A Sin Such as This

by Ellen Hopkins

  She went to do her homework while I showered away my own telltale scent, and as I fixed us dinner, she put on Nirvana’s Nevermind, which was our favorite album at that time. We knew every word by heart.

  Growing up, Mel and I shared a passion for music and poetry. We escaped into a sea of words whenever things got rough, and that was often.

  That day, as I put water on to boil for Kraft mac and cheese, she asked, “Do you love Barry?”

  “Love? No way.”

  “So why do you . . . you know?”

  “You don’t have to be in love to have sex. Look at Mom. Do you think she loves the jerks she sleeps with?”

  She thought a second. “Probably not.”

  “Well, then, I rest my case.”

  As I dropped the macaroni into the water, she stumped me. “I thought you were better than Mom.”

  Melody at fifteen. Rarely did she question me, but when she did, it was with a sharp tongue, one that sliced right to the bone. So I guess maybe there were hints of Melody at forty even then.

  So much for relaxing. I straighten in the chair, and when my line of sight clears the deck railing, my eyes discern swift motion in the shadows of the trees. I don my robe before I stand, go to the railing to peer deeper. “Who’s there?” I call.

  But the only response is rustling behind a small copse the burn ignored.

  “Hello?”

  No answer but a crackling of twigs in the forest depths, suggesting someone striding quickly away. My stomach knots unease, though I can’t detect an outline of any living thing.

  Suddenly I realize I have a way of investigating, via the camera system we so recently had installed. Sticky with coconut-scented sunscreen, I go inside, locking the door behind me and praying Eli had the sense to secure the downstairs doors, too.

  Apprehension glitters, though I’m not sure why. It was probably nothing but my overactive imagination, or maybe Mom’s ghost, escaping memory to haunt my afternoon. Why am I so paranoid, anyway? We haven’t had a problem since they locked up the neighborhood burglar.

  Maybe he got out.

  Why would he come back here?

  Maybe it was the kid, wanting another peek.

  Vacationers don’t rent for multiple weeks.

  Maybe it was a bear. A raccoon. A deer.

  Or something completely invented.

  I ponder these things on my way up the hall to check the security camera view. The system is designed to start recording whenever unique movements trigger it, or you can turn it on remotely any time you like to have a look around the property.

  The office door is ajar.

  A sudden surge of nerves sparks a breakout of goose bumps over my entire body, teases the hair at the nape of my neck, and sharpens my nipples into hard points. Retreat or investigate? I listen carefully but discern no distinctive noises, so I tiptoe forward and nudge the door open.

  “Eli!”

  He’s sitting behind the desk, studying the monitor. “Did you know the camera on the corner of the house looks straight down onto the deck? Check out the great view.” The chaise I recently employed is prominently featured.

  “I didn’t realize you were home.”

  He shrugs. “I’m stealthy like that.”

  “So you decided to spy on me?”

  “Some temptations are hard to ignore.”

  “Why didn’t you just come out on the deck?”

  He stands, moves around in front of the desk, but stops short. “Because then you would’ve covered up.”

  For all his apparent worldliness, there is vulnerability on display here, too. I had no idea it could be so alluring. I loosen the sash on my robe. “Are you sure?”

  His eyes grow wide, but he doesn’t move. “Very funny.”

  I untie the sash completely, revealing a long strip of flesh. “Not kidding.”

  He crosses the space between us in a single long stride, but again his confidence falters before he dares to touch me. “I . . . I . . .”

  My robe falls all the way open. “Go ahead.”

  Still, he hesitates, so I lift his hands to my breasts. He closes his eyes. “Oh my God. I never expected . . .” He begins a slow, sweet exploration, made easy by the coconut oil still clinging to my body. His left hand traces the upper contours, a single finger trailing back and forth between the risen peaks of my nipples. His right walks down my belly, through the soft forest of hair, to the valley beneath, slips inside.

  His lips touch mine, whisper upon them, “Beautiful.”

  But that’s as close as we come to kissing, as if that act would join us too intimately. Make this wrong.

  There can be no right or wrong. Only what is in this moment.

  I reach for his shirt. Fumble the buttons. Who’s the clumsy one now?

