The Throne

by Beth Goobie

  There had to be more, she thought. Something to explain the way things were—the bridge, Aunt Sancy and the Polks, the decade-long ache of silence. Almost without thinking, she located the appropriate knob and began, once again, to advance the film. August ninth, the day of the funeral, came and went without mention of the event. Then she spotted the headlines for the tenth, blaring news of a possible federal election call, followed by page two and pictures of her parents’ funeral—pallbearers carrying the two coffins into the church, and her Polk grandparents, their heads bowed, flanked by Polkton’s current mayor and the local MLA. Neither Meredith, her Aunt Sancy, nor her Goonhilly grandparents seemed to have merited the Polkton Post’s attention, but knowing her aunt, Meredith thought wryly, they had probably all been kept well away from reporters’ cameras.

  Automatically, she began to read the article next to the photographs. To her surprise, several dignitaries had attended the funeral; the Polk family, at least ten years ago, had been well-connected. Details were given concerning the eulogy, hymns sung, even the flowers decorating the coffins. In passing, it was mentioned that the bodies were to be cremated. Then, in the last paragraph, almost as an afterthought, came the phrase: Autopsies revealed both victims had above-legal levels of alcohol in their blood.

  Stunned, Meredith reread the sentence several times. A loud buzzing started up again in her head, and her right hand floated numbly toward the screen and touched the word “alcohol.” Drunk? she thought, bewildered. They were both drunk, mid-afternoon, in the middle of the week?

  No one had ever mentioned alcohol as being a factor in her parents’ deaths ... or their lives, she thought, swallowing hard. Is that what my parents were—two alcoholics? Drunks? Or was this a one-time thing—a fling to celebrate something?

  Well, whatever the reason for their alcoholic binge, she now had what she had been looking for—that one little fact to explain things. Unfortunately, that one little fact also now had her, whether she wanted it to or not. Without warning, Meredith felt sick in a dull, heavy way. Fighting back tears, she unloaded the film and slid it back into its box, then returned it to the Information Services desk.

  “Thank you,” she said, her eyes sliding across the librarian’s face.

  “You’re welcome,” smiled the librarian, handing back her library card.

  Do you drive drunk? The question hovered on Meredith’s lips; for a moment, she almost blurted, Did you know it can kill people, important people—people you thought you knew?

  But then propriety dropped down onto her, and silence, and the realization: Of course she knows. Everyone knows that, stupid.

  Listlessly, she left the library.

  “Meredith!” called her aunt from the top of the staircase. “Come on up here. I talked to the Altgelds about repainting the inside of the porch and they said okay. I’ve got some color swatches and I need your advice. I was thinking a warm amber ...”

  Without replying, Meredith laid her bike against the outside of the staircase’s handrail. Then, slowly, she began to mount the stairs.

  “I was thinking amber,” continued Aunt Sancy, smiling at her from the doorway, “so it’d be September all year round when we stepped in here. I know how you love autumn—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the bridge?” blurted Meredith, cutting her off mid-sentence. Breath harsh in her throat, she stared fiercely at her aunt as she fought to keep a grip, hold herself back from shouting. All day, it had been building—the bewilderment, the anger ... through lunch at the Burger King with Dean and Reb, who, when told, had echoed her sentiments back to her, and then the late afternoon when she had biked alone to the bridge and stood, body pressed to the guardrail exactly where it had happened—trying to relive the event as it had originally taken place, as her parents had experienced it, to understand.

  Aunt Sancy knew instantly which bridge she meant. One quick breath and her grin faltered, her gaze dropped. Silently she stood, running her fingertips over a color swatch. “You been talking to your Polk relatives?” she asked finally.

  Meredith was vaguely aware of several Polk second cousins, who were living in Winnipeg. At least, that was where they had resided five years ago when her Polk grandparents had died. Since then, it was anyone’s guess. Her eyes narrowed. “I haven’t talked to any of them in years,” she said shortly. “I looked it up in the Post.”

  Her aunt nodded.

