What kind of magician did he think I was? As if I could cast an obedience spell, force her into compliance. She’d only relented on doing the Karen Stone interview because she’d always planned on giving it anyway, I’d just asked her to speed up her self-imposed timeline, not publicly accept defeat and plead guilty to a crime she had no intention of admitting to. I could sooner convince her Kandinsky was nothing more than a simpleton someone had armed with a paintbrush.
“Kyle, I can’t convince her to do anything she doesn’t want to do. Believe me, I’ve tried. If she says no, there’s probably not a damn thing I can do about it, barring me conking her on the head.”
“I think you’re selling yourself short.”
My eyes narrowed. “I couldn’t convince you to even talk to her at the start of all this. Convincing is not my strong suit.”
He didn’t say anything for a few beats, just looked out at me under a fringe of lashes the sun streaming through his windows had turned gold. His cell phone chimed, and he silenced it with one poke. “Even if you don’t think you’re capable, I still want you to try. This would be easier on everyone involved, and while I don’t expect her to care about sparing Brian’s family the hardship of a highly publicized trial, I do expect her to care about sparing you any more public appearances and a three-day stint on a witness stand. That’s what’s at stake, here. To be frankly honest, a trial is more billable hours for me, more exposure for my firm and myself, a chance at more business. But I don’t care about all that. I care about what all this will do to you in the long run, and if it’s avoidable, it’s the way I’d choose to go.” He exhaled loudly through flaring nostrils and peered into a coffee mug on his desk. “Have you had breakfast yet?”
“I don’t usually eat in the mornings.”
“It’s the most important meal of the day.”
“I heard that myth was debunked a while ago.”
“But breakfast has bacon.”
“Every other meal can have bacon, too.”
He rolled his eyes, waving me off as he stood and headed for the door.
I followed suit. “Bacon cheeseburgers, macaroni and cheese with bacon, meat lover’s pizza.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he called over his shoulder, sailing through his office door, threading his way through cubicles.
“Cornbread and bacon stuffed pork chops, bacon quesadilla, potato soup, you can’t deny that I’m right, walk as fast as you like, the truth will always catch up,” I said, sidestepping secretaries who shot me odd looks as I bobbed along in Kyle’s wake.
***
Hey,
How’d you think the interviews turned out? No more curse-laden diatribes about the grotesque Mardi Gras makeup? Personally, I thought it was just whorish enough. You never emailed or called or smoke signaled afterward. Is everything okay?
Guess who I got a letter from? Have you been neglecting Jeff? He wants to dedicate the June edition of his magazine to me, or more specifically, us. Said he hadn’t heard from you in a while, or something. Anyway, as I haven’t made any new pieces whilst stuck in my rubber room, I figured you two could just go through the stuff under my bed and use whatever strikes his fancy. There’s nothing that would be extremely useful in my studio, and the whole place is probably covered in dust anyway. Have you done anything new to add? Maybe you can take pictures of some of your pieces and show me the next time you visit, we can pick the best ones.
I hope you haven’t gotten in touch because you’re suddenly the famous, busy sister, not because of something I’ve done, or whatever, because to be honest I have no idea what the problem is, which is a problem in and of itself.
Hope I hear from you soon. Love you.
C.
Of course she’d have no idea what the problem could be; the problem was her—her arrogance, her pride, everything that would keep her from accepting this plea bargain—and I could never take issue with wonderful, special Caroline. Inconceivable.
***
“Well, you know what they say. No news is good news, or whatever,” Professor Lawlis told me, hunched over his guitar, after I’d explained how the recordings from the camera mounted above the entryway to my condo had been suspiciously dull, void of activity, not even a mailman or gardener to behold. “Probably helps that you made some noise about the problem on national TV. Any stalker worth his salt would lay low after that.”
“Any stalker worth his salt would have chosen someone more interesting to stalk.”
“Well, one man’s trash, and all that jazz.” To my scowl, he added, “It’s just a phrase. This is what I mean about being insensitive and not a people person.”
