For a moment, her father didn’t respond. Then, he said, “I’m sure you’re right.”
“And after that, you changed,” said Avery. “Right? That moment in the restaurant. You said it was rock bottom. So after that you changed.”
It came out sounding more plaintive, more pleading than Avery had wanted it to. She saw her mother notice and saw her shift—instantly—into high alert.
“Yes,” said her father, lifting his head. “Yes. I’ve been working with a therapist for months now, and it’s helped me beyond what I could have imagined. What happened in that restaurant and the stupid move to try to get Dale not to tell anyone, and then getting fired, letting you and your mother down the way I did—”
“And hurting Cressida,” said Avery’s mother, interrupting. “Don’t forget that.”
“Yes, that, too. All of it, as reprehensible as it was, was good for me, in the end. It was a wakeup call that came just in time.”
Avery felt the muscles in her chest relax. Despite her father having just admitted to being creepy, even possibly predatory, Avery was filled with relief.
“I knew it,” said Avery. “I knew that part of her story couldn’t be true.”
“What do you mean, honey?” said her mother. “What part?”
“I knew he wouldn’t do it. Not after you and I knew, Mom. After we were, like, part of it. I knew he wouldn’t do that to us.”
“Do what? What did she say?” said her mother, the pitch of her voice rising just a notch.
“She told me that after everyone found out and Dad got fired and she quit, even after it was all supposed to be over, Dad kept calling her, like, every single day for a week and then one more time after that. She said he left messages saying he loved her and saying he felt like killing himself. She said she had to block his number.”
“Oh my God,” said her mother. “Harris?”
And they both looked at Avery’s dad, whose face had gone from scarlet to ashen.
“Dad?” said Avery, her heartbeat quickening. “She made that up, right?”
“I think she must have—” her father began and stopped. “I don’t know why she—”
“Harris,” said her mother, sharply. “You can’t lie to her. You cannot do that.”
To Avery’s horror, her father’s face crumpled, and his breathing got shallow, and he began to cry.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “God help me, I am so sorry. I was out of my mind over that woman. But I’m different now. It really is over. I look back and it’s like a different person did it, made those calls, all of it.”
“Jesus Christ, Harris,” said her mother.
Avery began to shake, not out of sadness. It was as if all the fury she’d tamped down, the fury of months, had jumped the fire wall and set her ablaze and roared in her ears.
“Woman?” she yelled. “Are you kidding me? She’s not a woman. I saw her! She puts her hair in a messy bun and bites her nails. She’s a girl. Like me, Dad!”
She got up out of her chair.
“You are disgusting, do you know that?” she hissed. “You called her? After Mom and I already knew?”
“I’m sorry,” said her father. “Please, sweetheart.”
“You lied. You sat here and lied to me, and I hate you,” shouted Avery. “I never want to see you again. Do you hear me?”
“Yes,” said her father, drearily. “I hear you.”
“Get out!” she yelled. “Please just get out of here! Leave!”
Avery flung out her arm and pointed toward the door, and her father got up from the table, wiped his face with both hands, and left.
Chapter Eighteen
Ginny
The morning after the day Harris admitted to wrongdoing beyond what his daughter, strong as she was, could bear, Avery appeared in my room at a little past seven, her eyes full of exhaustion and wonder, and said, “The birds are singing.”
I got out of bed, and we walked together into her bedroom, tugged open her heavy, room-darkening blinds (once upon a time, I’d had high hopes that those blinds would magically allow Avery to sleep), and looked out into the backyard. The grass, the garage roof, the cable wire, the Adirondack chairs were bedecked with singing robins. Avery opened the window, and their flurry of whistles spilled over us like glitter.
Spring doesn’t arrive overnight, not literally, but, in my experience, it seems to. There is a moment every year when spring, however long it’s been stealing in, suddenly breaks like the cleanest, brightest wave, drenching the world in newness. That this moment should come on this particular morning felt to me like a personal gift to my girl, a benediction, and I closed my eyes and sent a message of gratitude sailing out into the fresh, song-spangled air.
