from Keith. Our bodies twitched with potential as we stared him down. The moment inched by and the dance became a fidg
et. Neither Carter nor I had thought out what to do next. That’s when Ivan finally said something.
“You two move and you’re dead.”
I looked up and saw him across the creek. He stood atop a small outcrop of stone, his hand above his head. The sunlight danced off sparkling mica dotting the surface of the large jagged rock in his hand.
I laughed. “Shut up. You won’t do anything.”
“Try me.”
I looked at Ivan. He did not smile. Something, though, told me he wanted to throw that rock. And it was a big rock.
“If you throw that . . .” I paused. My mind went blank. I felt weakness in that moment, the sort only a ten-year-old could feel. It seemed overwhelmingly real and permanent. I couldn’t back down but I was too afraid to commit. Finally, I said the only thing left to say.
“If you throw that rock, my brother will kill you.”
Keith’s eyes widened. Ivan lowered the stone. Everyone in the neighborhood knew Drew. I smiled, feeling strong, feeling invincible. My chest puffed out and I licked my lips, over the dry patches and the chapped tip that I tended to bite off. Their fear fed my soul. I basked in it, owning it. At the same time I felt a pervasive envy grow inside me. Why couldn’t the mention of my name shake the world?
Then Ivan threw the thing anyway. It was so pathetic, really. The stone flopped through the air like an injured bird and plunged into the creek a good ten feet away from Carter and me. But he did it. I stood in utter shock for a second, and then I ran. So did Carter. We charged up the hill like an army chased us. I could hear Ivan and Keith laughing.
We stopped at the rock ledge, both of us doubled over and hacking to regain our breath. There was no way we could still hear them. They had to be well out of earshot. But their laughter filled my head like they stood right in front of me.
I screamed out in frustration. Looking down, I noticed the stick still in my hand. Spinning, I swung it at the nearest sapling, striking it over and over again. Bits of wood flew through the air with each strike. I just screamed over and over again.
The Perfect Plan Page 3