“That isn’t news to me.” I tried to copy his signature deadpan expression and won a signature grim smile for my trouble.
“Well. Anything else going on? Something that’ll make you forget about me putting my foot in my mouth?”
“Kyle said the district attorney offered Caroline a deal. A good one.”
“You sure kept that quiet.” He consulted the clock on the far wall. “It’s been half an hour. I’d have expected you to open with that news.” He paused, strumming mindlessly. “Unless you’re worried about it, for some reason.”
I gave him a non-committal jerk of the head.
“You don’t think she’ll accept?”
“I doubt it. She’d have to do three to six. Maybe a year and a half with good behavior.” I sighed, ruffling wisps of hair falling about my neck. “Caroline has a lot of pride. She wouldn’t accept a guilty plea. I don’t think it matters how good a deal it is. And I’m scared that in the long run it’ll screw her over. She could get life in prison, no parole, a two-man cell forever. I don’t think she’s realized she’s not invincible.”
“Young people rarely do.”
“I’m young, and I realize what’s at stake, what a trial could potentially cost her. This isn’t a young people thing, it’s a Caroline thing. Most things have worked out for her in the past. Jobs fell into her lap, anything she wanted was always within reach. She worked hard for most of it, yeah, but apart from a bad home life growing up, she’s been pretty lucky. So she’s expecting this to eventually work out, too. She’s never been one to make back-up plans.”
“Have you told her all this?”
“Not yet.” I dragged my hand through my hair, sweeping it off my face. “Kyle hasn’t even mentioned the deal to her. Naturally he expects her to decline, and in the likely event that it happens, I’m supposed to talk to her. As if that’s ever worked.”
“You should just be honest.”
Honesty wouldn’t help me in this situation. Caroline would listen to my concerns and then promptly toss them out the window, smother me with don’t worry about me’s and I’m a big girl’s and whatever else occurred to her.
“Were you honest with your wife? About the PTSD?” I heard myself ask without thinking it through.
His gray eyes flashed my way, brows crashing into each other above a prominent nose. The emotional temperature in the classroom went from seventy-two to one hundred and twelve in one second flat. “It’s a very different situation.”
“So? Were you?”
“No.” He set his guitar down, leaning it against his chair. “I wasn’t. But I don’t think I’d have been capable then. They’re not the same, these situations. They’re not even second cousins. One is a mental disorder, the other is you not having the balls to tell your sister to knock off the princess routine and think about someone else for a change.”
“I read up on PTSD. After you explained it. It’s not psychosis or anything, it didn’t mean you were crazy, you could have talked to her. Why didn’t you? And I’m not even asking because you said I lack balls. It’s true, I have no balls. Ask anyone. I’m just interested, that’s all. You don’t even have to answer. Just tell me to leave, and I will.”
The look in his eyes could have melted metal, but it came and went quickly and left a deflated Greg Lawlis sack in his place, sagging in his chair, th
e life sucked out of him.
“Color me a hypocrite, then, for not practicing what I preach. But I think you’ll have a hell of an easier time talking to your sister than I would have back then, telling my wife sob stories about my nightmares and missing leg and fear of loud noises.”
***
I turned tarot cards over idly, sitting on the living room floor as I waited for Jeff’s imminent arrival, trying not to think about the fact that as I sat there in a funk, Kyle was meeting with Caroline. His luck had to be better than mine. Maybe he could convince her, maybe I was silly to sit here, wasting time worrying, maybe everything would be over shortly. He’d convinced juries before, hadn’t he? What was one murderer who wore her arrogance like a crown compared to a handful of jurors?
I couldn’t help picturing her supremely indifferent expression as Kyle laid out the terms of the plea agreement, how one delicate brow would lift almost imperceptibly, the beginnings of a soft smirk playing over her lips. Acting like it wasn’t his hard work or my public appearances that had helped her out so enormously thus far; no, she’d believe it had all come down to her and her intellect, her leaving behind little to no evidence, her gauzy white veil of an acting flair. Ah, but don’t you see what this means? she’d say. It means I’ve already won, reduced their case to smoking shambles, this is their last ditch, We’re Completely Fucked effort. Why should I entertain such a ridiculous offer?