  “Because, of course, I had to look it up there,” Meredith added in a surge of bitterness. “No one in my life who knew would’ve told me. That my parents drove off a perfectly safe bridge, I mean—in the middle of the goddamn afternoon. Because they were drunk.”

  Aunt Sancy winced noticeably. “That’s not all they were,” she said.

  “What d’you mean?” demanded Meredith, her voice rising to a half-shout. Heart thudding, she leaned forward, her face centimeters from her aunt’s.

  “Whoa!” said Aunt Sancy, raising a protective hand. “I’m not hiding anything from you, hon. Give me a chance and I’ll tell you about it. But before you take my head off, think for a minute. You were five years old when it happened. D’you think I should’ve told you all the ugly details then?”

  Not ready to let go of her anger, Meredith stood silently, slammed by the deep thundering of her heart. Centimeters away, her aunt also stood without speaking, waiting her out. Gradually, in spite of herself, Meredith’s anger began to retreat.

  “You could’ve told me before now,” she said grimly.

  “Yes, I could’ve,” agreed Aunt Sancy, glancing quickly at her, then away. “I’ve thought about it often, believe me—when you would be ready, what was the best time. When is anyone ready for something like that?”

  “I’m ready now,” said Meredith.

  “Okay,” said her aunt. “We’ll go inside, have some iced tea. I’ve got a pizza baking for supper. Come on.” Turning, she passed through the porch entranceway and into the kitchen, followed by a bewildered Meredith. “Sit down,” said her aunt. “I’ll pour us some tea.”

  Meredith sat down heavily at the table as her aunt opened a cupboard and took out two glasses. Through the open doorway came sounds of a late afternoon—aspen leaves shuffling, shouts of children at play. How could it be, thought Meredith, that the world went on—peaceful, rustling, and golden—while she sat, a dark, dull lump at its center, waiting ... well, waiting for what?

  “Here you are,” said Aunt Sancy, placing a tall glass of iced tea before her. Then, setting down her own, she sat opposite.

  “Well?” said Meredith, her voice rasping in her throat, surprising her with its rawness.

  “Drink some of your tea,” her aunt said quietly; then, as Meredith hissed, she added, “Please. Drink some.”

  Meredith drank. To her surprise, the entire glass went down quickly—cool and soothing after her long bike ride home. “Okay,” she said, setting it down, not willing to admit the accuracy of her aunt’s instincts. “Now.”

  Aunt Sancy nodded again. “Cocaine,” she said simply. “They were both flying on it. James was driving, neither were wearing seatbelts. There were no witnesses but there didn’t need to be. What was left told the whole story.”

  “Cocaine?” Meredith repeated weakly. “You mean, like ...”

  Her voice trailed off and she sat staring at her aunt.

  “Like what?” prompted Aunt Sancy.

  But Meredith didn’t know like what. She wasn’t stupid; she knew what cocaine was—had heard other kids talking, seen it on TV. The closest she had come to actual illegal drugs was a brief shared toke on some weed several neighborhood kids had been passing around last summer. It hadn’t impressed her. Later, someone had told her dealers often passed off tobacco as weed to the naive, and she had figured she’d probably qualified. Probably still did.

  “The Post just said alcohol,” she stammered. “Not drugs.”

  “The Post was selective in its coverage,” her aunt said dryly. “Elite bloodline, the high and holy Polk
surname. Anyone else would’ve had their reputation dragged from here to Toronto and back.”

  “But why?” Meredith burst out. Agony, she was in agony; there was no other word for it—blood pounding everywhere through her, heart like a steel-toed boot, kicking and kicking.

  Aunt Sancy’s gaze softened. “What do you mean, why?” she asked.

  “I mean ...” faltered Meredith. “Well, did they do that every day? Drugs? Is that the way they were?”

  From across the table, Aunt Sancy’s eyes caught and held hers. Dark, strong, and direct, they hung on, hung on. “Yes,” she said.

  Meredith hissed sharply. Heartbeats slammed through her; she sat, her hands clutching at nothing. “But he was in law school,” she stammered. “He was articling.”

  “People go into law for various reasons,” said her aunt. “Some of them are legal. Some aren’t.”

