With Liam’s refusal to divulge facts, there was nothing much that Brook and Michael could do but sit and wait and hope for the best. Troy talked tough, but it seemed to Michael that he preferred nursing a grudge to actually acting on it. They’d both let what had happened between them sink into the past. Let this go, too, Michael mentally begged Troy. We all make mistakes. Just let it go. Brook wanted to call Phoebe, to commiserate and try to get her side of the story, but Michael advised her against it.
“It could make matters worse. I think it’s better to keep a distance and pray this just blows over.”
Every day, Michael braced himself for the other shoe to drop, but so far they’d heard nothing further from the Lansings. And when Michael drove into town for the papers and mail, everything seemed normal, the town hushed under the half foot of snow that had fallen on Christmas Eve.
After leaving Brook at the station, Michael decided to take the longer, scenic route home again. It was a bit foolhardy, as some of the back roads were not well plowed, but he needed the time alone—away from the house and his studio—to try to get some perspective on what had happened. Or might have. When Troy first confronted him with his accusations, he’d dismissed the idea out of hand.
“It had to have been one of the other boys,” Michael had told him. The two men were standing outside Michael’s studio, snow falling around them.
“Phoebe said it was Liam,” Troy told him. “My daughter doesn’t lie.”
“Liam would never hurt her. He’s a good kid.”
“Yeah?” Troy replied. “Well, so were you, if I remember right.”
Yes, everyone had liked Michael when he was Liam’s age. He’d been thoughtful and soft-spoken. Maybe a little shy. Until he had something to drink, that is, which was something only Troy knew about him. Then nice Michael Bostock turned into someone else. Someone you’d hardly recognize. Someone Michael himself couldn’t recall the next day.
That was the hellish part. Blacking out. Not knowing what you’d done or where or to whom. And that was what Michael dreaded had happened with Liam. That his son wasn’t lying when he said he couldn’t remember. That, drunk, he could have turned physically aggressive. He could have attacked Phoebe. Like father, like son. That’s what Troy was thinking, Michael knew.
Together, Michael and Brook had talked to Liam about drinking and its consequences. Michael had also spoken to his son on his own. Trying to explain how some people were more susceptible than others. How sometimes alcoholism could be passed down through the generations.
“We never really talked about it in my family,” Michael told him. “And I think your grandma’s still in denial about it, but your grandfather was a really heavy drinker. Especially those last years. I think he died too young because of it. It can be a killer.”
“Is that why you never drink?”
“Sure,” Michael said. “It’s one of the reasons.” But not the real one. That he’d long ago decided to keep to himself. He’d stopped drinking at the age of sixteen before anyone but Troy realized he’d even started. He’d stopped cold. Stopped forever. And left behind the pathetic fuckup he had been. Someone he hated even now to acknowledge. As he came of age and everyone around him started drinking socially, he said alcohol gave him a headache. He almost came to believe it himself. By the time he met Brook, not drinking seemed like such a natural part of who he was, so organic to his nature, he decided she didn’t have to know the truth. Besides, he had changed so fundamentally from that sixteen-year-old self, it was almost as though he had never existed.
But as Michael drove through the quickly darkening afternoon, he felt that boy’s presence again. As if he were sitting beside him in the front seat of the pickup. That confused and angry boy. That boy who had never wanted to be anything like his father and yet, like in some kind of B-movie horror film, was turning into him right before his eyes. And he’d been so alone, so powerless to fight back!
For the first time in many years, he felt another presence, too. He remembered the unrestrained girlish laughter. The big grin with the crooked front teeth. The way she had of bumping up against him, finding any excuse to touch. Just as he once had to push her physically away, he now tried to force her out of his thoughts. But she lingered anyway, as she used to do, following in the shadows of the boy he used to be.
• • •
The police cruiser sat in front of the house, engine running, exhaust pluming into the frigid air. Michael parked his pickup by the garage and walked over to the driver’s side of the cop car. The window came down.
“Hey, Mike,” Fred Henderson said. “Your daughter said you’d be back soon. I thought it would be best if I waited for you out here.” Fred had been two years ahead of Michael in school and they’d run in different crowds, but Michael had always liked the older boy. It seemed to Michael that, even as a teen, Fred subscribed to a kind of patriotism and sense of honor that were rare these days. When Fred became Barnsbury’s police chief, Michael made a point of telling him that he thought the town was lucky to have him.
“Do you want to come in?” Michael asked. There was no point in pretending Michael didn’t know why Fred was there.
Fred rolled the window back up, turned the engine off, and hoisted himself out the cruiser. He had a clipboard with him. Though the Bostocks used the kitchen entrance, Michael led Fred up the front walkway, which was lined with snow-covered shrubs. Brook had decorated the potted evergreen topiaries flanking the entranceway with tiny white Christmas tree bulbs. A wreath of twined holly and mistletoe hung on the front door. Michael realized that he was hoping to send a message to Fred by coming in this way: What a well-run household. Just look at these orderly, festive surroundings! Too late, Michael remembered that it was only a dozen yards from here that Fred had found Liam last summer, passed out on the lawn. He tried to put that memory behind him, but he couldn’t help but think that Fred was recalling the incident, too.
