“Mr. Richards. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
He greets my father warmly, then claps me on the back as if we’re old friends. I force myself to not pull away from his touch, but he leaves the hand there and so eventually I have to duck across the room. I cover this escape by shaking hands with Ellory and he introduces me to Gulliver’s business associate, a severe-looking man named Carl whose eyes are set so far apart that he appears almost cartoonish. I gather that both he and Gulliver have plans to invest heavily in Caleb’s campaign and are exploring forming their own political action committee.
“I don’t think I’m allowed to be here if you’re going to talk strategy,” Caleb says, prompting the older men to laugh good-naturedly and look very pleased with themselves.
“You won’t get any arguments here,” Gulliver answers. “Besides, I think Ellory’s pretty much got the strategy worked out. We’ll just be here when you need us.”
It’s clear that Gulliver is proud of his son and while everything about this gathering feels heavily scripted, that emotion strikes me as honest enough. I watch Ellory shrug. Obviously he’s used to being adored. He says nothing but instead turns back to my dad and they resume chatting. My father, who in general is shy around new people, actually looks like he’s enjoying himself. I eye the large brass clock on the mantel and try to calculate how long I can last without saying something that I will regret. Caleb smiles at me expectantly and I realize that I haven’t been listening to whatever he’s been saying. I gamble and decide to just smile in response and this appears to satisfy him. He continues on with a story about Ellory behaving badly in Paris, which Gulliver seems to think is a real humdinger based on the number of times he calls it that and smacks his knee.
Soon the camera crew arrives. I don’t recognize them. Caleb or Ellory must’ve hired them directly. Ellory takes them into another room and then reappears a short while later.
“Everyone ready?” he asks.
His father lets out a noise that I suspect is meant to indicate gusto, but it comes out sounding like a belch. Gulliver stands and leads the way outside. There’s a small lake or pond behind the house that you couldn’t see from the drive. Mist is rising off the water. It’s the sort of view that only money can buy. Once all of the men have gathered their gear, they stand around complimenting one another on their choice of firearm. I look on, a little apart from the circle. Caleb passes his shotgun over for my father to examine while the film crew gets some wide shots of the group of us with the water in the background. My father turns the camouflaged weapon over in his hands.
“This is one of mine,” he says appraisingly.
“It is,” Caleb answers. “Good eye. My father bought that from you when I turned sixteen. I always thought of it as the gun that turned me into a man.”
Dad hands the shotgun back to Caleb and then holds out his own.
“This here, now it isn’t fancy. But it’s served me well. It was a gift from my daddy too. I guess there’s something to be said for holding on to the things that matter, even if shinier objects might come your way.”
Caleb laughs and slaps my father on the back.
“I like that. Do you mind if I borrow that line?” Dad looks embarrassed and offers a noncommittal grunt in reply. Caleb seems to take this as a yes and looks over at me. “Roarke, your father here is a real gem. I hope you appreciate that.”
Gulliver starts in on a description of the property, where the blinds are set up, the clearings where they’ve seen the most tracks. The turkeys can be heard calling in the distance and the same mist that’s coming off the lake is still hugging the shallow hollows in some places. It swirls around Ellory’s boots. We head out on foot and disperse, the dogs flanking Gulliver closely. The camera team trails behind us, keeping Caleb in their sights.
I try to fan out to the left, away from Caleb, but he beckons me closer. The cameramen skirt around us, clomping heavily over the uneven terrain. The noise they’re making is certain to scare off any birds that are within earshot, but Caleb looks unconcerned. It’s more important to look like a hunter than to actually hunt, I suddenly realize. He adjusts his shotgun and then slings it back over his shoulder in a practiced movement. I should’ve asked Essie if he’s a good shot or whether I need to be worried that he might accidentally hit me in the face like that vice president did to his friend a while back, but of course I didn’t get the chance.
Caleb points and says, “There’s a blind set up right over there.”
