The words kidnap and AIDS and illegal immigrant flew around the room, but I just watched Greta. She turned slowly back and for a few seconds she sat there, saying nothing. She wasn’t going to help. She was going to leave me drowning in all this mess. She was going to let me watch Toby get everything she thought he deserved.
“Mom,” I said. She didn’t hear me, so I said it again, louder. “Mom.”
“June, it’ll be okay, honey. Don’t worry.”
I shook my head. “No. No, it’s just—”
Then Greta stood up. She stretched her arms at her sides and reached through her grass skirt and into her front pocket for a hair scrunchie. She twisted her hair into a neat bun, wrapping the scrunchie around to hold it in place. Then she took a deep breath and, as slowly as she could, gently blew the air back out. She scanned the room, looking right into the eyes of each person there, and with a voice as loud and clear as the one she used in South Pacific she said, “It’s my fault.”
The room went silent.
The yellow clock ticked.
My hands trembled so much I had to stuff them in my pockets.
As Greta started talking, the only thing I could do was stand and stare in amazement at that person who was my sister. At the way she could invent a whole story on the spot. She told them that she knew Toby. That she’d seen him once when she was in the city with her friends. She’d gone to Finn’s old neighborhood, right past Finn’s building, and there he was, walking out the front door. She said he recognized her, from the portrait, from pictures Finn had in the apartment, and he’d called her over. She said he explained who he was, and then she remembered him from the funeral. “It was the guy you pointed out, remember, Dad?” She described the whole thing in such detail. How she and her friends had all gotten drinks at Gray’s Papaya. How she got the piña colada—nonalcoholic, she said, glancing at my parents—but the other two had mango, and she was about to throw her empty cup away when she saw him. She said she wasn’t going to go over to Toby at first, but then she decided she would, for only a minute. And they started talking.
“It was stupid, I know it was,” she said. “But he looked so sad, and he started going on and on about how much he was missing Finn. How it was so lonely. It was just so totally weird and I didn’t know what to say to him, so I ended up inviting him to the party. I said that maybe getting out would make him feel better and that there was this party.” She’d crinkled her brow, looking helpless. “I . . . I didn’t know what to say to him.”
Nobody said anything, so she went on.
“I didn’t think he’d come. I mean, I was just saying it, I didn’t mean it, you’d think he’d have better things to do—”
“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” my mother said, her lips pursed.
“Let her finish, Danni,” my dad said.
“But in the end, it was a good thing, wasn’t it? I was drunk. Way drunk. If it wasn’t for Toby, I might still be out in the woods, passed out in the pouring rain.”
“But the party was at the Reeds’, wasn’t it?”
“The official party’s at the Reeds’, but . . .”
She didn’t look at me the whole time she was talking. It was like she was giving a performance. Like a perfect actress, pausing exactly long enough when she needed to make a point. Changing the expression on her face at just the right time. Choosing which person to glance at when she was saying a particularly hard thing.
“That doesn’t explain anything, Greta,” my mother said. “A grown man with AIDS out in the woods at a high school party? No. Nothing makes that right. Nothing makes it right for him to be carrying my daughter across a parking lot. And June’s passport. There’s still that. Why on earth would he have June’s passport in his pocket?”
“Those passports are in a locked box in our bedroom,” my father said to Officer Gellski. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
I wanted so badly to have the kind of brain Greta had. I would have given anything to step forward with some elegant explanation of why the man called Tobias Aldshaw had my passport in his back pocket. But all my thoughts seemed to blur and mingle. The possibility of a sensible story coming out of my mouth was zero.
“No. It’s just plain ridiculous. On every level,” my mother said. “Why on earth would that man have June’s passport in his pocket?” she repeated.
I looked at Greta. I thought she’d been flustered by the passport thing, because she didn’t say anything. I kept watching her until I saw something change. I actually saw the exact moment when she switched on a guilty face. She looked down at the floor, then back up, peeking through her bangs, as much like a little girl as she could make herself. Then, cool as anything, she told the whole room a story about making fake IDs to buy alcohol.