  “What’re you saying—my dad wanted to be a lawyer for ... crime?” whispered Meredith.

  “I don’t think I could ever begin to say what your father wanted out of life,” Aunt Sancy said wearily. “The world can be an ugly place, Meredith. Ugly, ugly things go on. Entirely innocent people get caught up in them; life rarely goes the way you expect. When Ally first met James ...” Aunt Sancy stared off, thinking. “Well, I didn’t like him much then, already. But he wasn’t what he got to be later. It was law school that changed him—people he met up with there. Fast crowd, all of them with money of their own, just like him. So there were drugs, of course. High-flying designer capsules—you take one and you don’t know who you are while you’re on it; don’t remember who you used to be when you come back down.”

  She shook her head. “It all looks good when you’re in the middle of it. It looked good to Ally. And James made sure they were always right in the middle of things. So I guess she never asked questions. Or not the right questions. Always ask questions, Meredith,” said Aunt Sancy, her eyes intense, piercing. “Especially when things look good ... real good.”

  Meredith’s gaze flickered. “There was ...” she said hesitantly. “Well, in the Post, there was an article about a drug bust in Polkton the day before. Was he ... my dad ...?”

  “Was he what?” her aunt prompted gently.

  “Well, was he part of that?” Meredith exploded.

  Aunt Sancy hesitated, shifted her glass along the tabletop, hesitated again.

  “I want to know,” Meredith said intensely.

  “Your father was a gambler,” Aunt Sancy said finally. “An extreme gambler and a stupid one. He built up debt, more than he could pay off, though God knows he came from enough money. Gambling debts mean you owe people something, sweetie. Scary people—people who like the meaning of the word ‘bad.’ Yeah, he was involved—exactly how and with whom, I can’t say. Things were going on, building up ... and then the shit hit the fan, he and Ally were dead, and their involvement didn’t matter anymore. At least, not to them.”

  Shock descended onto Meredith—dense, throbbing waves of it. “Are you saying ... he did it on purpose?” she asked. “Going off the bridge like that with my mom?”

  Aunt Sancy blinked and breathed deeply. “I don’t know,” she replied. “No one does. Neither of them left a note, anything like that.”

  Meredith sat breathing, just breathing. “And it never got out?” she asked finally. “His gambling and drugs? The cops covered it up?”

  Again Aunt Sancy blinked. “Someone did,” she said.

  Meredith swallowed. “But if it never came out,” she faltered. “If the police never investigated my dad—how do you know all this?”

  “I watched him,” Aunt Sancy said tersely. “And I’m no angel myself, Meredith—you know that. I was never as bad as James but, back then, I knew my way around chemical euphoria.” Pausing a moment, she stared off, then added, “Chemical stupidity, more like. Now I’m older and wiser. If only we could be born that way. These days, no one could convince me to go anywhere near the stuff.

  “But back then, like I said, I did my fair share, some of it with them. I also kept my eyes and ears open, watching James—first for your mother’s sake, and then for yours. I mean, there you were, this tiny little girl, in the middle of ...” Aunt Sancy’s voice trailed off, and she sat shaking her head.

  Meredith stared at her. “I remember next to nothing about them,” she said. “Just their faces, but all fuzzy and vague.”

  “Probably just as well,” Aunt Sancy said darkly. “I want you to know, hon, that I stopped drugs completely two years before I adopted you. Someone had to be there for you. Believe me, I was trying.”

  Meredith sat, silence roaring in her head, trying to work out what her aunt was saying, what she wasn’t saying. “I don’t ...” she stammered, “... don’t know what to think about this.”

  “You don’t have to, sweetie,” Aunt Sancy assured her. “It was an ugly part of your life, but now it’s over—in the past. I’ll take care of you.”

  “I know,” said Meredith. “You do take care of me; you always have. I love you, Aunt Sancy. Really, I do.”

  Reaching across the table, Aunt Sancy gripped both Meredith’s hands and they sat, blinking and sniffing as the wild wind of their thoughts gusted through them.

