Burning September

by Melissa Simonson

  “Well this is important to me.”

  “So I gathered.” His gaze strayed back to the bar, fastening onto a man who brayed like a donkey over a sloshing lurid pink cocktail. “Let me ask you a question—do you think she’s crazy?”

  “Well she looks like a stage five clinger, if you ask me.”

  “Not the Lady in Red. Your sister.”

  “I already told you she’s not.”

  “And yet, look at her new home. They don’t toss people into Breakthrough without good reason. Why would that guy order a Cosmopolitan at a speed-dating event? Not exactly masculine.”

  “That’s sexist. And slicing your wrists is as good a reason as any.”

  He continued to stare askance at the Cosmo Man, seeming simultaneously intrigued and appalled as the guy pulled away from his martini glass with sugar shining on his lips. “Wouldn’t slicing one’s wrists also make one crazy?”

  “Suicidal actions don’t necessarily make someone a nutcase.”

  He knocked back another sip of beer, peeling his eyes off the cosmo monstrosity. “Maybe not. I pulled some of your family records. Your mother committed suicide? I was sorry to hear that.”

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  “You don’t remember it.”

  “I was only three.”

  “Seems like a blessing, given what’s happened with Caroline.”

  Nice as it was to hear things I already knew, he could have told me all this over the phone. “My mother’s history doesn’t have much to do with the problem at hand. Lots of people have shitty families. They don’t up and kill their exes. What are you planning to do about that? Aside from victim blaming.” My fingers etched quotation marks around the words. “You’re wasting your time, talking to me.”

  “I think your family history has everything to do with it. Your childhood shapes who you are. It doesn’t excuse everything, but it explains it.”

  “So,” I pushed my menu off to the side, “just to be clear, you’re going to go with, she’s guilty, sorry, but her mom offed herself, and her dad croaked when she was barely an adult, so let’s give her a get out of jail free card.”

  “Maybe more along the lines of, the prosecution has no physical evidence so they’re using her tragic family history against her, and hey, the dead guy had a lot of enemies—look at his rap sheet.” He took as dignified a sip of his beer as possible. “Tell me about your mother.”

  “Caroline’s my mother. I don’t remember my real one.”

  “You spend a lot of time dodging questions for someone so interested in her sister’s liberty. I’m not trying to be a prying asshole, here. I need your help, and I don’t want to have to twist your arm in the process. Can you maybe try to work with me? What do you know about her?”

  “She liked tarot and the color purple.” I sighed as irritated wrinkles scored his forehead. “Look, if it weren’t for some old pictures from the motherland, I wouldn’t even know what she looked like. The only things I know about her, Caroline told me.”

  She had hair like yours and eyes like mine, I remember her saying while she got me ready for bed one night when I was eight. She made her voice sing-songy to keep me from hearing our father’s drunken antics downstairs, brushing my hair until she claimed it shone like gold Rumpelstiltskin spun from straw.

  When I asked where our mother had gone off to, Caroline’s mouth twitched from side to side as I watched her in the mirror of the secondhand Barbie vanity she’d bought me. She didn’t smile like she usually did, didn’t make eye contact for a while. Her teeth bit into her bottom lip as she worked the comb through a snarled clump of hair.

  Sometimes things don’t make sense, milaya, she finally said. She felt like it was her time to go, so…she did what she felt like she had to do. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t love you. Her heart hurt, not her body. Her heart was sick for a long time. Caroline pulled tendrils of my hair through her fingers as she French braided it. You might understand it better when you’re older.

  Not really. I understood with an asterisk. My understanding* had grown to be that she chose the easy way out of a hopeless marriage and a life she felt was lacking. That some people just don’t have enough strength or courage to keep going, despite apparent futility or grief. And then I’d see Caroline’s struggles with keeping a roof over her kid sister’s head; so young, with so much responsibility, and I’d wonder just how strong she must have been, not throwing in the towel.

