Bittersweet

by Shewanda Pugh

  Kori gestured for her to go first, only to run her fingers through Edy’s hair. “I do fabulous work,” she said.

  “You do,” Gwyn reiterated.

  Kori put an arm around them both and together they strode into the lights.

  They found their seats halfway up and near the fifty yard line, where, to Edy’s surprise, a handful of the “it” gang held space for them. And the view was prime, good enough that she imagined reaching forward and touching the turf if she wanted.

  Edy and Chloe squeezed in between Gwyn and Gwyn’s cousin, TJ, from Brookline High, who sat on the wrong side that night. Hunched over and surrounded by a cloud of smoke, he sat up, dropped a tiny wad and ran a hand through his hair.

  “Hello, gorgeous. I knew I sat on this side for a reason.” He jutted his hand out for Edy and she fanned the smoke back his way.

  She flicked her gaze down to the bit of marijuana he’d tossed and stuck her hand out tentatively to shake. “Edy.”

  Gwyn squeezed both of Edy’s arms and looked over her shoulder. “Get lost, TJ. She’s taken by the guy who’s going to mop your ass tonight. And before you ask about Chloe, she’s taken by the guy who’s going to help him.”

  TJ jerked a blond brow. “It’s like she doesn’t want us to be friends.” He rolled outrageously glacial eyes at them. Edy imagined that girls at Brookline wanted to dive deep in that cool gaze and work out the wonders beneath. Or probably just work him out.

  TJ grinned as if he’d read her thoughts. Edy snorted and faced forward.

  Unlike Madison, Brookline didn’t have much of a squad to work with. TJ leapt to his feet though, cheering, the second they plowed downfield with the kickoff return, obnoxious as if they had a chance.

  “We’re going to have a problem,” Edy said when he sat, though she couldn’t stop the smile on her face. Anyone who rallied around a bruised and wilting team was A-okay with her every day.

  “A problem? That’s really not what I would call it. You and I would never have a problem if I could help it.” TJ went for the buttery smile coupled with the undress me-eyes this time.

  “Uh yikes,” Edy said. “Make sure that statement extends to my boyfriend, too.”

  She faced forward again and cheered when South End picked up a quick sack. From Edy’s other side, Chloe nudged her hard.

  “Hey,” she said. “I’m in the TJ Armstrong’s a Hottie Club, believe me, but—”

  “Well, I’m not,” Edy said. “So delete the rest of that statement.”

  A large couple side saddled past them, with the woman’s pear shaped behind waddling near the danger zone of Edy’s nose. By the time they’d mashed enough toes, sloshed soda, and swore without apology, it was time for Hassan and Lawrence to hit the field.

  Edy jumped up and screamed herself wild at the first sight of her boys. With her fists pumping and arms waving, she thought back to so many days shared and gone. To Harvard-Yale games that couldn’t be missed growing up, to crisscrossing the country for bowl matches. They’d seen the Patriots, Bruins, Celtics, and Red Sox earn championship rings. How had their families gone from that to being unable to assemble for a high school home game Hassan was in?

  All around Edy, the stomping began, jarring the bleachers, gaining momentum. The second she sat, Chloe grabbed her hand so they could stomp together, feet wild and pandemonium soaring. Offense was South End’s game and everyone knew it. It was time to claim another win.

  On his first attempt, Hassan picked up five yards. Edy whistled and waved her gloved palms. Next to her, Chloe pumped a fist.

  “Now you see,” TJ said. “We could have stopped Pradhan with another man in the box.”

  “Yeah,” Edy mocked. “Because that’s never been done before. Anyway, your linebackers move like mud. He slips right past them. They’re hopeless.”

  That launched them into a play-by-play debate that no one else wanted in on. When Brookline began to go up in smoke, TJ took it in with a laugh. There was always basketball season, he pointed out. Or lacrosse. They were good at that.

  Caught up in the downstream exit of the crowd, Edy and her friends weaved their way out as they belted the latest and most obnoxious of South End chants. Unfortunately for TJ, it included mentions of his school getting screwed in all sorts of ways.