  “I’ll help you,” he says, but just as the words leave his mouth the doorbell rings.

  We pull away like we bit each other, and I scramble to cover up again, though whoever it is can’t possibly see us in here.

  “Shit,” says Eli.

  “Double shit,” I add.

  Eli laughs, and that makes me laugh, too.

  “Should I answer the door?” he asks. “Or do you think they’ll go away?”

  “It’s probably Mel.”

  “Then I’ll get it. But first . . .” He licks his fingers. “Yum.”

  Matter-of-fact. No discussion. End of scene. Lights down.

  Exiting the office, I turn left to my bedroom. “I’ll take a shower.”

  Eli turns right toward the door. “I’ll entertain your sister.”

  Hopefully not like he just entertained me.

  I run the water steaming hot, stand beneath it until it fades to lukewarm, a series of words cycling through my deviant mind. Temptation. Imprudence. Distraction.

  Indiscretion. Reaction. Impulsiveness. Rebellion. Recklessness.

  Revenge.

  I shove all of that out of my head as I dress in a comfy jogging suit that covers almost every inch of skin. Then I go to find Mel, who’s in the kitchen watching Eli work on dinner. The two chatter contentedly and the blissful domestic picture makes me cringe. It looks like it should be viewed in black and white on an ancient tube television. Except, if it were one of those old TV shows, my sister would come over for a hug. All she offers is a lukewarm wave.

  Eli pretends total indifference.

  Admirable .

  Okay, keep this thing together. I plaster on a smile. “Glad you made it. How was the drive?”

  “Some road construction, but what else is new?”

  Hurray for small talk.

  “What’s on the menu tonight, Eli?” I ask.

  “Halibut. I’m fixing the marinade now.”

  “You don’t mind if Mel and I retire to the deck, do you?”

  “Nope.” He turns and winks at me. “Just remember you’re not alone.”

  Melody looks confused but doesn’t ask for clarification.

  “Should we take some wine with us?”

  “Sounds good,” she agrees.

  Before I can accommodate, Cavin comes in the front door. “What a day. What a week. Thank God it’s Friday.” He comes straight into the kitchen, kisses me on the mouth and Mel on the cheek.

  “Where’s mine?” Eli asks congenially.

  “Very funny.”

  The echo of Eli’s earlier remark is slightly unnerving. I double-check my zipper. “Mel and I were just about to take some wine outside. Join us?”

  Cavin shakes his head. “I’ll pour for you ladies, and then I have to change. I’m supposed to meet Ben for a couple of beers.”

  “Who’s Ben?” asks Eli in a sneak attack.

  “I don’t believe you know him,” answers Cavin, investigating the small countertop wine rack we purchased to use until we build a proper cellar. “There’s a pinot open. That okay? Hey. What’s this?” He leans over the granite for a closer view.

  “Oh,” says Mel. “It’s strudel. Suzette wanted to show off her cu
linary expertise.”

  “Well, it looks delicious. Save me some.” He fills two glasses with the amethyst-colored pinot, hands one to Mel. “Enjoy.”

  “What about me?” Eli asks. “Can I have some?”

  Cavin rolls his eyes. “First off, it’s ‘may’ I? And I don’t think so.” He offers me the second glass, turns and heads toward the bedroom.

  Eli waits till he’s out of sight and pours himself some anyway. Mel and I share incredulous glances, which he masterfully deflects. “What? Dad said he didn’t think so, not that I couldn’t.”

  “That’s between you and him.”

  Mel follows me outside. I take the Adirondack and she sits at the picnic table, sniffing the air. “Still smells a little like smoke out here.”

  “Does it? Guess I’m used to it. Most everything’s cleaned up, but those trees at the front of the stand are charred. They should survive, though. At least, that’s what we’ve been told.”

  “You were lucky.”

  “We’ve been told that, too, as well as being lectured about defensible space. Who knew? Not like it’s something you have to worry about on Russian Hill.”

  She looks up at the camera, which stares back. “Any more trouble with burglars?”

  Strange question. “Not since the cops arrested the guy. But how did you hear about that?” I haven’t discussed it with her.