  Caroline didn’t drink very often, but one day she had too many mojitos after learning how to mix them, and she wound up telling me the whole sordid tale on our roof one night. She’d finally deemed me old enough to discuss the topic. That, or the mojitos had convinced her.

  I’ll never get that picture out of my mind. I wonder how long she was up there dead sometimes. Could have been a whole day, since Dad slept on the couch. He wouldn’t have noticed anything. Anyway. She slept a lot, so I didn’t really think anything of it until dinnertime. Didn’t matter how bad she felt, every night at five, she’d start banging around pots and pans in the kitchen. So I went up there. At first I thought it was the sun hitting that red jewel curtain she had where the door should have been. You remember that thing, right? So I figured that’s what all the red was. She paused to hand me the mojito glass, waited for me to take a slug and give it back. Well, it wasn’t the jewel curtain. I’d never been literally shocked dumb before. And it was like time stopped, for a second. The weirdest thing ever. The only thing that made it start moving again was you calling me from the living room. Anyway, there she was, dead as can be. All pale. Blood all over the sheets, crust in her eyes. She would have been ashamed if she knew how she looked afterward, I mean, her robe had fallen completely open, and she was usually so modest. God. I’m glad you didn’t see her like that. She leaned back on one hand, swilling the mojito with the other as she stared at the stars through layers of smog. I never really cried. Isn’t that weird? I guess I knew it would happen eventually. And all over some jackass. She snorted. Shook her head in mock wonder. We need men like we need lobotomies.

  I don’t know why she put up with him as long as she did, Caroline told me a few days later. He was useless. Slobbering drunk half the day. Could barely take care of himself, let alone the three of us. She could have done better in a heartbeat; you’ve seen her pictures. Married some guy who actually had money or whatever. I guess it was just that old world bullshit mentality. Men are your betters. All a woman has to offer is her body, she’s not worth anything more. What a piece of shit, you know, sometimes I think it was a blessing he died. He’d have never been able to take care of you on his own. You’d have fallen down a well or something, played in traffic.

  Isn’t that a little harsh? I’d asked, looking down at where she sat, cross-legged on the floor, poking at the keyboard of her laptop.

  Whip off your rose tinted glasses, cupcake, she said, brow furled, eyes on the laptop screen. Sixteen’s old enough to know your dad was an ass. You know how drunk he was when I found her laying there?

  I think I remember how drunk he was after. I didn’t, but it was a safe bet. He’d spent the better part of the seven years between our mother’s death and his own drunk.

  She gave me the same look she gave the maintenance man after he’d asked her out. You know what he said when I told him I found her fucking dead in bed? Well, wait, he didn’t say anything. Not at first. He stumped up there on that stupid bad leg, stood there in the door for a minute like a goddamned mute, stumped back down, poured himself another drink, and said, Vell, maybe ve should call ze po-lize.” She spread her arms wide and shook her head. “Seriously. And that’s all the idiot ever said.”

  In a better Russian accent, of course.

  Whatever. She slammed the laptop closed, scrunched her eyes shut for a moment, then climbed to her feet. As far as I’m concerned, he was a big part of her death. I hope that heart attack hurt. She swept a sheet of dark blonde hair over her shoulder and swished out of the room
. Finish that history essay and let’s get the fuck out of here. We’ll go to that stupid play Blake invited me to.

  Branden, I corrected.

  Let’s keep in mind while we’re there, she called from the kitchen, not to make fun of any of the actors. Inevitably their family members will be sitting right behind us.

  And any other mention of our mother came few and far between, sprinkled in with tarot lessons and when she taught me how to cook things from old recipes. You can tell English wasn’t her first language, huh, she’d say, handing me the yellowed index card and bumping my shoulder with hers. But ain’t that penmanship gorgeous.

  “So I don’t know what you’re looking for from me. If you want to know about our mother, you’ll have to ask Caroline. She actually knew her.”

  He didn’t say anything for a while, just took a slow sip of beer, one eyebrow slightly higher than the other. “She slit her wrists?”