  They made it only as far as the stadium before Edy stopped, eyes narrowing at a girl who glided past.

  She’d had a silly thought, of course. A silly, impossible thought, as a girl with thick, dark hair and graceful curves eased past with another of her age.

  “Mala?” Edy said uncertainly. “Mala Bathlar?” Not possible.

  The girl stopped and turned, gaze sweeping wildly.

  Edy’s first instinct was to bolt. She wanted to run, bury herself beneath covers, and remain there for all eternity. Because this couldn’t be. It wouldn’t be. Mala here and not in India.

  “Do I know you?” Mala said in clipped British English.

  “I’m … Edy. Edy Phelps. I don’t know if you remember me.”

  Mala’s features tugged together in confusion. Awkward seconds passed. Then she laughed. Laughed as if Edy was no one at all.

  “Right. You are Hassan’s friend. The little girl that runs with him.”

  She wasn’t there. She wasn’t talking. She wasn’t real, not at all. Perhaps Mala Bathlar disappeared if Edy closed her eyes long enough.

  “Well,” Chloe said. “We’ll see you around. Or not.” She took a firm grip on Edy, which snapped her out her spell. Edy stumbled away with her, blinking, disoriented.

  “Excuse me,” Kori said. “But who the hell was that?”

  “And why did she call you Hassan’s ‘friend’? Or a ‘little girl’? We should go back and find out,” Gwyn said.

  TJ brought up the rear with the sound of a match striking.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Chloe said quietly to Edy. “That was pretty weird. And Gwyn’s right; you need answers.”

  Answers. They assumed she didn’t have those. What she needed was some time to get her head around Mala being in Boston and whatever it did or didn’t mean.

  Hassan must not have known, otherwise he would have been ballistic. Which meant that his mother must have been arranging and rearranging his life again. But what would be the point of Mala’s there without Hassan knowing it? Once Edy and Chloe gained a little distance from the other girls, she asked the question aloud.

  “Nothing so far as I can tell,” Chloe said. “So, maybe he does know?”

  Edy knew better than that. She knew they were better than that, in fact. “I trust Hassan, Chloe. He trusts me. There’s nothing else to talk about.”

  Kori snorted. “You trust your friend, little girl. Isn’t that what she said?”

  Edy reared on her. “I don’t care what she thinks, okay? And I don’t care what you think, either!”

  Everyone froze, including TJ with a joint between his lips. “So, are we going to party now or what?” he said.

  “Go party by yourself,” Edy said and crossed the street.

  She walked home alone that night.

  Twenty-Eight

  Wyatt’s maternal grandfather visited him on the Friday morning he finished a ten page letter to Edy. In it, he had all his transgressions, all his shortcomings, all his confessions, every wrong he could think of. Jammed on the page. Scratched out and explained clearer. No excuses. Not one. Angry tears fell as he wrote, as he cast aside wicked lies he’d told year in and year out. For her, he did this. For her.

  “What’s that you have there, the Gettysburg Address?”

  He didn’t need to look up to place this voice; it was his own. Everything about this man belonged to him, and therein was the joke. His ultra posh, yacht owning, lushly rich, maternal grandfather looked and sounded like Wyatt.

  Ha ha.

  “No, sir,” Wyatt said and tucked the letter—booklet—into his desk drawer.

  His grandfather surveyed the room, nose wrinkled, before looking down on Wya
tt again. “Have you given further consideration to my offer?”

  “The one where I consent to being locked away? Thanks, but no. I’ll stay where I am.”

  His granddad had a long, hand carved walking stick complete with ivory handle. The old man rapped that against the floor in disgust. “It is not ‘being locked away.’ It is psychological treatment. Complete with the greatest care money can buy.”

  All in exchange for his freedom. Don’t leave that part out. Please, don’t forget it.

  The old man crossed the room with a ridiculously poised step, before lowering himself onto Wyatt’s bed gingerly. He looked as if thought the mice would rise up and eat him, as if the roaches would launch the rebellion any moment.

  “Wyatt,” he said regally. “Sandra assures me that she’s explained all the details to you.”

  Wyatt nodded.

