The Best Kind of People

by Zoe Whittall

  She watched him breathe, knew his body would recover. But her George was dead.

  in the family room, she waited with Bennie, trying to fill out legal forms and talking to the prison warden, who had a way of addressing her as though she were in cahoots with her husband, or an imbecile. The suffering, stupid wife. She wanted to rip at his mottled face with her hands.

  She called Sadie again, but it went straight to voice mail.

  She tried to call Elaine, but she didn’t answer. Andrew tried as well, eventually giving up and driving back to Avalon Hills.

  instead of being gentle with Joan, Clara was insistent that she be decisive. “What do you want me to do?” Joan asked her on the highway, cups of coffee between them. “You seem so clear. What should I do now? With this knowledge?”

  “I want you to let go. I want you to just let him go for a while. It will be months until the trial. Show him the kind of consideration that he has shown you, which is exactly none.”

  “You act as though I can just stop being married.”

  “Uh, you can. You’re not Amish. But that’s not what I mean. I want you to accept the fact that none of this is in your control, and you cannot change what happened, and you have to start taking some steps towards ending your marriage.”

  “I have accepted it. I have started to move on, by going back to work and going to a therapist, but the rest will be a slower process, and you are the one that is going to have to accept that.”

  Clara lifted her coffee to her lips and the car hit a pothole, causing it to spill all over her sweater. She swore a string of curse words and then whipped the coffee cup out the window.

  thirty-four

  sadie sat in an oversized armchair in the lobby of the Avalon Hills Hilton. She watched a long line of guests pulling suitcases in and out. Two kids played tag, one bumping into her legs as he ran by. Her jacket was soaked from the rain that was almost snow, so much so that her shirt was stuck to her back. She combed through her hair with her fingers. Kevin wasn’t answering her texts. Eventually she walked up to the desk clerk.

  “I’m here to see Kevin Lamott. I can’t remember his room number,” she told the young attendant, pretending to pat down her jeans pockets for a piece of paper with a number on it.

  The desk clerk smiled at Sadie with all her teeth and looked at her computer. “Sure, honey, who shall I say is here to meet him? Are you his daughter?”

  “No, no. Just tell him it’s Sadie.”

  “Sadie, okay.” She dialed, kept scrolling through her computer. “There doesn’t seem to be a response. Perhaps he’s in the dining area? Would you like to leave a message?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll go look in the restaurant.”

  “Sure, it’s right across the reception area, those darkened doors.”

  Sadie turned and walked towards the restaurant, wishing she were wearing a dress, or anything dry, really. Instead, she was in wet jeans and a T-shirt she’d bought with Jared, which had seemed so up-fashion and city-like, but which now just looked clinging and drenched. She was fairly certain she came off as a lost and neglected child.

  The restaurant host stood at a podium by the entrance. He wore a navy blue blazer emblazoned with a gold crest, much like the Avalon school uniforms. He greeted her suspiciously. “Early lunch? Breakfast? How many?” he asked.

  “One, just me. I’m just looking for someone,” she said, walking past him and into the crowd.

  Sadie spotted Kevin sitting at a booth by the bar across from a guy in a suit with bright white hair. “Kevin!” Sadie said, and approached the table with a smile, as though she had just bumped into him on the street.

  He looked startled. “Wow, Sadie, what the heck are you doing here?” He was tanned, nothing like when he hermitted in the house all winter. He was wearing the plaid shirt he always used to wear, but it looked better without the jogging shorts and flip-flops.

  “I was looking for you,” she started. It occurred to her that she should have rehearsed something, thought of something concise to say.

  “You were, huh?” He looked at his friend oddly, a little bit uncomfortable. He didn’t invite Sadie to sit down. “Well, did you have a good Christmas? You look like you need a raincoat. Such weird weather out there, global warming and all. Not exactly festive, huh?”