“I’d made one for myself a while ago. It’s wrong, I know, but June wanted one too. I thought she was coming to the party. I said I’d try to make something for her, and . . .”
Both cops stood there, nodding their heads.
“We’ve seen this kind of thing, Mrs. Elbus,” the younger one said. “I know it’s difficult to believe when it’s your own kid.”
“Are you saying Toby was helping you make fake identification, Greta?”
“No, no.” Greta shook her head hard. “The passport must have fallen out of my pocket. He must have picked it up for me.”
My mother and father looked stunned. It was hard to tell if they were believing Greta’s story. But then, I thought, what else was there to believe? That this dying man was trying to kidnap Greta and me? Would they want to believe that? Could they really think Finn would be with someone that crazy?
“Well, where is he now?” my father asked. “I think we need a word.”
Officer Gellski didn’t answer right away, like he was considering something.
“We have him in the cruiser.” Everyone’s eyes went in the direction of the living room window, the one that overlooked the driveway. Toby was out there. Right outside the house.
My father took a step, but Officer Gellski put out his hand.
“I don’t think now’s the time, Mr. Elbus. We’ll get him down to the station. Let us talk to him first, then maybe in a day or two—”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.
“Go ahead. Quickly,” my mom said. “You’re in this too, June.”
I left the kitchen, and what I wanted to do was run right out the door to Toby. I wanted to apologize over and over again. To say sorry until I was sure he believed me. Until I was sure he knew it was coming from the deepest part of my heart. But I couldn’t do that. I had to keep my head straight.
I snuck away to the cellar as quietly as I could. I got a big white cardboard box, and on the side I wrote, DON’T TELL THEM ANYTHING!!!!!!! with a fat black marker.
You could see the driveway from the living room but also from my bedroom. I tiptoed up the stairs and cleared my windowsill of the fake candles. Then I threw the window wide open.
There was the police car, and there was Toby sitting in the back. His arms were bare, his hair still wet, and even from inside the house I could see that he was shivering. All I wanted to do was walk down the hall and get one of my father’s big coats and wrap Toby up in it. I wanted to pull all the blankets off my bed and run to the car and cover him up so tight that he’d stop shivering on the spot. But I couldn’t. This was all my fault. He was right there and still I couldn’t take care of him. I flicked my light on and off a few times to get his attention, then I pressed the box up to the window. I held it there for a few seconds, hiding my face behind that sign. Then I lowered it.
Toby tipped his head slightly, his thin face framed in the police-car window. Then he looked away, embarrassed or angry with me for getting him into this mess.
They would not be able to charge Toby with anything. Not after everything Greta said. That’s what Officer Gellski told us. He also told us that Toby’s name would be passed on to immigration. He said it looked like Toby was years ov
er his visitation limit.
My parents thanked the cops for bringing Greta home safely and then they both showed them to the door. They watched as the cops walked down the front steps and out to their car.
“I almost feel sorry for the man,” my father said, staring out at the police car.
“I know, but you can’t,” my mother said. “He’s the kind of person who’s bound for problems. Look what he did to Finn. . . .” Her voice was cracking.
“It’ll be okay.” My father put his arm on my mother’s back and they walked upstairs, looking like they’d both been through some kind of epic battle.
Greta had already gone up, leaving me alone downstairs. I wandered from room to room, turning off the lights.
In the living room, I stopped to look at the portrait. There we were. Those same two girls. Illuminated. I thought that it wasn’t that bad. The stuff we’d added. There was beauty in it. There was at least some small beauty in what we’d done.
I flicked the light off and we disappeared.
Fifty-Nine
Upstairs, I brushed my teeth, then sat on the edge of the bathtub, looking at the coat. There it was, dead wolf, all the beautiful scents of Finn washed away. I touched it, lightly at first, petting it with my open hand.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, stroking the coat harder, over and over again.
