“She probably OD’d or something,” said Adam. “And they came up with this whole murder thing.”
“She was strangled to death, you asshole,” says Meredith.
Adam tells her she’s taking it too personally. It’s not like she knew the girl, he says. The meeting breaks up within moments of this. I announce that we can reconvene this weekend while I’m on duty, if they’re interested, or still speaking to one another. Meredith asks if at some point the group can read something I’ve written. My files, I tell her, are in disarray, but perhaps when I’m more organized. Following Meredith, Matt and Adam leave together. So do Kay and Marilyn. A few of the remaining boys wander off by themselves and a few remain behind, jotting down odds and ends in their journals or loose scraps of paper. Dan Hart and I exit the dining hall together.
“We got a little off course there,” I said.
“Just a little.”
“Nice song. Let me know when it’s finished.”
I start to walk away when Dan says something that gets my attention:
“That night wasn’t the first time I saw a dead body.”
Turning to face him, I ask him to repeat himself, even though I’ve heard him clearly.
“I know I’m supposed to be traumatized, but I’m not. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a shitty thing to see, but I’ve seen worse.”
Nodding my head slowly, I take a few steps in his directions. When we’re standing within arm’s reach, he continues. It was his sister, he tells me. It’ll be two years this fall. She cut her own throat with a survival knife she had taken from Dan’s bureau drawer. His parents were in Baltimore visiting relatives. It was Dan who found her.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Same here. It’s bizarre that all of us in this place are encouraged to talk about what we’ve been through - to our therapists, to our dorm staff, to Rollie - but most of what we’ve been through has made speech pretty fucking obsolete.”
“Then I guess it’s good we’ve got our little writers group.”
Dan nods before he turns and walks away.
Adam and Matt bring coffee and donuts to our next session. It’s a chilly and rainy Sunday. We meet in the dining hall a few hours before dinner. The weekend has been a nasty one. Thunderstorms and gray, bleak skies. The same nine from our first session are present. This surprises me. I figure fickleness runs in their bloodstreams. But here they are. And looking for what? Inspiration? Candor? Enlightenment?
Warmed by the steaming coffee, they soon get underway. Jess Singer begins. He opens by sharing the plotline of his book, which intrigues the other members. Then he explains where he wants his story to go and some ideas he has for his main character. But he’s overwhelmed, he admits. It’s not writer’s block, he says, but rather the acute feeling of wanting to further his commitment to his project, yet not knowing how to do so.
“It’s like getting out of bed,” Dorian says. “You know you have to. You know you’ll be in the eye of a shitstorm if you don’t, but it’s practically impossible sometimes.”
“Like today,” said Kay. “Today was one of those days for me.”
Meredith, sipping her coffee, offers advice to Jess. She urges him to plod through it no matter what.
“You’ve already begun,” she said, “so that’s out of the way. And that’s the most brutal part.”
Marilyn commends Jess for undertaking an endeavor such as a novel. Matt adds that he lacks the discipline for anything of the sort. Adam reminds Matt about their screenplay in progress. Then he urges him to share his newest poem. Matt, adjusting his ball cap, thinks about this for a moment. Then he stands up and produces a thin stack of fresh photocopies from inside his notebook. He hands them out, but doesn’t read aloud:
I’m begging you to please be hungry.
And I don’t beg easily these days,
but you need your nourishment.
I know this.
You can trust me.
It was me who told you that time
about the heavy makeup that made your
eyes look like wild green toddler toys.
So let’s wander down through the mazes of ruinous heartache,
down to where the moonrise trembles in its vibrant melodies.
And there, I will not beg again.
I will ask.
I will ask you to remember that this is not a poem:
It’s a brick through your window.
And it’s not a love letter:
It’s a single crooked footprint
on a lonesome, rain-drenched road.
Dan Hart is the first to comment. He states - more to himself than to Matt - that the piece is vivid and has a certain strength to it. A few of the others agree. Specific lines are mentioned - the ones about the makeup and mazes of ruinous heartache - and guesses are made as to their inspiration. Kay and Marilyn lead this charge, asking sheepishly if the words are for Lindsay Lowe. Adam, wiping his hand clean of donut powder, claps his friend on the back and says of course they are.
Once the girls exhaust every synonym for romantic and thoughtful, leaving Matt red, embarrassed, and mindlessly pulling at the brim of his hat, talk turns to Lindsay Lowe.
“When’s she coming back?” Dorian asks.
Heads turn to Matt. He shrugs. He hasn’t spoken to her, he says. Meredith suggests giving the poem to her as a welcome-back gesture when she does return. Matt, seeming to consider this idea for the first time, his eyes suddenly brighter, says maybe. Then, as though cued to damage a hopeful moment with crass insensitivity, Booth ponders aloud whether Lindsay has been seeing Dimitri Ames while she’s been home. The others don’t pounce on him for this. They quietly groan and roll their eyes. Adam, probably sensing that the silence is allowing his friend to torture himself with wild imaginings, turns to Booth.
“You must get used a lot by the ladies,” he says.
“Why?” asks Booth, confusion swatting at him like a featherweight’s jab.
