The Book of Essie

by Meghan MacLean Weir

  Mike stirs on the couch and I say, “Hey,” then, “Thanks for waiting up.”

  He rubs his eyes and blinks at me.

  “You know I need my beauty sleep,” he says.

  I rock forward out of my chair and move a pillow so that I can slide next to him, nestling my head on his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, deep and slow like the ticking of some ancient clock.

  When I am settled, he curls one hand onto my head and asks, “How was it?”

  “Didn’t you watch?”

  “Of course. But how did it feel to be in the same room with her? Esther Hicks, in the flesh.”

  “She was very professional,” I say, not sure where to start or how much I really want to tell.

  “She’s done this before.”

  I know that Mike does not mean it unkindly, but for some reason I feel it as a slight that he clearly thinks of Essie as having more experience on camera than I, even though I realize that of course she does. It’s been her entire life. I, on the other hand, nearly a year out of journalism school, am continually frustrated that I have so little to show for it. Puff pieces, mostly. This one was no less puffy, but since Essie hasn’t been seen on camera in a while, there’s a chance that it will get picked up by the national media and aired again. Even if there are no follow-up meetings, today’s interview still ranks as the pinnacle of my adult career to date. Pathetic.

  “Did she say why she asked for you specifically?” Mike wants to know.

  I shake my head. “I didn’t get a chance to ask. Maybe next time.”

  I have to buy Margot a new phone tomorrow, I remind myself. Maybe I can expense it.

  “Next time?” Mike asks.

  “She’s offered me more interviews,” I say slowly.

  “Isn’t that a good thing?”

  I shrug. “I didn’t really get the sense that she had run it by her people. It might come to nothing.”

  “Well, even so, I think you did great today.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure,” he says. “I hardly recognized you with all that makeup on. You almost looked pretty.”

  I punch him in the stomach and he throws his hands up in surrender. Then he lifts my head so he can kiss me and I let him for a little while, taking comfort in how solid he feels, how familiar.

  Eventually I pull my head back and say, “I feel sorry for her.”

  Mike sits back and laughs sardonically. “Sure. Poor little rich girl, with her mansion and her private jet to fly her down to that big place they have in the Caribbean. She’s really suffering.”

  “None of that money is hers,” I remind him.

  “But I’m sure it will be someday. Money like that can buy anything. That idiot brother of hers is leading in the polls and he hasn’t even officially declared. What qualifies him for the House? He was practically at the bottom of his class in law school.”

  “He did go to Yale,” I say, nudging him playfully with my head.

  “And how do you think he got in there in the first place?”

  Yale had turned Mike down, so I know it’s best to drop it. I lean against the arm of the couch and stretch my legs out straight onto Mike’s lap and say, “She’s not like that, though.”

  “You think you can tell what she’s really like by how she acts when she’s on camera?”

  “No, but there was a moment after.” I stop, consider whether to tell Mike about the wedding, and decide against it. Instead I say, “We were alone for a few minutes after the interview. She just seemed different then. It reminded me that she’s a real person, not just that little girl we’ve all been watching on TV.”

  “That doesn’t mean she deserves your pity.”

  “Why not? Isn’t she just as much a product of her environment as I was of mine? Isn’t that why you forgave me for all the things I did?”

  Mike sits up straighter at this and looks right at me. “First of all, I never pitied you. Let’s be clear about that. Second of all, I had nothing to forgive you for. You didn’t do anything to me. Besides, you were just a kid.”

  “Isn’t that exactly what she is too?”

  “Esther Hicks is not a child,” Mike says then. “She’s a virus. Her entire family is. They’ve infected the country with a special brand of intolerance that masquerades as a religion.”

  “She’s done nothing that I haven’t done,” I say softly. “She’s just had more success.”

  “You were different. You couldn’t help it.”

  “Don’t you dare think that what happened to Justice is an excuse,” I tell him, and my voice is louder than I mean it to be. “As if she somehow lets me off the hook.”

  “Well, you’re trying to do what’s right now. That’s what matters.”

  “Maybe Essie is trying too.”

  I want Mike to back down, but his voice is bitter when he says, “By giving you more interviews? Her generosity is overwhelming.”

  “She’s just a kid,” I try again. “She’s grown up inside a bubble. And she just seemed so small, so vulnerable. She has no idea at all how the real world works.”

  Esther

  For the first time in my life, Mother is doing what I want and not the other way around. She doesn’t know this, of course, and her not knowing is the only hope I have that this might work. It’s only when the Richardses have left the house late on Thursday afternoon that I am sure my plan has actually been set in motion. Until then, I was limited to watching Mother’s face for some sign of confirmation, but of course the last thing I could do was ask.

  When Mr. and Mrs. Richards pile into their ancient station wagon, Mother comes into the den, where I am reading. I don’t look up right away. It wouldn’t do to look too eager. I wait for her to clear her throat and only then do I turn Wuthering Heights over in my lap.