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  “Caroline did the same thing.”

  “Well, I guess she learned how pretty early on.”

  “So she’s depressed like your mother was, that’s why she did it? She decided to abandon her little sister, the one who needs her, who she’s moved heaven and earth in the past to care for and teach and love and protect? She went against everything she’d ever done in the past to up and try to kill herself? It doesn’t gel, Katya. That doesn’t make a whole lot of sense.” I didn’t have a ready answer, and he seemed to have expected it. “So if I look at all her past behavior, I have to conclude that she didn’t do it because she wanted to die. And people who attempt suicide without really wanting to die do it for attention, a cry for help, or manipulation.” He flicked his index finger against his thumb. “None are optimal explanations.”

  “Maybe she felt hopeless. Like the deck was stacked against her.”

  “Maybe she was banking on the fact that your mother committed suicide the same way, and it’d draw sympathy.”

  “I guess anyone trying to find the worst in someone would think that way.”

  “That’s how a prosecutor will spin it. They’re going to say she killed Brian because of jealousy and hatred, and she attempted suicide to get sympathy, or her family history of instability and self-harm got the ball rolling. I’d like to know your thoughts on this, because I took one look at Caroline and knew she’d try to play me. I figured you were less likely to. If you want to help her, you need to help me.”

  “How would she try to play you?” He’d only seen her for ten seconds, according to Caroline. That’s not even enough time to decide what you want for lunch.

  Kyle looked back at the bar, running a finger down his sweating beer glass. “You’ve had to have seen her in action before. Look, I’m not saying she’s a horrible wretch. She gave up half her life to take care of you; that takes a special kind of person. But you’ve got to admit she’d turn up the charm if I sat down with her like I am with you. She’d use her looks and anything else to try to wrap me around her finger.”

  I fell back into the booth as the Lady in Red led out a particularly loud cackle. Yes, Caroline would have tried charming Kyle in a heartbeat. Why wouldn’t she? It worked every time, without fail.

  “Fine. Yeah, probably. I think she would have tried. But you have to look at it from her point of view. Not that she’s spoiled or anything, but she’s never had a problem with men. It’s hard for me to blame her in that respect. Sometimes I think she can’t help it.”

  “Trust me, she can help it.” He pulled his briefcase closer and unsnapped the clasps. “Well, I requested AT&T records, and they’ve gotten back to me pretty quickly. If the police were hoping for some damning new information, they’re going to be surprised.” He fished a stapled packet of papers out, uncapped a highlighter with his teeth, and ran a yellow line over a few chunks of text. “On the date in question, her phone pinged off the same towers yours did, which proves both cells were in your place at the time of the fire. It’s not firm proof of her innocence, but it helps her out in the long run.”

  I didn’t bother telling him Caroline really had no use for much technology and often left her cell phone behind. “Well, hey. That’s good news.”

  “The texts didn’t show anything suspicious, either. Nothing during the month she and Brian broke up, no threats or anything like that. Actually, the amount of texts alone is surprising. Most women her age would average about five thousand a month. She’s barely clocking three hundred.” He shrugged and flipped a page. “The last text she sent Brian went through in early July. She said K in response to his let’s meet up at my place at ten. Doesn’t seem like there’s any woman scorned angle. The fire happening two months after the breakup works in our favor. Hard to buy someone would wait two months after the fact to commit a crime of passion, which is what Detective—” he rifled through pages crammed in his briefcase— “Slater labeled it, in his professional opinion.”

  Caroline had always been patient. She knew when to relax, bide time, wait for an obstacle to disappear or move over an inch. It made me think that the best poisons acted slowly.

  If you’re interested in Gavin, why are you dicking around with study dates and coffee shops? I asked her after a month of her platonically hanging out with the only son of a newspaper mogul. There’s no way he’s not interested.

  Her honey eyes burned platinum behind a tapered candle as she shuffled the tarot deck. One day you’ll live long enough and realize a lot of men are insecure. Friends first is a safer bet for now. I wouldn’t want him to think I’m only interested in his money.