“Because you’re an enormous douchebag.”
As fast as the insult is delivered, all attention swerves away from the boys and towards the main dining hall entrance, which rattles as it’s swung open. Austin Roarick, sporting a haughty grin, makes his way over to us. He’s wiping small beads of rain off his face. Putting his hand to his ear, he asks if he’s correct in thinking he heard something about douche as he entered. Sounds like a real think tank, he says, still smiling with a smugness that seems practiced. Then he offers me his hand and says it’s good to see me. This is delivered with such deliberate authority that it seems to jar even him, thus unraveling his pretentiousness, leaving him with a silly little boy looking smile. Straightening from my slouch, I accept his handshake. The kids are eyeing him acutely.
“I was told you were in here, but no one warned me you’d be discussing feminine hygiene.”
It’s unclear whether or not he was going for a laugh with this - he made the remark with such a rushed zeal - but he doesn’t get one. The kids almost immediately turn back to their discussion on Matt’s poem. Austin, with his large, clumsy hands, swipes a cinnamon powdered donut from the table and moves in closer to me.
“I need boxes,” he says with exaggerated authority as though the kids might cease their discussion and suddenly scurry to meet this need.
Soon he will be moving to a new place downtown, he tells me. Briarwood Condominiums. I’m aware of them, I tell him. Construction began on the modest, hazelnut-colored complex during my first or second year of college.
“It’s just temporary,” he says to no one in particular. “But it sure beats the hell out of your
arrangement, doesn’t it?”
“I guess it does.”
“The truth is I’m thrilled as hell about it. It’s worth my rent going up just so I won’t have to write that check out to J.R. anymore.”
The condos, neatly tucked behind the town’s Stop & Shop, is one of the few pieces of prime real estate not owned by Austin’s father.
“Working on a Sunday,” he said, studying the donut in his hand like it’s some complicated fossil. “So devoted, Mr. Loveland.”
The kids are back to discussing Lindsay Lowe. I hear Matt admit to having written some of his finest poems about her. Lowering my voice a bit, I tell Austin that I’m obligated to work every other weekend. It’s part of the role of a HAS employee, I tell him. I have no choice but to work. This last comment halts his first bite of the donut. He now seems inspired.
“That’s what we get when we work for daddy, isn’t it?” he says, a flash of ignominious defeat suddenly appearing in his face
It’s clear he’s waiting for me to appreciate this insight of his, this connection we share, which he’s already mentioned at our first meeting a week ago.
“I suppose it is.”
“Though I’d say our job descriptions are slightly different,” he says, bringing the donut to his mouth for the second time.
“Right again.”
Once more he seems inspired. Tossing the donut back into the box, Austin takes my arm by its bicep and pulls me towards him, away from the circle of students.
“How do you do it?” he asks, his words spoken through bared teeth. “How do you get into a pool with crazy and expect to come out intact?”
It’s a difficult gig, I tell him, but I’m managing.
“Because I’ll tell you what I think: I think Rollie is putting you at risk. I do. He’s chucked you in the deep end, hasn’t he? He’s chucked you in the deep end with no real regard for the danger it might bring to you. And there is danger. Just look around, for Christ’s sake. This shit is dangerous.”
I turn back towards the kids. A few of the boys are writing. Kay and Marilyn are flirting with Dan Hart while Meredith offers Matt some critiques on his poem. They pay me and Austin no mind. Studying him, I consider whether it’s even possible for him to actually have any prominent points about my life or my relationship with my father.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he continues, “J.R.’s been putting me in danger’s way ever since I can remember. That’s how I’ve always looked at it - as being put in danger. When you don’t provide someone with what they need to thrive - with what they deserve, really - you’re creating a situation where tension and conflict reign. Am I right?”
I know he isn’t really interested in my answer. So I don’t offer one. I just listen to his continued rant. He goes on about his father.
“The man is an egomaniac,” he tells me, clapping his hands together in front of his chest like he’s about to karate chop a stack of boards. “Not to mention a workaholic and a bully. My father’s business practices are becoming obsolete; he’s in over his head and refuses any type of partnership.”
Then he starts in on the Old Man, whom he calls naïve.
“Rollie’s no businessman,” he says, “let’s be honest. You know that. Sure, he can spit-shine these kids to make them look presentable to the community for an hour, but it’s a thin veneer, isn’t it? He’s no more a businessman than you are a teacher.”
Before I can defend these accusations - the truth is that I would need time to do so - he’s pulling me towards him, farther still from the kids, and firing out questions about Rollie’s desired acquisition of the Hundred Acre School. Do I know anything about his financial situation? Are there any silent partners? How far into the process is he? Do I personally think he’ll pull off owning the school?
“Wouldn’t your father be a better source for this information?” I ask. “He must know.”
He tells me that on the subject of the Hundred Acre School, his father is standoffish. Austin’s voice, low and measured, betrays a hunger for this information. So I throw some empathy his way, revealing that I’m just as ignorant of the affair as he appears to be. Which is the truth.