  “Esther Anne,” Mother says, and I know that she is hooked. She only uses my middle name when she is about to tell me something that she knows might cause a fight. “I’ve been thinking a lot about your situation.”

  She says this as if my “situation,” as she put it, has nothing to do with her, at least not directly, as if it is not in any way her fault. Mother sighs and looks vacantly toward the window. I can tell that she is not really looking out at the fragile splendor of the cherry tree, which is in full blossom, but is instead considering whether enough time has passed for her to replace the drapes. It takes a while before she continues, but I wait as patiently as I can, tracing a finger over the embossed B of Brontë until she turns her face back to look at me.

  “I’ve considered all the options and I really believe that the best course of action is for you to get married, quickly, before you’re too far along.”

  I keep my face still but force my eyes to widen, provide just the right measure of shock.

  “If that’s what you think is best,” I say as reluctantly as I can.

  “I do,” Mother says, and her voice carries just an edge of brusqueness. It makes me want to stab her through the eyes.

  This is the life of a child she is deciding. The life of two children, actually, since technically I am still one myself. I hate her for the calculation in her eyes when she looks at me, as if I were a rat she is training to run through a maze.

  “Did you tell?” I ask.

  “Darling,” she says too sweetly, “I’ve told no one. I promised that I wouldn’t and I shan’t. Not Daddy, not anyone. It is our secret. We will get through this thing together.”

  For some reason it makes me feel better to hear the lie, as if it makes everything entirely justified.

  “Who will I marry?” I ask in a voice that I hope conveys just the right degree of shyness.

  Mother sighs again and stands. It seems this heart-to-heart is already over.

  “Soon, dearest. It’s almost decided.”

  * * *
r />   —————

  The next day after school there is a baseball game and I ask Mother if I can stay to watch. Sporting events are still cleared for filming. It’s just inside the school that’s banned. Well, not entirely, but it requires special clearance. When I first started at Woodside, the crew followed me everywhere I went, even into some of my classes. But then Veronica Richter, who was a year ahead of me, put an end to that, complained that it was a violation of her right to privacy and created an environment hostile to learning. She wasn’t the only one who objected, but she was the first. Now they can film me at the bus stop or walking to school but not inside the bus or the school building itself; that is, except during specially staged events like the school concert and the discussion group in my fake English class, the one where we’re reading Wuthering Heights.

  It made Veronica pretty unpopular for the second half of her sophomore year, but she didn’t seem to notice, or else she just didn’t care. She has this ability to float above it all, which made it kind of surprising that she was bothered so much by the cameras. I like to think she was just doing me a favor after finding me locked in the girl’s bathroom one morning before U.S. History when I was trying to avoid my crew. She was giving me the sort of space I could never have gotten on my own, even if I had been brave enough to ask. If that really was the reason she lodged the complaint with the principal, then it was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me, which is weird because Veronica Richter is not even my friend.

  Mother looks surprised, but she agrees. It’s not often that I’m willing to go to games of any sort, so it’s possible that she just wants the footage and doesn’t even know that Roarke Richards is the captain of the baseball team. I need to talk to him before this goes any further, to warn him, or just try to explain. But the truth is, I have no idea what I intend to say.

  The day drags on. I see Roarke between first and second period and then again just after lunch. He moves easily through the halls. People move aside to let him pass, a fact of which he seems entirely unaware. His dark eyes are always elsewhere, his smooth jaw set. Both times I see him I try to catch his eye, but he is always in motion and he never looks my way. Why would he? We’ve never even really met. I’ve seen him at church, of course, but his family tends to slip in and then out again. They don’t stay for the hand-shaking-and-coffee-cake-crumbling torture that starts after the service ends. God Is Love, proclaims the bright felted banner on one wall of the refectory. My Sunday school class made it when I was eleven. The lopsided v in Love is entirely my fault. Beneath the words are two outstretched felt hands, palms held toward the gathered, in a way that gives the impression that they are pushing or shooing instead of welcoming in. I understand why the Richards family might choose to avoid coffee hour. It’s all gossip and backstabbing as far as I’m concerned.

  So Roarke and I have never talked at church, and we’ve certainly never talked at school. It’s not a very promising relationship. Especially when I consider that spring break is just around the corner and that means I need Roarke to propose by the end of next week, Sunday at the latest.

  It is the first really warm day of the month, and although I’ve worn a sweater, I take it off sometime in the fifth inning. The sun beats down on my back and arms as I sit squeezed between Lily and Tabitha Riker on the bleachers. I made sure to chat with a sufficient number of people before the game so Lincoln, who is my cameraman today, could get enough shots of me moving through the crowd while the light still holds. I waved to Reggie White, hoping that he’d come over since footage of me talking to an African American would really get Mother’s knickers in a twist. I know she’d never allow them to use it, but imagining her trying to explain to the editors why the footage needs to be cut without saying the word black made it worth the try. Reggie ignored me. I can’t blame him. I would ignore me too if I were him.