“I decided to wait until after Christmas to do this,” Fred said when they’d gotten indoors.
“Thanks,” Michael replied. “I appreciate that.” For a moment he thought that Fred might be on his side. He recalled some crack Fred had made a couple of years back about Troy. But then Michael remembered who Phoebe was to the man standing in front of him.
“I just have to ask,” Michael said. “Isn’t there a conflict of interest here, considering Phoebe is your niece?”
“I ran it by the DA,” Fred told him. “Preliminary questioning? I’m cleared. If the case goes any further, then he’ll reevaluate. But, Mike, just so you know? My job is to remain unbiased. What I’m doing here is just gathering information. The DA’s office makes the judgment calls. Okay?”
“Okay,” Michael said, but he was rattled to learn that the district attorney’s office was already even marginally involved.
“I’d like to talk to you alone first,” Fred went on. “Then maybe you could ask Liam to join us. Your daughter said he was upstairs?”
“Yes,” Michael said. “He’s spent most of the holiday so far in his room. It’s been a tough time for all of us. We’re sorry about Phoebe. But—I have to be straight with you—I’m sure Liam wasn’t responsible for what happened.”
“I’m just here to get the facts,” Fred replied, glancing around the spacious foyer with its cathedral ceiling and wrought-iron chandelier. It occurred to Michael that Fred had never been inside the house before; his professional call that past June could hardly be considered a social occasion. After the first couple of years in Barnsbury, Brook had stopped trying to have people from town up to the place. He and Brook had never managed to click with any of the local couples their own age. The people he’d grown up with treated him differently after he’d married her. Which was their problem, Michael had long ago decided.
Fred took a seat on the sofa opposite Michael’s wing chair. He placed the clipboard on his lap, pulled out a pen, and began to ask Michael about the night Phoebe was assaulted. Michael patiently answered hi
s questions. Why they had gone down to Rhinebeck. What time they had left. How they’d hired Phoebe to babysit until Liam got back. Whether they were aware that their son was bringing two friends from Moorehouse up with him.
“Do you often leave your children alone in the house overnight?” Fred asked him then.
“No,” Michael said, suddenly wary. “This was a rare exception.” And it was. He and Brook had discussed it a couple of weeks ago and decided that Liam, going on sixteen, should be able to hold the fort for the few nighttime hours they wouldn’t be there.
“Tell me about these friends of Liam’s,” Fred continued. “Their names. Where they live. Do you know their parents?”
It was because he was nervous, Michael knew, but he couldn’t remember Brandon and Carey’s last name. He’d never even spoken to their parents. He wasn’t quite sure, but he believed they lived near Rochester.
“Do you let Liam drink in your presence?”
“Absolutely not! Brook only drinks socially, and I don’t drink at all. What happened last summer, that was a misunderstanding. The hired catering staff didn’t realize that Liam wasn’t of age, and Brook and I were so busy—”
“But you usually keep alcohol in the house?” Fred interrupted him.
“Yes.”
“You don’t lock it up when you’re not here?”
“No. I trust my kids.”
“Even though Liam got into trouble with alcohol before this?”
There it was. Though a part of him had been bracing for this, he still didn’t know how best to respond. Did he look as unnerved as he felt? Who else in Barnsbury besides Fred knew about Liam’s drinking at the wedding? Was it something that he was obliged to share with the DA? The Pendletons had closed ranks after it had happened. Peg and Janice had told Brook and Michael to advise Liam not to talk about it to anyone, as the news could hurt his chances of getting into Moorehouse. Despite what Michael knew were their misgivings about his son, both of Brook’s half sisters had mailed glowing letters of recommendation to the admissions office. That was how it was done, Michael told himself. You protected your own.
“It was a family occasion,” Michael said. “And, like I said, an unfortunate mistake.”
“And how was Phoebe supposed to get home that night?” Fred asked, once again throwing Michael off. He had no idea. Brook took care of the household details. Surely she’d worked out some sort of arrangement with Phoebe’s mom. He hesitated. His mind had gone blank. Christ, he’d grown up with the woman! He could picture her so clearly. He was sure it must be obvious to Fred that Michael couldn’t recall his sister’s first name.
“I’m not sure, but I think Phoebe’s mom was supposed to pick her up when she called.”
Fred nodded, and made some notes.
“When you got back the next morning,” he went on, “did everything seem normal to you?”
Sure, if normal meant a son shrugging off your embrace when you hadn’t seen him for a month. Or the feeling that he couldn’t wait to get out of your sight.
“Yes, as far as I remember. Everything was fine. The boys were up. Eating breakfast. They’d made pancakes. Brandon and Carey left for home soon after that.”
“Okay,” Fred said, looking down at his notes. He lifted a page briefly to check on something he’d written. “Could I talk to your son now?”
• • •
Liam must have known who was there—and why. He came down right away, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt that he’d actually tucked in. He’d even combed his hair. Michael felt a wave of relief. Liam understood how he had to present himself. What he needed to say. They were going to get through this.
Fred stood up. Liam walked over and shook his hand.