He guides me toward a spot where the trees thin out. There’s a meadow beyond. It’s covered with untidy tufts of what looks like tall grass.
“That’s some chufa there. The turkeys dig up the tubers.” I look attentive for the camera, but really I’m imagining what it would feel like to break Caleb’s nose with the barrel of my shotgun as he prattles on. “Gull used to plant corn, but this is much better. This plot here attracts twice the number of birds for a fraction of the work.”
I wonder who exactly did that work, since I doubt very much it was Gulliver himself. Maybe Ellory grew up working the land, dirt beneath his fingernails, his back bent beneath the sun. Maybe Gull was one of those rich men who grew up poor and wanted his son to know what that feels like, to know that hunger, not for food necessarily but for a better life, for success, for power. So maybe Gull did send Ellory out here with a hoe and some seed corn when they were setting up this camp, but it’s not likely. I think this and then reconsider. I look over at Caleb and remind myself that you never can tell what a family is like from the outside looking in.
He has reached the small shelter and we settle in. He tells me there’s a roost not too far off and we listen for the telltale call of a gobbler in search of a mate. Caleb raises a turkey call to his lips and, using his diaphragm, lets out a series of yelps. I scan the area for movement, one hand on my shotgun, aware that the camera crew is blocking the direction I would be most likely to shoot in. From far off in the distance I hear the sharp report of a gun and I wonder who it was that took the shot, knowing there will be no way to avoid a full retelling when we reconvene at the camp in a few hours’ time.
Caleb cocks his head but does nothing else to acknowledge the sound. He keeps his eyes on a stand of tall oaks just at the edge of the meadow.
“Your father taught you to hunt, didn’t he, Roarke?”
He is leaning comfortably against a tree, peeking out of the blind. He doesn’t look at me as he talks. The cameras are close, and in any case, he’s probably miked, so I remind myself not to say anything I don’t want on tape.
“He did,” I reply, keeping my voice low. “How about yours?”
“Goodness no. Daddy is not what you would call rugged. His books, his ideas, that’s the world he lives in, not this one. It’s how he’s able to bring people closer to God, because he lives in that space between the earthly and the divine.”
It’s a well-thought-out speech and Caleb delivers it easily. It occurs to me that the question about hunting was merely a setup and I’ve played right into his hand. I can already picture how this scene will be cropped and edited for a commercial. He’s praising his father but at the same time setting himself apart. Caleb is offering himself up as the everyman alternative. A grittier, more hands-on version of the man Caleb’s would-be constituents already know they love. I’m tempted to pick my nose to ruin the shot, but I keep my hands jammed deep down in my pockets to control them. I’ve unconsciously balled them into fists while Caleb was speaking. That is why, when the turkey appears, it is Caleb who is ready to pull the trigger. I see it first but am still scrabbling to even raise my gun when Caleb takes the kill.
He looks at me sheepishly and says, “Sorry. I hope you don’t mind.”
I shrug as if it’s nothing, but I’m fuming and it has nothing to do with the turkey. My finger plays over the trigger as Caleb jogs out to examine the bird.
It would be so easy, I think. Hunting accidents happen all the time. I see the cameras turn to follow Caleb and I flex my finger, just slightly. No one would know. I could say the gun misfired or that my hand slipped and it went off when it fell. The only problem is that Caleb probably wouldn’t die. He would just bleed and it would all be on camera—not my shooting him, but the impact, the birdshot tearing through the fabric of his vest. And once he recovered, he would be like a man risen from the dead. He would forgive me, publicly and with great fanfare, and I would have only succeeded in making him stronger.
I drop my gun to my side.
Then Caleb calls out from the clearing, “He’s a real beauty. Do you think you can give me a hand?”
I stand up.
“Sure,” I call back. “That’s what family’s for.”
