Fractured

by Catherine McKenzie

  One misstep could create chaos in both timelines.

  One misstep already had.

  Leah came up to me while we were standing in the rotunda room.

  “Isn’t it funny,” she said, “how we feel like we need to name these places after things that are familiar to us?”

  “I’d never thought of that before.”

  “Like we wouldn’t be able to understand it if we didn’t relate it to something from now.”

  “Like names are a frame story.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I hate frame stories.”

  “Why?”

  “I think it’s lazy. Tell your story. Give the audience some credit. Plunk them down in the middle of it and they’ll figure it out.”

  “You know The Murder Game is a frame story, right?”

  I grimaced. “I wrote the thing.”

  “And?”

  “And it was my first novel. I didn’t know how to begin.”

  It was true. I’d been struck by the idea for The Book, but when I sat down to try to make sense of it all, I couldn’t find the words. Then I remembered how we all were at Kathryn’s funeral. I saw it like I was on a crane, not outside myself exactly, but as if I could see inside the three of us as we stood there. I thought about how I’d run away from it all. Not immediately, but when Daniel asked me to leave with him and go to Tacoma, I’d jumped at the chance. And then I wondered what would happen if something called me back. If someone called me back. That was the frame I used, the window through which to look through and begin.

  “What about what you’re writing now?”

  “I’m doing my best,” I said, “to learn from my mistakes.”

  Long, Hot Days of Summer

  John

  Three months ago

  “Chris is being mean to me,” Becky said, hanging on to the door to my study.

  It was the middle of July. The kids were out of school. I was out of work, both literally and figuratively. My contracts had dried up like the lawn in our backyard. I would sit at my computer every day, anyway. Trying to keep approximate office hours. Applying for everything in sight. Except for the P&G posting of my former job.

  Other summers, taking care of the kids was always a complicated hassle of vacation days and summer camps and imposing on our neighbors’ generosity. But this year, Hanna had helpfully suggested, the kids were old enough to decide what they wanted to do for themselves. I was home. Neither of them seemed enthusiastic about organized group activities. It would all work out perfectly.

  How it had worked out, in fact, was that I felt like I was running a day camp. Becky and her girlfriends flooded through the house at all hours of the day. Turns out there were lots of teenage girls who would rather lie on yoga mats in the sun in our backyard than get herded from the pool to the tennis court. I was regularly making lunch for six to eight of them a day.

  A few days ago, I’d noticed a new list had appeared on our fridge. Someone—someone’s mother, I assumed—left a list of the suggested caloric intake for “growing girls,” and potential menu items such as quinoa salad and homemade veggie burgers. What they were getting was mostly hot dogs and hamburgers. Judging by the happy pitch of their chatter, they were satisfied.

  But Hanna and I had a fight about the cost of it all. The way I had to cater to the constant needs of kids I thought should be able to find their own bottles of water in the fridge. How it was one thing to be looking after our own kids—I’d almost said babysitting, which would have sent Hanna into the stratosphere—it was quite another to be offering that service for free to half the neighborhood.

  A fight. That’s what I called it. But really, it was us scraping at each other in the way that had become routine since the dinner party. It was tiring and upsetting. But neither of us seemed able to stop. Even though it set the whole family on edge. Even though we were violating our number one rule, agreed to years ago, to never fight in front of the kids.

  And now the kids were fighting.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Becky. “I thought Chris was out with Ashley?”

  “They broke up.”

  “They did?” I said. Again? This was too much.

  “Yeah,” she said, pulling the end of her ponytail into her mouth and biting it. She was wearing a one-piece swimsuit and a wide-brimmed hat. I knew she wanted to wear two pieces like her friends and ditch the hat in favor of the tennis visors the other girls were wearing. But we weren’t ready for her to be that grown up. And part of Becky seemed relieved when Hanna had given her a firm no.

  “When did that happen?”

  “They break up, like, every day.”

  “So what’s he doing?”

  “He’s flirting with Cassie.”

  Cassie was one of the gaggle of girls frolicking in our backyard. A giggle.

  “Okay. But why does that mean he’s being mean to you?”

  “Da-ad.”

  “What?”

  “She’s my friend. So inappropriate.”

  I tried not to laugh. Was I really supposed to tell my son to stop flirting with girls?

  I stood. My knees felt creaky. I’d been increasing my mileage all summer, ostensibly to run a half marathon in September. Pounding my body into the pavement. Shaping it. Hoping my mind would follow suit. So far, no such luck.

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s got her out in your car.”

  “What do you girls want for lunch today?”

  “Hot dogs?”

  “You got it.”

  We walked downstairs and separated in the hall. Instead of heading right outside, I went to my spot at the window. Becky was right. Chris was sitting in the driver’s seat of my car. Cassie was in the passenger seat. Chris seemed animated, his hands moving around as he spoke. Cassie looked shyly pleased, getting attention from an older guy.

  Ashley came huffing up the street, her arms pumping at her sides. Then she was yanking on the door handle of the passenger door.