  Instead I talked with Bobby Shaffer, who is a year behind me but tall enough to look good in the shot. I leaned against the chain-link fence that separates the crowd from the dugout and smiled, allowing my eyes to drift over to Roarke while Bobby talked, my gaze shifting in a way that I knew would be obvious when the footage is reviewed. I am nothing if not helpful.

  Now, while I sit with Lily and Tabitha, Lincoln gets some shots of the game itself, including one good one where Roarke hits the ball far into the outfield and then almost makes it home before retreating to third base. After this, Lincoln waves and indicates that he and his sidekick are going to pack up and leave. I wave back and watch them trudge off to their van and then, after stowing their equipment, finally drive away.

  By the time the game is over, I really need to pee. But I know that if I run over to the bathrooms, Roarke will probably be gone when I get back. I say good-bye to Tabitha and shoot a look at Lily, who is getting kissed by Mason Clinch. Weaving through the crowd, I head straight for Roarke, not caring what this will look like to anyone who is bothering to watch. He is bent over and riffling through his bag when I reach him.

  “Roarke,” I say. “I’m Esther Hicks. I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced.”

  He stands up and I extend my hand, which he eyes suspiciously but does not take. I drop the hand self-consciously to my side and pick at the fabric of my skirt.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  The bluntness of the question surprises me and I realize that I still have no earthly clue what is the right thing to say. For all that I know about Roarke, I don’t actually know him, not really. For instance, I had assumed that he would probably dislike me, but the tone of his voice tells me that it runs deeper than that. In the end, this is probably a good thing. It means that we are on the same side. But it also means that it’s going to be harder than I thought to make him realize this, that it might take some time, and time is something I just don’t have.

  I decide to try. “Lily says she heard that you’re probably going to be valedictorian.” His expression doesn’t change, so I say, “Lily Gaines? I thought you knew her.”

  The way Lily tells it, she and Roarke practically did it standing up on the front steps of her house and then he never called her.

  Roarke still doesn’t say anything, so I continue on with, “I’m actually graduating this year myself. I’ve been taking some extra classes.”

  He raises his eyebrows and then he says, “So you’re saying you might be valedictorian instead?”

  I shake my head and take a step back. This isn’t going at all the way I’d planned.

  “No, no. I’m not eligible. And even if I were, I’m sure you’d still get it. Have you decided where you want to go to college?”

  “I haven’t heard back from all the places I applied, but I’ll probably end up at State.”

  I tilt my head and pretend to be confused. “Really? I always pegged you for the Ivy League, or at least someplace in Chicago.”

  Roarke throws his duffel over his shoulder and says, “You get what you get and you don’t get upset.”

  It is a throwaway comment, the sort of phrase a kindergartner would use, but it is also a way in.

  “Why don’t you?” I say.

  “What?” he asks me, surprised.

  “Get upset,” I say, and then, “You should get upset when things aren’t fair. You should do something to fix them.”

  “Is that right? And just what is it that you’re doing to fight all the injustice in the world?”

  I think how best to answer, but since Blake Preston is walking toward us, I take another step back and simply say, “You’ll see.”

  I give a half smile and turn. I can feel Roarke’s eyes following me as I walk away.

  * * *

  —————

  Not perfect, I think, but it will have to do. I walk home quickly, stopping in the bathroom off the front hall as soon as I walk in the door. Then I head upstairs to change. My foot is o
n the second step when I hear the voices coming from the production office. It is unusual for anyone to be in there at this time unless there is an evening taping. Candy should have gone home for the day. Even Gretchen, who makes a habit of staying late to showcase her work ethic, usually takes off in time to eat dinner with her disabled brother. I retrace my path and tiptoe to the laundry room, climb onto the dryer, and kneel with my ear toward the vent. I hear Mother’s voice, then Suzanne and Leroy Richards each say something in return. Mother is moving even faster than I could have hoped.

  “I just wanted to follow up on the lovely chat we had yesterday,” Mother is saying. “I was so sorry to hear about your troubles with the bank and with the store. We have always been proud patrons of Richards and Son’s Sporting Goods. In fact, I think that’s where Jethro and I bought all the boys their very first hunting rifles.”

  “It was, ma’am,” Leroy Richards says.

  “And I was so very impressed to hear about Roarke getting into Columbia,” Mother continues. “It would be a shame to put such an opportunity to waste.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with going to State,” Mr. Richards says sharply.

  “Oh, I agree, of course. Our own Caleb went to State before continuing on to Yale. It can be quite a stepping-stone toward bigger and brighter things. But you said yourselves that the store is in danger. If it goes under, then even the tuition at State will feel like a million dollars when those are dollars you just don’t have.”

  “We’ll make do,” Leroy tells her, and I can hear the anger in his voice, anger that is entirely justified under the circumstances—but it is not only anger. He sounds offended and dangerously close to walking out of the room.