Probably sensing that in the last several minutes he’s just laid one hell of a burden on me, he sucks in his gut and says he’ll collect his boxes now and let me get back to the kids. Noticing Adam and Matt, who’ve moved towards the periphery of our conversation, Austin asks them to give him a hand. After a dubious pause, they follow him into the kitchen. In a few moments, they emerge, each of them piled high with cardboard boxes, which they help load into Austin’s car, parked just outside the dining hall. By the time the boys reenter, they’re damp and breathless. Austin follows them inside and says how he almost forgot their gratuity. Then he hands them each a one dollar bill.
“I might need help moving a few things, boys,” he says, looking more at me than at them. “So, when I’m ready, if you want to make a couple of bucks, and if you can get…permission, or leave, or whatever.”
Adam says they might be willing to help, but they would have to first negotiate price.
“Businessmen,” said Austin, again looking at me.
Losing what appears to be a desire to leave on a courteous note, he leans into me and says one last thing about my father:
“There’s a faction in town, and I’m not saying who they are or how many there are, but this faction wants nothing more than to see Rollie fail.”
“Then it’ll be interesting to see who ends up being disappointed.”
Austin heaves a sigh, but he says nothing. We stare at one another for a few seconds.
“I’ll be in touch, boys,” he calls over to Matt and Adam.
By the time he’s out the door, I find myself mumbling with the contempt of a shopkeeper who’s just staved off a thief. Yet I’m conflicted. I want to have at least a little compassion for Austin. It’s obvious he hates the Hundred Acre School. His reasons, though, are far different from my own. What we share - likely all we share - is looking to our fathers as the cause of this hatred. Austin is no doubt a less than wonderful human being, but this might be due to the permanent second-class citizen status his father has inflicted upon him. As for my own relationship with this place, I’m convinced it’s simpler: It stole my one surviving parent from me.
Years ago, back when we were kids, Austin could have easily been a student at the HAS. With his poor social interactions and “repeat offender” predilections, he would’ve fit right alongside these headcases. I’m on the cusp of venting this to the others as a way of explaining his crassness, but I stop myself. I don’t want to offend them with the comparison. Besides, I have no doubt that these kids, in every possible way, are several cuts above Austin Roarick.
. . .
At dinner that night, my father pulls me into the kitchen to thank me for not revealing anything to Austin. Mickey, paying us no mind, is sharpening a cleaver on a piece of whetstone while watching a baseball game on a tiny flat-screen mounted on a far wall.
“What could I possibly reveal? I know nothing.”
“He’s a nasty little prick. Am I right, Mick?” the Old Man hollers over to the chef.
“You’re right, boss man,” Mickey says, clearly ignorant of what we’re discussing.
“Always poking around, always asking questions about this place,” says the Old Man.
Austin’s relationship with his father, Rollie tells me, has been impaired for a long time. He’s resentful that J.R. won’t pay his debts as well as make him an equal business partner.
“J.R.’s confided in me a little over the years,” he tells me, “which is what leads me to think that we need to beware of this character.”
/>
Mickey curses at the TV before dropping the slab of whetstone on the prep table. I glance up at the game. Mickey catches me and says he’s made a hefty bet with his brother-in-law.
“Beware of Austin?” I ask, turning back to the Old Man.
“Absolutely. He’s dangerous.”
I can’t help but laugh at this. Abrasive, maybe. Socially inept, perhaps. Even pathetic, in a way. But dangerous?
“How so?”
“Grayson, don’t you know that anyone who has nothing going for him but desire is dangerous?”
I shrug over his comment. Then, turning away, I comment softly to myself, but loud enough for him to hear:
“Funny you should use that word.”
“What word?”
“Dangerous.”
He waits for me to continue. I don’t. It would be absurd to share with him Austin’s inane theories about my relationship with my father. So I turn my attention to Mickey and ask him the score of the game.
Chapter 12
It wasn’t relief I was feeling. And it wasn’t anything resembling a sense of victory. I felt like an obese shadow cast upon some rippling silkscreen; I was awed over my own spectacle and mass, but aware that I had used up all of my actual power. It was spent. Spent on a miserably unpopular decision.
It was a brutal August. Record-breaking heat waves. Relentless and mood altering. The city was especially unpleasant. It felt dirty and overcrowded. But I looked forward to work everyday; it was a refuge from the wreck that was my home life. Laura and I were sleeping in different rooms. We stopped sharing meals together. Conversation was limited to the details of the procedure that was to take place on August 11th.
Dr. Rose, meeting with us in her downtown office, told us time was of the essence. We didn’t ask many questions. Laura, her eyes puffy and her mouth tightly drawn, sat with her hands folded in her lap and mostly looked out the window. I half listened to the doctor explain risks and aftereffects while I studied a collage of photos on the wall behind her desk. I counted nine pictures in total. All appeared to be of her kids. As far as I could tell, the pictures were of three different children, two boys and a girl, in various stages of their lives. The range looked to be from around two or three to fifteen or sixteen. Most of the photos showed outdoor activities. Snowboarding and field hockey and playing in big piles of sunburned leaves. All three children were blonde and attractive. They had white teeth and easy, endless smiles.
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