* * *
—————
Time passes more quickly after that. Caleb and I separate and I find a tree with a low, inviting branch and lie there for a while, my feet up against the trunk. A gobbler saunters by and I don’t even try for my gun. I just watch the way he struts across the forest floor, the light and shadow playing on his feathers. He belongs in this place much more than I do. In other circumstances I would gladly bring him home for dinner, but today it feels like killing things for pride is Caleb’s game and it’s not a game I want to play.
My watch chirps softly to signal that it’s time to head back and reluctantly I lower myself down to the ground and begin to make my way toward camp. I’ve heard a few other shots while I was waiting for the clock to run out, and as we gather again in the clearing by the house, I see that my father has brought in a turkey not much smaller than the one that I saw. There’s the requisite patting of backs and placing bets on just how heavy each of the birds is. Ringo and Starr drink from the pond and then lay their long, sleek bodies down on the part of the dock that hangs over the water.
Finally, Gulliver holds up his hands and announces, “Food will be ready soon. Why don’t we all go in to clean up?”
Dad has packed us both a change of clothes and Ellory shows us to a room upstairs with a four-poster bed and an adjacent bathroom where we can change. Unlike the downstairs, which smelled of pine and leather, this guest suite feels airier. There’s a bowl of dried purple flowers on the dresser and embroidered throw pillows on the chair. A woman has been here, even if only to decorate. Ellory mentioned as we climbed the stairs that his father had bought this land on his recommendation, after Ellory had visited it with Caleb during their first year of law school. The way he tells it, Gull bought the parcel sight unseen and had the house built after. I wonder if this bowl of flowers is how Ellory’s mother approached the matter of her husband having a retreat where she would rarely, if ever, be allowed. If she walked through the house at the beginning, right after the builders had gone and the furniture had been delivered, and left little tokens here and there, evidence of her existence, a reminder to her menfolk that she was never far away.
The table is laid with sandwiches and a candied ham when Dad and I come down from changing. I’m hungry, but I go outside to pack the truck first so that we can make a quick getaway as soon as it’s allowed. When I come back inside, Dad and the others have already made up plates and brought their food out back. I pile a plate with ham and potato salad and make my way to the porch. There’s a round metal tub of drinks filled to the brim with ice and I fish around for a soda and pull out a Coke.
Gull laughs at this and says, “Don’t worry, the cameras have all gone. I think you can have a beer.”
I look over at Dad and he nods, whether in agreement or because he doesn’t want to make waves I can’t tell, but in any case, I shove the Coke back down into the ice and pull out a Miller Lite. The top twists off easily and I drop the bottle cap into a small silver dish that seems to have been put out just for this purpose. I find an empty chair and rest the plate on my lap. The bottled beer tastes mustier than the cheap cans I’m used to and I sip it slowly. Soon Gulliver leads Dad back into the house to show him some painting that he’s just bought at auction. Carl stands up to follow them. This leaves only Caleb and me on the porch while Ellory walks up and down the dock below practically yelling into his phone. Caleb switches chairs so he’s sitting next to me.
“Thanks for coming today, Roarke,” he says. “It really means a lot.” What I should say is You’re welcome and leave it at that. I almost make myself do it too, but then Caleb continues talking. “You’re a lucky man. Luckier than you know.”
I hate everything about him in that moment: his straight teeth and his perfect skin but most of all the way his eyes are half closed as if he doesn’t think he has to worry that I might use my fork to stab him. I grip the armrests on my chair and feel my chest begin to pound.
“Why did you invite us today?” I ask Caleb. “And don’t tell me you care about my family’s store.”
“I think it’s important for us to get to know one another.”
Impulsively I say, “Really? I already feel like I know you. Essie has talked about you a lot.”
“Has she?” Caleb opens his eyes fully and briefly looks unsettled, but this passes and all too soon his smile has returned. “I know things about you as well.”
“Okay,” I say, not at all sure what he’s hinting at.
“I got sent to Holden Park too. Or did you think you were the only one? We’re not as different as you would like to believe.”