  “Cavin mentioned it at dinner in San Francisco.”

  Right. That was the night after the excitement. And she quizzed him about Graham and me. “I do hope he managed to convince you that all is right in our marriage.”

  She’s quiet for a moment. “He did his best.”

  Not a real answer, and I’d prod more, but Eli interrupts us. “If you don’t mind, I’ll start the grill.”

  He’s busy doing that when Cavin comes out to say goodbye. “I might toss a few bucks onto a blackjack table, so don’t worry if I’m out late. I promise not to drink too much. But should I happen to break that promise, I promise to take a cab home.”

  “Promise you won’t break that promise.”

  “Promise.”

  “Shut up already,” demands Eli, defying his father by taking an obvious sip of pinot.

  Cavin ignores him. “See you girls later.”

  “Have fun, but not too much fun,” quips Eli, putting wood chips into a metal box that he places on one side of the grill. He turns on all three burners so the heat will rise quickly. Then he goes back in the house to season the halibut.

  It doesn’t take long to cook, and whatever he put on it is perfect—sweet and spicy and garlicky. The earlier discomfort with Mel fades into our full bellies, aided by two bottles of wine. Once the sun is all the way down, the air turns nippy, so we move inside to try some of Suzette’s strudel. I’d leave it alone and save the calories, but Melody insists it would hurt the girl’s feelings.

  Eli cuts three way-too-big pieces. “Ice cream?”

  “Not for me,” I say, but Mel agrees a little vanilla would go well and Eli delivers our plates, sofa-side.

  I treat myself to a huge ice-cream-free bite. “Wow. This is great. The pastry is flaky and the filling . . . Is it peach?” I enjoy another forkful. With the third, the roof of my mouth erupts furious bumps and a vicious itching follows them down my throat. My tongue balloons, but I manage to say, “EpiPen!”

  “Oh, shit,” exclaims Eli. “Mango.”

  Melody jumps up. “Where is it?”

  I look around for my purse. There. Kitchen counter. I point. She dives for it, searches diligently inside. Shakes her head. “Not here.”

  Throat is closing.

  Sinuses, too.

  Cheeks puff.

  Eyes sink into the bloat.

  “Old purse. Coat closet.”

  Eli is on his feet, moving toward the front door. He yanks open the closet, finds the handbag, comes running, and dumps it on the table. There’s a loud clunk as the Glock hits wood, but it’s the EpiPen he grabs hold of. Ignoring the gun, he pops the injector out of its plastic tube and thrusts it in my direction, and I jab it into my thigh.

  Mel shrinks back against the wall, stuttering, “I didn’t know. Sorry. I didn’t know.”

  So why is she smiling?

  Immediately, the swelling begins to recede and the hives shrink. “Okay. Better.”

  Now, confident I’m not dying, Eli picks up the Glock, takes it out of the holster. “I didn’t know you had a gun.”

  “Put that down.” The words scratch my throat.

  Curiosity apparently satisfied, Eli holsters the gun, sets it on the counter. “What is it?”

  “Glock 19, Gen4.”

  “Do you know how to use it?”

  I nod. Shit. He was never supposed to know it existed. Suddenly, my stomach knots. Releases. Knots harder. God, I hope nausea is the worst of this.

  “Leave the gun alone. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  I’m not able to make it to the bathroom, so I opt for outside, which is only four long steps away. I reach the railing and puke over it, onto the dirt below.

  Wine.

  Fish.

  Lettuce.

  Three big bites of mango-laced strudel.

  Finally, emptied, I turn back toward the house. The gun is no longer on the table. But it isn’t Eli who’s studying it. In fact, almost caressing it.

  It’s Melody.

  thirty-seven

  O NCE AGAIN I DISMISS the need for ER care, despite feeling quivery and disoriented. The allergic reaction was as bad as the last, or worse, and I know another would be worse still.

  I sink into the comfort of the big armchair. “Eli, would you please bring me a glass of water?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Are you finished looking at that?” I ask Mel, suddenly nervous about her handling it, and she gingerly surrenders the Glock.

  “Is it loaded?”

  Some afterthought.

  “Wouldn’t be much good for protection otherwise.”