  “Get the hell out of there!” Ashley shrieked at Cassie, loud enough so I could hear her clearly through the window.

  Chris got out of the car. His face flushed with anger and embarrassment.

  I wasn’t sure what to do.

  Would he want me to intervene? Or should I let him handle this by himself?

  The eternal struggle of parenthood.

  Chris spoke. He was harder to hear.

  “My life . . . friend . . . why do . . . stop . . .”

  What finally pulled me outside was the expression on Cassie’s face. She looked scared that tiny Ashley might harm her.

  I strode through the front door, my father-knows-best voice already coming on.

  But Julie got there before me, marching across the street from her house.

  “Leave her alone,” she said, holding on to Ashley’s arms as she struggled against her.

  “Don’t touch me, you crazy bitch.”

  Julie’s hands dropped, and Ashley stepped away from her.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked, trying to be calm.

  I hadn’t spoken to Julie since the dinner party.

  “Don’t, Dad,” Chris said.

  “Don’t what?”

  “You don’t need to be here. I got this.”

  Cassie used the distraction to leave the car. She sprinted to my side.

  “Mr. Dunbar! I didn’t do anything. Don’t tell my mom.”

  “It’s okay, Cassie. I’m sure this was all some misunderstanding. Right, Chris? Right, Ashley?”

  Chris nodded, but he still clearly wanted me to leave.

  Ashley stood glaring alternately at Julie and Cassie. Julie seemed frozen.

  “Cassie,” I said, “why don’t you go out back with the other girls? Lunch will be ready soon.”

  “Hot dogs?” she said hopefully, on the edge of sniffling.

  “You bet.”

  She turned and ran into the house.

  “Chris, why don’t you and Ashley go and talk
this out?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  He slammed the car door and slouched over to Ashley. She raised her chin, pride taking over. Chris said something I couldn’t hear, and they turned and walked down the street.

  Which left me and Julie.

  “Sorry for interfering,” she said. She was wearing a pair of short pajama bottoms and a ratty T-shirt, no bra in sight. I guess she’d been writing.

  “You were trying to help. You did help.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I think the evidence is pretty substantial, don’t you? Everything I touch turns to shit.”

  “You sound bitter.”

  “Do you blame me? This will probably become another allegation in the lawsuit.”

  She looked at her shoes. The same pair of Asics I met her in, worn down now, dusty.

  “I don’t want that,” I said.

  “Everybody else does.”

  “I guess that’s right,” I said. “Why do you think that is?”

  “I have a theory.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “It struck me when we were in Mammoth Caves. You been there?”

  “Sure. I love that place.”

  It was, in fact, one of my favorite places on earth. All that geological history made me feel like the hopeful eight-year-old boy I’d been the first time I visited it.

  “We were in one of the smaller sections, I can’t remember the name, and I had this thought: Someone’s about to lose it. And then someone did. This woman had this terrible attack of claustrophobia, and they had to hustle her out of there through some emergency exit.”

  “What does that have to do with what’s going on here?”

  “It was the thought; don’t you see?”

  “I don’t. I honestly don’t.”

  “I thought it, and then it happened. That happens sometimes.”

  “That sounds . . .”

  “Totally crazy. I know, but it’s the only explanation I have. I expect bad things to happen, now. And then they do.”

  “Lots of people expect bad things to happen. That doesn’t mean they make them happen.”

  “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “No, it’s fine, I—”

  “I should go before the gestapo log us in as talking to each another.”

  She bounced on her heels, like she was getting ready to start a race.

  “Wait, Julie . . .”

  “What?”

  “I . . . I’m sorry things are so hard for you.”

  She lifted her shoulders. “I’m kind of getting used to it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You said,” she replied, and turned and ran away.

  I made lunch for the girls, then waited on the front steps for Chris to come back. I was reading a programming manual. It was dead boring and the sun was strong. I drifted into a half-awake state. Birds and cicadas and flies mingled to create a steady thrum. There was the occasional giggle coming from the backyard as the girls turned over every quarter of an hour. I couldn’t say how long I sat there. But I was startled by the unwelcome hiss of a garden hose, followed by a blast of lukewarm water in the face.

  “What the hell?”

  Chris stood there holding a green garden hose in his hand, a childlike grin on his face.

  “Chris!”

  “Sorry, Dad. I couldn’t resist. You were asleep.”

  “I was?”

  “Totally.”

  “Why don’t you put that down.”

  “What? This?”

  He lifted the nozzle to his waist like he was going to quick-draw on me.

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Wouldn’t I?”

  “Not if you know what’s good for you.”

  His finger itched on the trigger. I found myself bouncing on my heels like Julie had earlier.

  Ready for flight.

  “I’m a teenager. Why would I know what’s good for me?”

  “Listen to your father, then.”

  He seemed to be considering it. Which gave me enough time to lean forward and sprint toward him.