  What she’d really been interested was a job at one of the papers Gavin’s father owned, but she claimed the way it fell into her lap had been nothing more than a happy accident. I do have a modicum of talent, you know.

  I went with her to the Times building one day. She had to speak to an editor about her latest article, and everyone who worked there had been abuzz by the fact Mr. Newspaper Mogul himself had made an appearance in the office.

  He never does that, I heard some women whisper behind their hands while I pored over a book in reception. You think he’s going to fire someone?

  He didn’t fire anyone, but he did spend an awful lot of time with my sister behind the cracked conference room door. She made no mention of their conversation after collecting me from the lobby, but somehow, probably by magic, a lot of expensive jewelry began showing up in her vintage trinket box.

  They say patience is a virtue.

  “She didn’t stop for gas, either, and her only statement to the police was would you stop fucking staring at me? So.” He swept the AT&T records into his briefcase and drained the remaining half of his beer. “What I need from you is a list of possible character references. I may have to set up meetings, see who can say anything helpful at trial. Any ideas?”

  “Sure. Talk to Caroline.”

  “Haven’t we been here before?”

  “Yeah. I recognize that Sinatra picture.”

  “Katya.” Kyle held up his empty beer glass and waved it at the bartender. “I have a good reason not to do so just yet. In the meantime, let’s call this a leap of faith.”

  Right. A leap of faith. Like Hamlet’s Ophelia.

  ***

  My eyes glazed the longer I stared at my English essay. It didn’t help that the internet had crashed for the fifth time that evening, taking all my reading with it, and my demeanor had become more than a little ornery by the time my cell phone rang.

  “Boy, that’s a mighty sassy way to greet your BFF,” Caroline said after my grunted hello.

  “The stupid internet keeps crashing. I need to look up information, and every time I manage to find a decent source, it all goes to shit.”

  “The internet’s strongest in my room. Try there. How’s the TA gig going?”

  “Okay, I guess. I met your friend Jeff.”

  “You know, he can be your friend Jeff, too.”

  I switched the phone to my other ear. “I don’t even th
e know the guy.”

  “How do you think you meet new people? You’ve got to talk to him.”

  “Got any good ideas for character references?”

  “You’re the queen of segues tonight?”

  “It’s something your annoying attorney asked me to look into. So who’s it gonna be?” I trudged up the stairs, the laptop wedged under my arm. “Valerie Rasmussen, I’m guessing. Anyone else?”

  “Can we not talk about this on the phone? They’re going to make me go to bed in like, five minutes.”

  I groped for the light switch and flipped it on. “It’s barely nine o’clock.”

  “This is my second childhood. Early bedtimes, a lot of primary colors, nurses who speak to you like you’re retarded. Save the shop talk for a visit. Today was your first TA session, right? How was it?”

  “Confusing.” I collapsed on her bed and rolled onto my back. A miniature chandelier hung in the center of the ceiling, light shattering onto countless strands of fake pearls Caroline had strung around the fixture, stretching to each wall. The intricacy made my head hurt. I shut my eyes. “I didn’t understand half of what she said. I’m glad she’s going to give me an answer key to grade tests. I wouldn’t know any of the answers myself.”

  “It’s an advanced class, Debbie Downer. Give it some time. Listen to the lectures; things will come together. I have all my old textbooks from those courses. They’re somewhere in my room.”

  “I have enough homework without doing extra for classes I’m not even technically taking.”

  “Uh hello, that’s why you find a nice nerd who’ll help you out with the not-so-important ones. You think all the pre-med princesses bother writing huge papers on The Iliad themselves?”

  “I don’t know any pre-med princesses to ask.”

  “You’ll be happier not knowing them.”

  I flopped onto my stomach, tracing the gold leaf pattern of her bedspread. “I thought you hated accepting charity and handouts. Suddenly it’s okay for me to do so?”