  “I didn’t realize you were that scared,” opines Eli, returning with my water. “All because there might or might not have been someone trying to break in?”

  I indulge in three long, cleansing, cooling liquid swallows. “Eli, not only am I positive someone was determined to get inside but Detective Cross thought so, too. In fact, it was his idea for me to purchase a weapon that would work more efficiently, and at greater distance, than a butcher knife. I hope I never have to use it, and I never meant for you to see it.”

  “I probably wouldn’t have, either,” he says. “Not like I regularly go digging through your old purses.”

  I note he didn’t mention my underwear drawer.

  “I would certainly hope not. I don’t suppose I could talk you into not telling your father about it. He was fairly adamant that I not have a gun in the house.”

  “Because of me? Guess he thinks crazy begets crazy, huh?”

  “Not necessarily. It had more to do with your grandmother’s suicide.”

  Eli can’t hide his surprise. “That’s how she did it? I always figured it was pills or something.”

  “It is unusual for a woman to use a gun. But if you’re serious about an attempt, it’s got to be the most sure way to accomplish the deed.” Marginally less shaky, I stash the Glock back in the handbag. I’ll have to remember to move it later. “Would you please put this back in the closet and try to forget it’s there?”

  “Okay. Then, if it’s cool and you don’t need me for anything else right now, there’s an on-demand movie I want to see. I’d offer to watch it with you, but I wouldn’t want to offend anyone.” He winks. “And don’t worry. I won’t tell Dad about the gun.”

  “Thank you, Eli. In fact, thanks for everything you did for me today.”

  “Aw, shucks, Mom. It was nothing. Next time, happy to do a lot more.”

  He smiles in nondescript fashion, replaces the Glock-heavy purse in the closet, and heads downstairs.

  When he’s out of sight
, Mel asks, “Where did you buy the gun?”

  Strange question. “From a door-to-door salesman.”

  “Really?”

  “No, Mel. I bought it at a gun store in Reno. All legal and everything. Why?”

  “I’ve been thinking about getting one, but I had concerns about Kayla. Now that she’s out of the house . . .”

  “You? You think you need protection?”

  “Sacramento is a rough city and I don’t always feel safe when Graham’s not around. If he decides to move out of the house, I’d like to know I can take care of myself and the girls if need be.”

  “He’s leaving?”

  “It’s possible.”

  Sure didn’t sound that way when I last talked to him. But I don’t dare mention he and I have spoken recently.

  “What about the PI? Has he come up with anything?”

  “Nothing concrete, it seems. Not yet. And I’m afraid he’s eating up the retainer.”

  “He already has.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I just got a balance-due statement from Pederson—”

  “Oh. I’m sorry. Guess it was more complicated than he thought. I’ll try to pay you back.”

  “I’m not worried about the money. It’s only three hundred dollars. But I was wondering if you used my name when you hired him.”

  “Um . . .” Extended pause. “I did, actually. He already knew you and was billing you, so I thought it made the most sense. Plus I didn’t want Graham to find out.”

  “May I ask what the PI has found?” Must be something there, after putting in all those hours.

  “It’s personal.”

  Fair enough. “But he didn’t follow Graham here, did he?”

  “No.”

  At least there’s that. No need to gloat. “I do hope that quelled your suspicions.”

  She doesn’t respond, except to say, “I really wish I didn’t have to ask you to cover his bill.”

  Conversation brakes to a sudden halt right there. So I ask, “Want to watch TV?”

  I let her pick the shows, and after a couple that I try to follow with her backstory prompts, she wanders off to bed in the downstairs guestroom. She knows the way, which is good, because I don’t have the desire to guide her. Despite her making the effort to visit, the rift is clear.

  I try calling Cavin, but if he’s in a casino, he likely won’t notice his phone, which seems to be the case. Rather than return to television, I switch on some low-volume music and pick up my current reading material: Flowers for Algernon. The book is about two mentally handicapped individuals—one human, one mouse—who gain superior intelligence with the aid of experimental technology. For a while, I assume, as I haven’t finished it yet. But it seems that Charlie, whose original IQ of 68 bloomed into an all-time high of 185, now sees his world through very different, comprehending eyes.