  “Yeah, I was just biking by and knew you were here and stuff, and thought I would come say hello.” Everything she said was coming out wrong, garbled-sounding. As if anyone just biked by the highway in the middle of winter.

  His friend regarded Sadie closely and extended his hand. “I’m Gerald, Kevin’s agent. We were just talking about how he’s going to get very rich on this book.” He smiled in a way that didn’t look like it was meant to betray the feelings that smiles usually indicate.

  “Yes, Elaine told me!” Sadie said.

  “I’m sure she didn’t really say that,” Kevin grumbled. “She’s not exactly thrilled about the book.”

  “Oh, she’ll be thrilled soon enough when you can fly her around the world,” said Gerald with a smarmy smile.

  “You’ve never met Elaine, have you?” Sadie asked, feeling suddenly protective of her.

  Kevin looked pained. Sadie took this as a sign that he knew he would rather be sitting next to Sadie in first class, not Elaine. They just hadn’t figured it out, the small details. It’s not as though he could just come right out and say it.

  “So, your dad. Is he okay? I saw in the paper.”

  Sadie shrugged. “He’s going to recover.” She felt like she was talking about someone else. That her father had already died.

  “Your dad? Kevin, this isn’t … ?”

  “Yes, Gerald, this is Sadie.”

  “Oh my gosh! It’s so great to meet the inspiration for our heroine, the lovely Lori Fine!”

  Gerald stood up to reach for her hand. She offered it limply while he shook it, as though Sadie was someone worth shaking hands with. She took a step back. “What do you mean?”

  “Gerald, she hasn’t read it yet. It’s something I —”

  “I’m the heroine in your book?” She smiled, tried to play it cool, but her heart would not stop pounding in her ears. A blush blossomed across her clammy, mascara-streamed face. She couldn’t believe it. He was being so obvious.

  “Sort of,” said Kevin. “I’ve been meaning to tell you about it in person, I just wasn’t ready yet.”

  “You know,” said Gerald, dipping a piece of toast into a sloppy egg yolk, “I’ve met your father, so I know who the real Mr. Fine is, but to meet you — it’s simply extraordinary. You are like the moral centre of his narrative.”

  Sadie sat down next to Kevin in the booth, forcing him to move over, but their legs still touched. “What do you mean, my dad? My dad is in jail,” she whispered.

  Gerald’s eyes widened. “Kevin, my god, you haven’t told her anything?”

  Kevin took a long sip from his glass of beer. Gerald handed Sadie his phone, linked to a newspaper article. Under the headline kevin lamott signs 6-figure deal to write book based on woodbury sex scandal, the article read: “Lamott, best known for his literary debut novel Hands On, which won the National Book Award ten years ago, had personal access to the family, and Poplar Press is claiming this will be his breakout book, having already sold rights in advance to over 23 territories.”

  “You wrote a book about my dad’s case?”

  “It’s fiction, really, and Elaine told me that it wasn’t right to do this, but you see, I have to write when I’m inspired to, and this was just too much, happened in my own house. And really, you will love Lori, Sadie, you will. There’s a lot to love about her — just like you.”

  Sadie didn’t know whether to feel angry or flattered. She felt a bit of both. Mostly, she felt startled. And cold. The dampness of her clothes started to burn through her.

  �
�Has Elaine read it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she’s mad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because ultimately she doesn’t understand the process of writing fiction, Sadie.”

  “No, it’s because I don’t understand exploiting a girl living in your own house to feed your overdeveloped ego and desperation to succeed.”

  Elaine was suddenly hovering over them as if in the clouds.

  “Elaine! I’m so glad you could meet us for lunch,” Kevin’s agent said, grimace-smiling at her.

  Sadie began to feel weak.

  “I wasn’t exploited! My feelings are real! You just can’t handle it, and you” — she stood up, pointing at Kevin — “knew it. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

  “Knew what? Sadie, my god, what are you talking about?”

  “About you and me … our … connection.”