  “And you understand that should you consent to treatment, you would be released to my custody should you be discharged before your 18th birthday.”

  Which wouldn’t happen.

  “Also, upon release, you would gain your share—your mother’s share—of a substantial inheritance.”

  Which he would never get, because he’d never be released.

  “And the only way to get a dime from you is to commit myself into psychiatric care,” Wyatt said.

  The old man paused. “Perhaps, you don’t understand how much is at stake for you.” He rose again and borrowed Wyatt’s stationary supplies, before bending his awesome height to scribble a number and slide it over.

  2.

  “Two what?”

  “Two million,” his grandfather said. “Established in a trust.”

  This wasn’t real. This number wasn’t real. How could one man spare to spend it?

  “There’s a girl,” Wyatt said and felt himself swallow.

  “I’ve heard. Edith Phelps. How could I not have heard?”

  Right. He had been shot because of her.

  Wyatt touched the paper, touched the number two, and saw it smear from perspiration.

  “What about my mother? Isn’t this her money? Since she’s missing, couldn’t she show up and … reclaim it?”

  “Your mother isn’t missing, Wyatt. You can see her when you like. She’s strung out most days on Blue Hill Ave. and likely not to recognize you.”

  “That wasn’t for you to tell!” Wyatt’s dad boomed like a cannon from the door.

  His grandfather looked on calmly at a sweating, chest heaving, red-faced Roland Green. “You should trust your son with the truth more often. He isn’t as fragile as you make him seem.”

  Wyatt looked from one to the other. His mom. His mom on drugs.

  “How long?” he said.

  “Listen,” his dad started.

  “How long!” Wyatt screamed. It took all that he had not to maul his father. Why hadn’t they gone for his mother? Why hadn’t they dragged her back? That’s what you did for loved ones; you dragged them back. You made them see.

  “Wyatt, there are hard facts you must face,” his grandfather said. “Your mother’s a troubled woman. Even as a teenager she struggled with substance abuse.”

  His father tried next. “Wyatt, I made a judgment call about what I thought was best for you. So, I let your mother go. She knows the way home.”

  Just shut up. He didn’t want to hear that. He didn’t want to hear the finality in that. So he turned to the man his father hated. “Where’s this place you want to send me? This facility you’re talking about?”

  “Malibu, California. I can have Sandra bring you brochures.”

  Malibu sounded beautiful; far more than Chaterdee. Only …

  “Edy,” he said softly. It gave him comfort to have her near.

  To his grandfather’s credit, he didn’t snort the way his dad insisted on doing. Instead, he folded his hands and nodded at the paper where he’d written Wyatt’s fortune. “You’d be offering her a better you, Wyatt. Do it for yourself. You could also do it for Edy.”

  Yes. That’s the one. He closed his eyes with the thought. Do it for Edy. He could do anything for that girl.

  “I need some kind of guarantee,” Wyatt said and his eyes flew open. “That if I go—I’m not saying I’ll go—but if I go, I’ll get out in time for college. Also, no matter when and for what reason I get discharged, I still get to keep my money.”

  “No,” his grandfather said. “You’ll prescribe to a standard set of treatment. Provided you’ve put forth a good faith effort and participated for a satisfactory amount of time—”

  “Forget it,” Wyatt said. He reached in his drawer for the letter.

  “Wyatt—” his grandfather said.

  “Forget it,” he repeated. “I’ll take my chances on life.”

  No one would lock him up indefinitely. He’d do anything to avoid that.

  Twenty-Nine

  Hassan and Edy had been visiting Harvard Yard since they’d toddled around on stubbly legs. Just about every soul in the Kennedy School of Government knew them on sight. New hires were identifiable by their inability to recognize the two. But now he felt the drift, a tug between his dad and him. He even felt it between him and Nathan, though he shoved the sensation of both out his mind when he could. Maybe this distance was a part of growing up, he told himself. Or maybe it had a source he wasn’t ready to confront.

  Anyway, Hassan wasn’t visiting the Kennedy School of Government that day. If he had been, he could have found decent parking on Eliot Street or over by Winthrop, instead of parking all the way in Broadway Garage on Felton. Harvard was old, more than a hundred years older than the U.S. old; navigating its streets in a Mustang was a hassle.