  “I can just see you,” Meredith said finally, withdrawing one of her hands to wipe her eyes. “With your dark Goonhilly eyes and ears—snooping and spying.”

  Aunt Sancy grinned slightly, then nodded. “My beady, prying Goonhilly eyes?” she asked.

  “I’ve got them, too,” Meredith said fervently. “Goonhilly eyes and ears.”

  Another tiny smile came and went on Aunt Sancy’s lips. “Hon,” she said, “you’re all Goonhilly.”

  chapter 11

  Friday evening passed with Meredith stowed away in her room, reading a graphic novel and avoiding her aunt’s concerned hovering. Her parents’ wedding photograph, with its picture-perfect smiles, she did not glance at. Although relieved to have finally learned the basic facts concerning Ally and James Polk’s deaths, Meredith felt battered by their harsh truth—as if a harvesting scythe had swept through her mind, obliterating the daydreams she had so carefully built up. Those daydreams now appeared foolish ... Dumbness Incorporated, she thought bitterly ... but they had been part of her, an important part—central to the way she had loved her world and herself. And so their loss left her feeling scraped raw; in some inner place, she hurt every time she breathed. That night, sleep was a long time coming and, several hours later, she woke to a dawn that lay listless and gray along the horizon. Staring out her bedroom window, Meredith felt an answering echo within—a dull, colorless numbness that seemed to have crept everywhere through her while she slept. As far as she could tell, this thick, dead feeling didn’t change the way she looked or acted—at least her aunt showed few signs of noticing; as Meredith helped clean the apartment, then go grocery shopping, Aunt Sancy kept up her usual banter, sending out only the odd piercing glance, which quickly melted under her niece’s reassuring smile.

  After supper had been cleared away, Dean and Reb came over to make fudge, but even their company didn’t dispel the dense, invisible heaviness that had moved in on Meredith. Her face smiled, her mouth talked, her hands stirred bubbling fudge and carried the resulting masterpiece to the living room, but inside her head she was light years away, floating somewhere between the apartment ceiling and the Milky Way.

  Sunday, she woke to the same compressed gloom. Everywhere, it crowded in on her—an impenetrable cold that seemed to have taken over her bones. Sitting up in bed, she laid her forearms along the tops of her legs and stared at them, wondering where they had gained their recent weight, why it suddenly felt so impossible to move. Sluggishly, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and got to her feet. As she dressed, her gaze shifted around the room, landing everywhere but on her night table and its central framed photograph. For years, that picture had been the first thing she had looked at each morning—a message from the past, a promise of love that
had renewed itself daily in her mind. Sure, there had been her aunt, love in the flesh and always there for her, day in and day out. But how could anyone—even a tattooed, Harley-riding angel like Aunt Sancy—compete with picture-perfect smiles and frilly wedding dress, framed and set behind glass? It was the ideal fairy tale, the exact image to capture a small girl’s heart, and now, as Meredith finally gazed directly at her parents’ photograph, she found herself blinking back tears.

  Within seconds, the smiling picture morphed into a blur, leaving her with the mess inside her head. As Meredith stood forcing back tears, no words came to her—no recriminations such as “I hate you!” or “How could you do this to me?” Instead, what she experienced was a vast emptiness, like a lake in the rain—everything a gray gloom, half-formed thoughts hitting the watery surface, then losing themselves as if they had never been. Taking a quick breath, Meredith crossed her bedroom, took hold of the wedding photograph, and turned it face down on her night table. For several more breaths, she stood staring at it, half-expecting the photograph to resist, make some kind of protest. But nothing moved or cried out—not the photograph, not a single thought inside her head; all she knew was the deep, slow thrum of her heart.

  Abruptly, several shudders erupted through her, as if something was trying to evict itself from her body. Hugging herself, Meredith let whatever it was blow through her—ugliness there and gone. When the moment was over, she stood a while longer, still hugging herself to be certain, but nothing further surfaced; whatever had needed to leave her seemed to have done so. Cautiously, she let her arms sink to her sides and glanced around. Everything looked to be the usual—shapes and colors were as they had always been; shadows occupied their customary corners.