We sat there for a long time, not speaking. I knew sometime soon we would need to talk about the blackmail rumors and about all the dreadfulness I knew my own mother must have unleashed upon the world, but neither Harris nor Adela had any place in this morning. Finally, I said, “What if we call Kirsten and see if she wants to go for a walk. We could bring lunch.”
Avery said, “Would it be disrespectful to eat at the Quaker burial ground?”
I smiled. “A while back, I spent quite a bit of time with those dearly departed Quakers. I think they’d be happy to see us.”
While Avery showered, I called Kirsten and filled her in on the events of the night before. I’d expected her to erupt into a profanity-laced tirade against Harris, but Kirsten had always had a lovely way of flaring out into empathy when you least expected it.
She groaned and said, “Oh, Harris, you have made our job of salvaging you in the eyes of your daughter pretty damn hard.”
“If anyone can do it, we can,” I said.
“Of course we can. We can do anything, especially for Avery.”
“Even have a picnic with dead people?”
“You know I have a strict no-eating-on-the-ground policy.”
“I do. And I also know that every one of your policies has an Avery exception clause.”
“True. Wine would definitely help. How long till Avery can drink wine with us?”
“Five years.”
“Fine. I’ll bring cake.”
We took our time and the scenic route, a path stitching alongside the river, through trees—some bare, some misted over with pale green—past the gorgeous, castle-like ruins of grist and powder mills and under the soaring stone arches of bridges. At Avery’s request, Kirsten and I told stories about high school in our jumbled manner, talking over each other, interrupting, correcting, finishing each other’s sentences, rambling off on tangents, bouncing from one story to the next. Avery was quieter than usual, but when she laughed at our stories, it was like coins falling from the sky.
By the time we got to the Quaker Meeting House downtown, it was nearly one o’clock, the Meeting House and the yard striped with sun and empty of Sunday worshippers. In a spot between the dotted lines of gravestones we spread our blanket, sat down, and like three sunflowers, lifted our faces toward the sun.
Later, when we’d finished the sandwiches and had started on the cake, Avery said, “This was your place, yours and Uncle Trevor’s.”
“It was. Holy ground. For the Quakers and for us.”
“Do you think you’ll be friends again, now?” asked Avery.
“I think so. I hope so. It hurts his feelings that I could have believed he’d set the fire,” I said.
“It hurt your feelings to believe it,” said Kirsten.
“A lot,” I agreed.
“Plus, he left and never came back. He could’ve tried harder to stay close to you,” said Avery.
“We could’ve both conducted ourselves differently,” I said. “But we’ve wasted twenty years. We probably shouldn’t waste more time on regret or might-have-beens.”
“I wish Grandmother had known that Trevor didn’t really do it. She died thinking he did,” said Avery. “That’s so sad.”
“It is. I’m not sure it would’ve
made much difference in their relationship, though. They may have been beyond help or forgiveness,” said Kirsten.
“They were a bad match for sure,” I said. “But then Adela was a pretty bad match with everyone, with human beings in general. My mother just never got the hang of loving people. I don’t know why.”
“Remember how the other night Evan said something about how all of you have been carrying around secrets and stories?” said Avery. “Maybe Grandmother was, too. Maybe there’s a story that explains why she was the way she was.”
“Maybe,” I said. “If there is, I don’t think it’ll ever see the light of day.”
I looked at Avery, sitting eating her cake in the sun, and I was aware that our conversation had moved into dangerous territory: parents and secrets and forgiveness. I wondered where she stood now on truth-seeking, on bringing stories into the light.
Maybe because Kirsten’s thoughts were moving along the same lines, she changed the subject. “I wonder if we’ll ever find out who really set the fire.”
“The girl in white pants might have done it,” said Avery. “Whoever she is.”
Kirsten grimaced. “White pants in November. Yeesh.”