Even though it was dark and way past midnight, that Saturday would not let itself end. It stayed, keeping me up, making me drag it right into Sunday. I lay in bed, over and over again running through what Greta had done for me. For Toby and me. And then over and over again I thought of Toby and hated myself for the trouble I’d dragged him into. I wondered if they had him all cold and wet, sitting in that small jail cell in the police station in town. The one they made our whole class squash into when we went there on a class trip in fourth grade. “This is where you don’t want to end up, right, kids?” the policeman said. Everyone except Evan Hardy nodded. Evan stood there with his hands on his little-boy hips and said, “Yeah, yeah, I do.” I remember being afraid for him. I remember thinking they might just keep him in there if he kept talking like that. And now it was Toby, and all I wanted to do was run through the streets of town, right to that cell. I wanted to bring him dry clothes, and I wanted to tell him how sorry I was.
I tried pushing it all away. I counted backward from one thousand. I listened to the rhythm of my father’s snoring, trying to breathe in time to it. I opened my curtain and lay on my back. The storm had petered out, and I watched the after-storm clouds whizzing over the moon, covering it, then letting it shine. Then, through all of that, I heard the sound of crying.
I pressed my ear up against the wall next to my bed. The crying went on, then stopped for a while, then started again. Greta was awake.
The lights were off in her room except for the blue heart night-light under the desk. When I nudged her door open, she instantly slouched deeper under her covers and turned to face the far side of the room.
“Can I come in?”
Greta shrugged, and I quietly crawled into her bed, pressing my back against hers. We lay there, saying nothing, our bodies stiff and tense.
“Thanks for saying all that,” I said.
I felt her wiping her eyes against the blanket.
“I shouldn’t have called him. . . . I know you hate him. . . .” I heard my voice cracking.
Greta started to laugh. It wasn’t a happy laugh. More sad and frustrated.
“You just don’t get it, do you?” I felt her shaking her head and I turned. She was sitting up and reaching under the mattress. She pulled out a bottle of some kind of liquor. “Go get some soda from the fridge, okay?”
“What kind?”
“I don’t care, but be quiet.”
I slipped out and came back with a half-full bottle of cream soda and a glass. Greta poured some of the liquor in and then topped it up with the soda.
“Here,” she said, passing me the glass. I took a sip. It was sickly sweet and then there was the heat from the liquor. I handed the glass back, and Greta downed the rest in one gulp. Then we both crawled back under the covers.
“What don’t I get?” I lowered my eyes, in hopes that Greta might answer if I wasn’t staring right at her.
“How lucky you are.” She whispered it, then turned away.
“Oh, yeah, right.”
“Do you know what it’s like to hope for someone to die?”
“I—”
“Did you ever wonder how I knew about Finn being sick way before you did? Even though he was your godfather?”
I thought about it for a second. “No—I mean, you always know everything before me. That’s just how it is.”
Greta pushed closer to me, her small body against my bulky one.
“Do you remember that day when Finn took us out for those frozen hot chocolates at Serendipity? Do you remember that place?”
I nodded. Serendipity was this old-fashioned fancy ice cream parlor on the Upper East Side. Inside, it was dark, with lots of wood, and I remember those huge frozen hot chocolates with loads of whipped cream. Greta and I shared one with two straws.
“This was before he’d even started the portrait. I was your age, or maybe younger. Maybe I was still thirteen, I don’t know. You, Mom, and I were all at Finn’s apartment after Serendipity. I was in the bathroom and I’d left the door open a little, and Mom walked right in and saw me using Finn’s ChapStick. I still remember the look on her face. I remember it like I’m looking at a picture. Terrified. I stood there, frozen, holding the ChapStick, all embarrassed and guilty, and then she slapped it right out of my hand. Hard. So hard it hurt. She pushed into that tight bathroom and closed the door on the two of us. I didn’t know what was going on. I knew I shouldn’t be using Finn’s stuff, but he always had that lip stuff that smelled like coconut and pineapple. You know? It always smelled so good.”