  Dr. Chandra Dhumal expected him, so he appreciated the yawning distance between the Kennedy Building and the William James Hall where the Department of Sociology was housed. No faculty or administrators or program coordinators commenting on how much he’d grown, and oh, those eyes. Edy never got it any better, because hadn’t she grown so much? And smart! My goodness. Just the thought of them gave Hassan a flutter of desperation. Sometimes, when he visited Harvard he imagined he heard the desperate whisper of ‘help,’ that maybe people like his dad and Edy’s dad never lived, but only thought, processed, and dissected everything; digging for the underneath without knowing how to stop. What do they do when they get to an atom; try to break that down, too, and get a boom in the process?

  Or maybe it wasn’t a crazy compulsion. Maybe scholars really did want the answers to life’s questions. As he cut the campus at a run to William James Hall, he told himself that Dr. Dhumal sought some truth that could help him, too. As it was, he didn’t know what questions to ask her beyond one. If she shrugged her shoulders, he expected their meeting to be short. If she told his father, well, he’d have a different problem altogether. Hassan wasn’t in the mood to think like that or to process more than one worry at a time. He was in solution mode right now.

  A whistle pierced the air, so sharp and close that his head whipped around without meaning to.

  Three girls stood jammed in a cluster like they did at South End. One grinned rabidly. Another’s eyes darted back and forth as if searching for witnesses. The third actually spoke. “Do you go here?” she whispered.

  “Or—or to M.I.T.?” nervous eyes said.

  Hassan shook his head and watched the grin collapse first. Then the wild eyes looked him over as if he’d lied for the last time.

  Whisper girl cleared her throat. “So where do you go?” she said softly.

  “South End High.” He flashed a smile. “See you around, okay?” He took off at a sprint, ultra aware of three sets of eyes on him.

  He made it to Wheeler and rode up to the Sociology Department to announce himself. When Edy texted him during the wait wanting to know what he was up to, he spent a full minute staring at his phone, contemplating whether to answer the message, and if so, with what. The arranged marriage was his bull to wrestle down, and he wasn’t putting up with her helping at all.
She carried enough of a burden in knowing about it.

  A mouse of a woman led him down the hall to Dr. Dhumal’s office. It was okay, but nothing nearly as polished as his dad’s or Nathan’s across campus. For starters, compared to the space either one of them had, this was a squatter’s corner. Secondly, both dad number one and dad number two had some sort of wood grain paneling and deep crimson carpeting. Dr. Dhumal had a sick lime wallpaper peppered with baby brown flowers, while her carpet looked like packed earth. He wondered if university politics were to blame and she had no juice behind her, or if the bare truth laid in the way Sociology was pancaked with Psychology and Social Anthropology in their building. Over at the Kennedy School of Government, which just “happened” to sit riverfront, prestige over there could get fanatical. After all, a lot of those folks considered were the children of leaders and considered themselves tomorrow’s leaders. It was nothing to see some a diplomat or elected official doing his thing over there, either. The way Hassan had heard it; they had programs even for them. Given that, it was no wonder Dr. Dhumal’s office looked like some old sock drawer.

  She gestured for him to sit down and offered tea. Darjeeling or Lipton. When he shot down both, she insisted on getting him iced. Hassan checked the time on his cell. He’d already been a little late, fooling around with parking first, then stopping for those silly girls because he’d been so surprised to be catcalled, and now she wanted pleasantries. He’d burst with anticipation.

  He could hear himself breathing, in and out, as if he’d ran hard; he willed himself to relax. She was the one who explained to him that she had only half an hour. She wouldn’t blow their metered minutes on Darjeeling, would she?

  “I don’t have a lot of time to spare, unfortunately. I’m expected at a meeting across campus at the top of the hour. And I do need a cup of tea. You’ll have to bear with me as I make it.”

  She stood and turned her back to him, so that she could busy herself at one of those do-it-all coffee machines on a file cabinet in the corner. Hassan caught sight of her swinging ponytail and remembered the one she wore while jogging. Did she wear them every day, like Edy?