“Most people shouldn’t wear white pants ever,” I said. “Most people look like the ice cream man in them.”
“Or like an Elvis impersonator,” said Kirsten, laughing.
“Or like they’re in the navy,” said Avery. “I think navy guys wear those, right? I can kind of picture them marching around in white pants.”
A thought struck me hard, and I put down my cake plate.
“They do,” said Kirsten. “Back in college, I dated a guy who went to the Naval Academy. An ensign, they call them. Eric Rogerson. He was swoony in those white pants. Remember Eric, Ginny?”
Inside my head, pieces were falling into place. Pieces I never wanted to find falling into places I never wanted them to go.
“Marching around in white pants,” I said to Kirsten. “Oh no.”
“What’s wrong?” she said. And then her blue eyes widened.
“Oh my God,” she said.
When CJ opened the door to his apartment to find Kirsten and me standing there, he was smiling his guileless fourth-grader smile.
“Hey, guys!” he said. “Welcome to my humble abode. Come on in.”
CJ’s apartment was in a building from the early twentieth century that had once housed an automobile showroom and then became the headquarters of a Philadelphia newspaper. It was lovely, seven stories of windows and terra-cotta, but something about CJ’s apartment made me sad. A big oak table serving as a desk took up half his living room, and bookshelves stood against every wall. On the mantelpiece over the gas fireplace there were framed photos of CJ in various famous places (the Grand Canyon, Paris, the steps of the New York Public Library) and one of CJ, Gray, and Kirsten sitting on a park bench in Rittenhouse Square. None of these elements was sad in and of itself, and it was a pretty enough apartment, but somehow, the place seemed overhung with loneliness.
Someone needs to give CJ a dog, I thought.
“I’m glad you guys called. Sundays can be pretty slow around here. What can I get you?” said CJ, waving his hands excitedly. “Wine? Cheese and crackers? I guess Gray is on his way?”
“CJ,” said Kirsten. She sounded like what she was: near tears.
The smile faded from his face.
“What’s up?” he said.
“Can we sit down?” I said.
“Uh, sure.”
CJ gathered up the sections of the Sunday New York Times that were scattered across his couch cushions and dropped them onto the coffee table. Kirsten and I sat, and CJ sat across from us, his fingers drumming on his knees, his eyes darting nervously between Kirsten’s face and mine. I wanted to hug him. CJ had always been so easy to love.
“I hate to have to ask this, CJ. But on the night of the fire, were you the person Daniel saw running out of the building in white pants?” I said.
CJ’s finger-thrumming accelerated until his hands were a blur.
“He said it was a girl,” said CJ.
“But he never saw the person’s face. I think,” I said, gently, “I think he assumed it was a girl because the person was small and slight, but mostly because they were wearing white pants, and boys don’t usually do that. Unless they’re in marching band.”
“They stole your jeans,” said Kirsten, in a choked voice. “They were always doing that.”
“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Hold on there. You think I set the fire?” said CJ. His voice cracked at the word fire.
“We don’t want to believe that,” said Kirsten. “But we’re afraid that you might have.”
“That’s ridiculous. You said yourselves that it was probably someone who hated school, and I loved school. You guys know that.”
“The other night, you were the one who said it was someone who hated school, who was failing or who got suspended a lot. I just agreed with you,” said Kirsten.
CJ tossed off a sharp laugh. “Well, yeah. You agreed because that’s the only explanation that makes sense.”
“You told the police about Daniel drinking near the groundskeeper’s shed,” said Kirsten.
“Hell, yes, I did! He was there! Other people saw him.”
“Yes,” I said. “But you were also the one—the only one—who said you’d seen someone who fit Daniel’s description running toward the back entrance of the school. And who’d overheard him making threats against the school earlier that night. But he never did either of those things.”
“You’re taking his word over mine?”
“You were late coming out of the building after halftime. We were well into the third quarter, and all the other marching band members had been out for a while,” said Kirsten. “I remember seeing some of them.”