  A blast of water hit me when I was halfway there, but I kept going.

  I tried to grab the hose, but I couldn’t get a good grip. We fell to the ground, the hose spraying upward, showering us both.

  “You’re getting me all wet!” Chris cried.

  “You must be joking.”

  I stood up and walked to the spigot, turning it off.

  I turned back to Chris. “What was that all about?”

  He shook himself like a dog. “I told you. I couldn’t resist.”

  “No, earlier. With Ashley?”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Yeah, that. What’s going on?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I’m sure. But I think I’m going to have to insist.”

  I went back to the front steps and sat down. I patted the concrete next to me. Chris sat reluctantly.

  “Have you guys broken up again?”

  “Maybe?”

  “It seems like that’s a thing you would know.”

  He gave me a look that made me feel very old. As did how long his legs were, splayed out next to mine. His shoes looked like they could fit me.

  “Well, then, why were you flirting with Cassie?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Chris, come on. You need to be more careful. People’s hearts are fragile.”

  He muttered something. You should talk, maybe.

  “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. Is that all?”

  “I guess. I . . . I want you to be happy.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Maybe we could go for another driving lesson today? You want to make sure to pass that test.”

  Chris was still getting the accelerator and the brake confused every once in a while. Plus, he needed to work on his parallel parking.

  “Sure. Say, are there any hot dogs left?”

  That night I told Hanna an edited version of the incident between Ashley and Chris. I reduced the level of conflict. Julie was removed entirely. Hanna said she’d talk to him. This thing with Ashley had gone on long enough. It wasn’t good for either of them. Trying not to fight, I bit back the impulse to say that giving him rules would produce the opposite result. She knew that. And maybe he would see sense if it came from her. He didn’t seem to want to listen to anything I had to say lately.

  Afterward, in bed, I couldn’t seem to shake what Julie had said. How she felt that if she thought something, it came true. What she’d said wasn’t rational. I placed it in the pile of things that didn’t seem to add up. Chief among them being that she’d generated suspicion even in Daniel. After tossing and turning for an hour, I got up and went into my office. I did a search and found an e-mail address.

  And then I wrote to Heather Stanhope.

  Today

  John

  4:00 p.m.

  I get called in to the grand jury room at 4:02 p.m.

  I’ve been watching the clock on the wall for the last thirty minutes. Each and every second as it ticks around the dial. I don’t know who’s been in there testifying. If they did call Heather, they brought her in the back way.

  I stand on uneven legs when my name is called. Hanna says something I don’t hear. I walk through the same doors everyone has. A wood-paneled room. Nine men and women sitting on black desk chairs. The wooden witness box. The prosecutor’s podium. It’s all so much smaller than I imagined. Closer. To the extent that I look at them, the jury seems tired. I wonder what they think of me.

  After that, it’s mostly a blur. Everything except the prosecutor’s voice. Alicia told me to listen to his questions carefully. So that’s what I’m doing. But I’m not supposed to answer to him. I need to tell my answers to the jury. To speak to them because, ultimately, these are the people I need to convince.

  He wants me to tell them about
that morning.

  I’ve done this before. Told the police, Detective Grey, and his sidekick, more than once. I’ve read over my statement enough times to memorize it, but now I have to put it away. I have to forget that this is a repeat and tell it like it’s an original broadcast.

  Or it will sound rehearsed.

  It will sound like a tale I’m telling.

  That day, two months ago, started with Hanna and me fighting.

  It had been building for a while. Her insistence on bringing the lawsuit. Her suspicions about why I caved. The fact that I wasn’t making a success of my new business. The longer hours she felt she needed to work in return. All that piled on top of the usual mess of life like so much fuel.

  We were supposed to go to court that day, too. But our fight wasn’t about that.

  It started when Hanna found me at the window at my usual hour. I’d put on my running clothes, thinking I’d go out, just for a short one.

  “Mugging for the cameras?” Hanna asked. Her voice had a biting tone I’d heard too often.

  I let the curtain fall from my hand.

  “Checking the weather.” I tried to keep my voice bland. “Looks like it’ll be a nice day. Less hot, hopefully.”

  August had been one sweltering day after another, leeching all the rain that had fallen in the spring until the leaves were yellowed, and the grass crunched beneath our feet.

  I faced Hanna. She was wearing a tank top and soft cotton shorts, what she’d slept in the night before. Our air-conditioning was on the fritz. We’d both slept badly, lying on our backs, quietly sweating. Not a breeze stirring. Once, we would’ve turned to each other. Distracted ourselves with sex. Or talked about something funny. Some silly story to get us laughing. Instead, we watched the shadows on the wall until one of us fell asleep, then the other.

  “Chris is missing,” she said that morning.

  “What?”

  “He’s not in his bed. He’s not answering his phone.”

  “Are you sure he’s not out with his paper route?”

  “I don’t think so,” Hanna said. “I don’t think he slept here.”

  I pulled the curtain back again. “Shit. Your car’s missing.”