  She heard Elaine say, “See? See, Kevin? She is not some plot point for you to use. She is a troubled young girl, her family has gone to shit, and you don’t actually care about her feelings. You are a fucking narcissist, and unless you change your book and keep her name out of the publicity machine, I will never speak to you again, do you hear me?”

  Gerald spoke up. “Elaine, let’s just all take a breath, okay? Have a seat. Waiter, get this lady a mimosa over here. We’re celebrating, after all.” He patted the booth beside him.

  Elaine remained standing.

  Gerald continued. “Tying the book to the story of what really happened here is what we’re gunning for publicity-wise. It’s the best hook in the world. We’re going to release it the week of the trial. He lived with her, he knows her. Consumers love a real-life connection. It’s not exploitative, it’s passionate, it’s real life, it’s raw, and it’s what will ultimately be redemptive. It’s fucking Oprah-worthy, let me tell you. You could all be very rich!”

  “Oprah doesn’t even have a show anymore,” mumbled Sadie.

  “You smarmy piece of trash, don’t you ever address me again, you understand?” Elaine’s normally cool tone of voice had vanished. Kevin and Gerald paused in what looked like fright. She turned and grabbed Sadie’s hand.

  “No,” Sadie said meekly.

  “Sadie, trust me. Kevin is not your ally here.”

  “But —”

  “Now, come with me. I’m taking you home.”

  “I have my bike,” she mumbled like a six-year-old.

  “We’ll put it in the trunk. Let’s go,” she insisted, as if they were running from some sort of bomb about to explode.

  Sadie followed her out into the lobby, past an army of valets, and into the parking lot. She grabbed her bike and placed it awkwardly in the trunk of Elaine’s minivan.

  Before she started the car, Elaine turned to Sadie.

  “Did Kevin come on to you?”

  “No. I don’t know. I think I misunderstood some things.” She started to cry, pulling at her wet shirt.

  “What did you mean in there?”

  “I just thought … I just thought that he liked me.” She sounded like a schoolgirl. “He was so interested in talking to me, but I guess it was …” She couldn’t finish the sentence because she just didn’t want to admit it.

  “For the book?”

  “Yes,” she admitted weakly. “Yes, I suppose it was.”

  “This is why you dumped Jimmy?”

  “I guess. Jimmy and I spent so much time together, I just started to get bored. Every time I turned around, he was just there. He was like a dog or like a brother.”

  “That happens sometimes,” Elaine said gently. “Although he really loves you. He’s been a mess since you left.”

  This made her heart hurt a little, thinking of Jimmy hurt. She didn’t want that.

  “Are you sure Kevin never said or did anything inappropriate?”

  Sadie considered it. “Not really,” she admitted. “Is it bad that I kind of wanted him to? Not because I wanted to hurt you, of course. I’m so grateful for you. God, I wasn’t even thinking of you, if I’m being totally honest. I separated you from the whole thing. I just got so wrapped up in this idea of running away with him forever.”

  Elaine sighed. “He is a charmer. But have you thought that maybe it had to do with the running-away part? Maybe you ran away to us, but we really aren’t far enough away from everything.”

  “Yeah.”

  Elaine turned the key in the ignition, silencing the blaring talk radio station.

  “I’m sorry I tried to steal your boyfriend,” Sadie said, sobbing.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Elaine said in her matter-of-fact way. “And this whole experience has been rather instructive — for me, anyway. Sometimes being an adult doesn’t prevent you from making terrible choices.” She honked at the car in front of her and pulled out onto the highway. “Do you want to come over, or would you like to go home?”

  Sadie couldn’t believe that Elaine would welcome her back into her home after what had happened, that she wasn’t kicking her out of the car onto the side of the highway.

  “Home,” she said. She turned on her phone. Twenty-three missed calls from her mother.

  thirty-five

  when joan got home, Sadie was already in bed under the covers, a slow electronic moan emanating from her iPod dock. Payton was pacing around her, kneading his paws into the pillow. Joan moved a pile of her clothes from the edge of the bed and sat down. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about your dad …”

  Joan couldn’t say it. She didn’t want her to conjure any gruesome images.