“I had to stow my sax,” said CJ.
“You always stowed your sax after games, and it never took you that long,” said Kirsten.
CJ ran his hands through his hair.
“I can’t believe this,” he said.
“CJ,” I said. “Back then, you were afraid of everything. You’d say it yourself that you were a physical coward, remember?”
“I have a strong sense of self-preservation,” said CJ. “So what?”
“You ran into a burning building,” I said, softly. “I know you loved your sax, but that was so dangerous. Back then, I was reckless, always plunging in without thinking first, but even I wouldn’t have run into a burning building. It never made sense to me that you did.”
CJ stopped drumming his fingers. His hands stopped moving entirely, along with the rest of him. And I knew; I knew he’d done it. Perpetual motion CJ never sat still. Not a muscle in his face moved as he stared down at his thin white hands resting on his khaki-covered knees. Kirsten let out a sob.
“You did find out about the fire wall when you were researching your project, didn’t you?” I said. “You’d never overlook a detail like that. That’s why you could so calmly run back into the school to get your sax. At that point, we weren’t even sure where the fire was. We saw the smoke in the sky but not the burning. But you knew exactly where it was and knew that it would never spread to the other end of the school. What you couldn’t have known was that the door to the furnace room would get stuck.”
“Why would I do that?” said CJ in a thin voice. “If I’d set the fire, why didn’t I just bring my sax out with me afterward?”
“I don’t know. Maybe in your rush you forgot,” I said. “Or you might not have had time.”
“Can you look at me, Seege?” said Kirsten, tears on her face. “Please look at me.”
Slowly, CJ raised his head, and his eyes met Kirsten’s.
“You would never have hurt anyone on purpose,” said Kirsten. “We know that. We love you.”
CJ’s chin began to tremble.
With enormous gentleness Kirsten said, “It’s time to tell, honey. If you set that fire, it’s time to
tell.”
Tears filled CJ’s blue eyes, and very, very slowly, he nodded.
Kirsten covered her mouth with her hands.
“Oh, CJ,” I said. “Why?”
CJ swallowed hard. “Because of Gray.”
This answer was so unexpected that for a few seconds, I hardly registered his words. And then, all at once, I thought I understood.
“Because you were mad at the football team? For the way they treated him? Were you trying to disrupt the game?” I said.
CJ shook his head.
“I knew about the fire wall. And I also knew that the door to the furnace room would stick. I knew it would stick because I made it stick,” said CJ.
Kirsten and I looked at each other in confusion.
CJ wiped his eyes.
“After Gray told people he was gay, the entire school turned on him. Everyone but us. Since ninth grade, he’d been everyone’s hero: smart, star quarterback, nice, pretty girlfriend. They’d feel lucky if he even talked to them. And then, boom, they knocked him off the pedestal and loved doing it. Even the ones who weren’t openly mean treated him differently. They stopped looking up to him, would whisper behind his back. And then his coach and his stupid fucking teammates ran him off the team. It was so unfair.”
“It was,” I said. “It was despicable.”
CJ lifted his chin. “So I decided to make him a hero again. I planned it all out. And at the beginning of that week, I started bringing small containers of gasoline to school and hiding them in the basement, the part the maintenance staff never went in. I went to the public library and did research on fire. I didn’t want a huge conflagration, just a fire big enough so that people would take notice and be scared. So that the guys who put it out would be heroes.”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh.”
“I knew Gray would be working the night of the game. And I knew that, when I ran away and said I’d be right back and then didn’t come back, I knew you two would figure out where I was. And I knew that when Gray found out, he would try to save me. I couldn’t be absolutely positive that Gray would be the one to run into the school to find me, but I knew he’d want to. He was always brave. And he could be very persuasive when he wanted something. But at the very least, he’d tell them where to find me, and if I had to, I was ready to play that up afterward, how I could’ve died if it weren’t for Gray. He’d be a hero again; I’d make sure of it. And the people who’d treated him like shit would feel horrible about it.”
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