I feel the color drain from my face and all at once I am back there. I can feel the darkness like something palpable, something you could touch. No, that’s not right. Something that was touching you.
I speak slowly and through clenched teeth. “I am nothing like you.”
Caleb ignores this and instead says flippantly, “I didn’t really care for it there myself. Too much talk, talk, talk. The director going on endlessly about personal goals. It was tiresome.”
“Personal goals” was a misnomer, since they were written out ahead of time in bullet points by the staff and by your parents.
“Did you meet them? Your goals?” I say with an edge to my voice.
At this Caleb laughs out loud. “I think you know the answer to that. They didn’t really take.”
Liberty
By the third day, we have fallen into a sort of rhythm. Mike wakes up first so he can get to campus in time for Torts and tiptoes around the apartment in the dark, bumping into furniture and muttering obscenities. I wake to the sound of him tripping over a pair of shoes he didn’t remember to throw into his closet when we finally went to bed three hours ago.
“Sorry,” he says and kisses my forehead as I struggle to reenter consciousness.
“Don’t be,” I tell him. “I need to get back to it. I’ll see you after class.”
My arms and legs are heavy beneath the covers and I can feel the weight of them pulling me deeper. I’m tempted to shut my eyes for just twenty more minutes, but as I think this, I feel the brush of Justice’s nightgown against my cheek and I shiver despite the heat coming off the radiator and force myself to get out of bed. At the sink, I splash water on my face and stare into the mirror, hands flat on the counter, wondering what Justice would look like if she were alive today.
Right after she died, I used to lock myself in the upstairs bathroom of our farmhouse and sit facing the full-length mirror that was hung on the inside of that door. I would tuck my knees beneath my chin and wrap my arms around my legs and stare into that other world behind the glass, the one where Justice’s face was looking back. Sometimes I even talked to her, that version of my sister who lived within the mirror’s depths, but the walls were thin and I stopped as soon as I realized that Mama could hear because I didn’t want to make her sad. No, that’s a lie. That’s not why I stopped. I stopped because I didn’t want Mama to think I was weak. I didn’t want her to be reminded that I was the reason Justice died.
I blink and look deeper into the mirror and for a moment I am that girl again, the one who believes in Wonderland.
“What would you do?” I whisper to my reflection. “Would you let her tear apart her family? Would you help Essie burn it to the ground?”
A fly knocks into the bulb above the sink, drawing my eyes upward and breaking the spell. When I look back into the mirror, I see only myself, eyes bloodshot from too much coffee and too little sleep, hair in tangles. I don’t look like Justice anymore. I don’t even look like the version of myself that graced the inner flap of my book jacket those many years ago. But at least the face that looks back at me is honest. At least now I know exactly who I am.
I shake Margot, who had passed out on the couch, and she growls about all of the different ways she would like to punish me for waking her while I grind beans to make more coffee. There’s still half a pot left over from the night before, but I pour it down the sink. We’ll need the good stuff to get us going and take Margot’s mind off of murdering me outright. I tell her to call her wife, but she’s too busy swearing at me to hear.
“I was thinking,” I call out from the kitchen, interrupting Margot’s description of how I deserve to be run over by a miniature car that has been stuffed full of clowns, “maybe we should move the section about their first trip to Saint John to one of the later chapters.”
“Like a sort of flashback, you mean? I guess that could work.” Margot rises from the couch and then slouches against the kitchen counter, eyes on the steady drizzle of coffee sputtering into the pot. “But if we flash back to the years when Essie was young, then where does the story start?”
“It starts now,” I say, and I think again of the face I see when I look in the mirror, the one that it took me so long to find. “It starts with the person she’s decided to become.”
“And who exactly is that?”
I shake my head to clear it, but the thing that had seemed so obvious to me only a few seconds before retreats into the fog. I pull two mugs down from the cupboard and pour out the coffee, take a sip.
The Book of Essie Page 23