I did know. I knew exactly the smell she was talking about.
Greta scrunched herself up tighter and tighter as she spoke, until her spine was curved and pointing hard into mine.
“I didn’t know what was going on. I had no idea. And Mom started shouting at me but trying to keep it quiet at the same time. Then all of a sudden she got teary and hugged me. She asked me if that was the first time I’d used Finn’s ChapStick. I told her it was, and she looked relieved, and she hugged me some more. That’s when she told me. About Finn being sick. About AIDS. She told me and she made me promise never to use his stuff ever again. She said I shouldn’t worry about it because it was only once. She said over and over that it would be okay. It was okay, she kept saying, all the time wiping hard at my lips with some toilet paper. I promised her I would never do it again. Do you remember Finn’s lips, June? Do you remember how cracked they always were? How every winter they’d bleed?”
I nodded. I didn’t know what to say.
“But you know what?”
Greta swiveled her body around so she was looking right at me, so our faces almost touched. I shook my head.
“I wasn’t even scared. When Mom closed the door and went back to the living room, I sat down on the bathroom floor and all I felt was happy.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I thought if Finn . . . if he was dying, then maybe we would go back to how we used to be. How evil is that? How totally evil am I?” Greta pulled the covers over her head.
“But you hate me.”
Greta huffed. “You’re so, so lucky, June. Why are you so lucky? Look at me.” She peeked out from the cover, talking through tears. “All these years I watched you and Finn. And then you and Toby. How could you do that? How could you possibly choose Toby over me?”
“But Finn always asked if you wanted to come along. You know he did. You always acted like it was the last thing you wanted to do.”
“Finn always asked—of course he would. But I knew you hoped I’d say no. Don’t even lie. I know you hoped that. It was like a trap. If I came along, you
’d resent me. And if I didn’t, well, then I wouldn’t be a part of any of it.”
It was true. Of course she would have seen that.
I reached out for Greta’s hand, but I couldn’t find it. Instead, I gently touched her shoulder. “I didn’t know.”
“Don’t you even remember how we used to be? I kept thinking that you’d find me in the woods and maybe . . . maybe you’d be worried. How could I compete with Finn? How could I be better than Toby? I’m leaving, June. A couple months and I’ll be gone and then . . . I don’t know. What if we end up like Mom and Finn? What if I leave and that’s the end of us? It’s like . . . It just feels like I’m being pulled out to sea. Do you know what I mean? Those days I followed you into the woods, you there playing like a kid. Like a real kid, you know. Like we used to play. I wanted so badly to shout out, ‘Hey, June. I’m here. Look. Let me play too.’”
She turned onto her back, and so did I, both of us staring at the ceiling, under Greta’s white comforter with the rainbows and clouds all over it. The one she’s had since she was ten. My father’s snoring roared through the quiet room. A slice of moonlight shone in from the edge of Greta’s curtains and lit a dusty world globe sitting on her desk.
We talked for hours in the dark. I told her everything that had happened that day. The portrait. How our parents thought it was all my fault. How I let them think that, because it was the right thing to do. The noble thing. Greta told me that she’d been trying to wreck the portrait, but it never seemed to work. The skull and the lips. They kind of made it more beautiful, she said. She said she went down to the vault sometimes and sat there, hoping I’d walk in. That I’d catch her. It was the same with Bloody Mary. She kept trying to mess up, but somehow the more she tried, the better everyone thought she was.
“I saw it,” I said. “I saw you onstage and I knew you were trying to mess up. I was the only one who seemed to see it.”
“I know you’re the only one. That’s the thing. We were orphans together. I knew you’d see me. I kept asking you to those rehearsals, thinking . . . I don’t know.” Her voice caught in the back of her throat. “I don’t want us to be mean anymore.”
Tell the Wolves I'm Home: A Novel Page 31