“I have a few questions for you about what happened the other night,” Fred told him. “Your answers will be for the record. So I need you to take your time and try to remember everything as accurately as you can.”
“I understand,” Liam said, sitting in the chair Michael had vacated. Michael stood behind him, his hand resting lightly on the seat back.
It began routinely enough. Names and ages of his friends? When had they left Moorehouse? Had they stopped along the way? What time had they arrived at the house?
“I don’t remember,” Liam said.
“Approximately?” Fred asked.
“I was flying pretty high by then, so it’s really hard for me to say.”
Michael’s heart stopped.
“You were what?” Fred asked.
“I’d started drinking in the car, so by the time we—”
“Shut up,” Michael said.
“I was just trying to be accurate like—”
“Do not say another word, goddamn it!”
Fred Henderson looked down at his clipboard.
“Did you assault Phoebe Lansing?” he asked.
“He’s not answering that!” Michael replied. The room swam. Ironically, he felt drunk, unable to make sense of his physical surroundings. “He’s not answering another question.”
“I’m not sure. As I said we were all pretty—,” Liam began.
“No,” Michael said, gripping his son’s shoulder. “No, he did not.”
But Liam talked right over him. “I was drunk. We gave Phoebe something to drink, too. We were all pretty wasted. Everything’s a big blur. I guess it could have been me—it could have been any of us, honestly. I’m really not sure—but I am really sorry Phoebe got hurt. Please tell her that for me, okay?”
10
Brook’s reflection stared back at her from the train window, reduced to its basic components: halo of hair, oval face, eyes and mouth roughed in like a child’s drawing. Beyond, through the hollows formed by her features, she glimpsed the nightscape flowing past: house lights, a jagged tree line, a long pale swath of frozen field. The car had emptied out after White Plains. Except for a young couple, asleep several rows ahead of her on the right, she was alone. When she’d first boarded the train, she had tried briefly to type up her critique of the Literacy International dinner on her laptop. But her mind kept wandering. As it had all evening. As it had been doing since Troy Lansing stormed out of her house.
He’d slammed the front door behind him when he left, and it seemed as though she could still feel the reverberations. For the last several days, she’d been exhausted and on edge. Troy’s lies about Liam had entered her bloodstream like a virus. Her body ached with helplessness. She was someone who liked to get things done, to act, but there was nothing she could do to remedy this situation. She realized now that she shouldn’t have stood up to Troy the way she had. She shouldn’t have provoked him. She’d only made matters worse.
“I’m sorry,” she’d told Michael as they waited downstairs for Liam to get through to Carey and Brandon. “But it makes me so mad to think Troy can just go around saying anything he wants.”
“Phoebe told him it was Liam. I’m not defending him, but it was Phoebe who started this.”
“Right, yes—I know. But why? I don’t understand it. Why would she want to hurt Liam like that? And us?”
“It’s the drinking that really worries me. I don’t think they can do much with an attempted-rape claim, but Liam getting drunk again? If that gets back to Moorehouse, he’s in real trouble.”
“Oh, God, I hadn’t thought of that.” It surprised her how quickly Michael had processed what had happened and was already considering the consequences. Brook remained stuck on the event itself. She went around and around with it. The impossibility of Liam hurting anyone, but especially Phoebe. The shock of finding out she didn’t really know Phoebe Lansing at all. For years, Brook had thought of the girl as almost another member of the family. She’d felt such a strong kinship with her—along with genuine affection. She’d secretly considered helping out with Phoebe’s college education when the time came.
So her lies felt like such a betrayal! Perhaps Phoebe had always resented her, the way so many people in Barnsbury seemed to do. All this
time when Brook had been so free and easy in Phoebe’s company, flattering herself that the young girl looked up to her, maybe Phoebe was actually plotting how to get back at Brook for whatever wrong she imagined she’d done her. Was it simply a matter of her attitude? After Michael had pointed out that she could sometimes sound superior, she’d tried to lose the slightly plummy inflections left over from her upbringing, but she was only patchily successful. When excited, or under stress, she could hear her mother’s fluting drawl escape unwanted from her lips.
Or was it something deeper and more insidious that kept her from forming any real connections in Barnsbury? She’d been blaming the close-minded town all these years, but perhaps it really was her fault. If someone as sweet and straightforward as Phoebe actually disliked her, there had to be a good reason. She stared out the train window, turning the possibilities over in her mind.
“You’re such a Pollyanna!” the librarian at the Brearley School had told her when she was in the sixth grade there. Though Brook had never heard the term before, the librarian’s tone was slightly mocking. When she asked her father what being a Pollyanna meant, he said, “Oh, it was a character in an old children’s book who was always very optimistic and cheerful. It means you tend to see only the good in people.”
Or tried to. More like willed herself to. Because she existed in the shadows for too long after her mother died. And her father, all these years later, still languished there. So, yes, she’d started to make a concerted effort to keep on the sunny side. Stay positive. And, gradually, that came to be part of her nature. It became her way of fighting back the dark. And taking a stand against the self-doubts that had troubled her for so long. Though nobody guessed how hard she had to work at it. You’re such a Pollyanna! Maybe that’s how people in Barnsbury, struggling through years of bad times, saw her. A smiley face.
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