  “It’s fine, Mom. I don’t need protecting,” Sadie mumbled, sitting up.

  Joan reached over and ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair, pushing some strands behind her ear. “He’s okay. He’s going to be okay.”

  “I’m so glad, so glad,” she said. “I miss him.” Sadie closed her eyes, refusing to engage any further. “I’m just so tired.”

  Joan kissed her on the forehead and said they’d talk about it in the morning.

  joan’s therapist’s office was in a three-storey professional building above a Starbucks in a suburb thirty minutes away. Joan had rarely been to this particular town, and she felt good walking around and feeling a bit lost. It gave her a task: find where you are and where you’re going. Before this all happened, it would have frazzled Joan, not knowing where she was. She would have been sweaty and annoyed, refolding the map book that fit awkwardly in her purse, pressing fingertips in the smudged-out edging; every moment she spent lost would have felt like a waste of her time. Now it gave her direction, in that literal way she appreciated.

  Joan told her quickly about how George had been hurt in jail, and about Sarah Myers. That George would remain in hospital for another day or two before being transferred back. The therapist’s eyes widened, even though Joan could tell she was trying to keep a neutral expression.

  “That’s a lot for you to deal with,” she said, keeping eye contact with Joan, who sank back into the comfortable chair, unsure what to say after reporting the facts of her insane holiday. Dr. Taylor allowed for some silence. Joan pressed her thumbs to the bridge of her nose, trying to quell a sinus headache.

  “I have dreams lately,” Joan said after a few moments, “that take place before this happened. Nothing really big happens in the dreams. I get up and take a shower and get dressed for work. Sometimes I make breakfast for Sadie, and George and I go for our walk around the lake that we used to do every morning. We stop and get coffee at the Coffee Hut. Sometimes there is mist as the sun comes up, sometimes it’s bright and sunny. I wake up from those dreams feeling worse than I do when I have nightmares. Realizing I will never have that normal morning again. It’s crushing.”

  Dr. Taylor nodded.

  “Routines can be so unremarkable, even boring, you neve
r think about them, until they change,” Joan said.

  Dr. Taylor and Joan were wearing the exact same cardigan sweater, a lilac cotton blend with tiny pearl oval buttons. They also had remarkably similar haircuts. From the year on her degree posted above her desk, they were presumably about the same age.

  This had put Joan off during their initial session. Doctors are supposed to be older somehow, if not in years then in levels of experience. Joan knew this was shifting, and many professionals were now younger than her by many years, but trusting someone with her psychological well-being, well … she had been hoping for someone with clear memories of the Kennedy assassination, who could look down on her by at least a decade and offer some worldly, aged wisdom.

  When she’d arrived today, she wasn’t sure what she wanted to say to Dr. Taylor. But once she got started, she found she couldn’t stop. When she left, she expected to feel unburdened, lighter, the way she had after her previous appointments. But she didn’t. She kept seeing her therapist’s detached face nodding, taking notes, in that same sweater. Joan wanted her to tell her what to do, to explain Joan to Joan. But of course, she couldn’t do that.

  Joan stopped at a coffee shop on the way home. She ordered a scone and a mug of tea and sat down at a table. She was trying to practise being alone in public, being alone in the world and relaxed. It felt awkward. She picked up a paper, forced herself to read through the local news. George’s beating had actually stalled debate about the merits of the accusations. One headline did catch her eye, in the arts briefs section: kevin lamott to publish novel based on woodbury sex scandal. “The celebrated local author has written the book from the perspective of one young female victim, and her friendship with the daughter of the teacher, a character based on the popular science teacher from Avalon Hills preparatory school, known widely for its rigorous and high-achieving academic standing.”

  Joan left her hot tea and scone and got in the car.