Because not everything is about you, Caroline, hard as that may be to believe.
The Queen of Wands gazed up at me, haughty upon her throne, black cat twisting around her skirts which swirled out like smoke. Caroline’s tarot suit was Wands, and she embodied their every aspect. Fiery and strong, powerful attraction, energetic in the extreme, authoritative and impatient with opposition of any kind. That cat at her feet symbolized a darker side to her personality, how she could be revengeful and domineering, unafraid of embracing and using black magic to achieve her goals.
I flicked the card aside. It landed face-up, still watching me, so I gathered up the deck and shoved it back into its case as the doorbell rang.
I couldn’t match Jeff’s exuberant greeting, but I tried anyway, pasting on a smile as I shut the door behind him.
“Thanks for inviting me over.” He dropped his backpack. “I’m glad you’re interested in contributing some of your work.”
“Sure, yeah. Anytime. Caroline’s stuff is upstairs, under her bed.” I could tell the prospect of entering Caroline’s bedroom thrilled him to pieces, he couldn’t have done a worse job at hiding it. The giddiness in his eyes stared out at me, undeniable even behind his glasses. I should have pitied him; I knew it wasn’t his fault—how many other guys had I seen wearing that same look whenever Caroline came around? But all I felt was disgust at how pathetic it all was, revulsion swelling like a greasy balloon in my stomach.
He didn’t know her at all. That was the thing about a pretty face. Beauty was blinding, so bright it cast no shadows, obliterated all the negatives and red flags. It made men construct a picture of Caroline that was so far off base it might as well have been on Jupiter. No guy wants to believe the girl they love is anything but sunshine and picnics with unicorns. They loved the image they’d projected over the canvas that was Caroline, and nothing she could do would shake the foundation they’d built. None of them knew her, and none of them would. How could you convince the horrifically deluded that their hallucinations weren’t real?
“You want anything to drink before we head up there?” I asked, mainly just to have something to say. “I made some iced tea earlier.”
“Iced tea sounds great.”
“You got it.” I pointed up the staircase. “You know where her room is, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll meet you in there, then.” Maybe I’d take my sweet time getting that tea, too, the better to avoid his initial wave of lovesickness as he stood in the bedroom of a girl he loved but would never have or understand.
He plodded up the staircase, hand grazing the banister. I watched him for a moment, his heavy plodding steps, and I couldn’t help but notice the Vans logo stamped onto the backs of his shoes.
My gaze bounced up and down, following his footfalls, until he disappeared around the corner.
As if on autopilot, I turned slowly, heading toward the kitchen.
Lots of people wore Vans. Jeff may have had a pair, but so did every other twenty-something in California. You couldn’t throw a rock without hitting ten people wearing them. Southern California was the land of Vans, the breeding ground of active wear shops, you couldn’t be on the boardwalk five minutes without finding a Roxy bathing suit, a Hurley shirt, skateboarders wearing Vans, O’Neil, Osiris.
Caroline still lived in my head, though, and it was her voice I heard that said never trust, always verify.
So I grabbed a few sheets of leftover carbon copy paper and hid them beneath the welcome mat before I headed upstairs with Jeff’s requested iced tea.
***
My poker face left a lot to be desired, but I hoped Jeff wouldn’t notice, being incredibly awkward himself. Dithering in the doorway, he tried his hand at clumsy small talk, skin slowly staining redder with each passing moment, until I finally forced a yawn, simply to be done with it all. I wanted his footprints, not a stilted, never-ending conversation about weather and art magazines.
“Sorry, I’m just really tired,” I said, covering my mouth with the back of my wrist. “But I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He waved and turned on the heel of those suspicious Vans, planting both feet directly on the welcome mat, leaving what I knew would be perfect footprints to compare to the ones I’d already seen on the carbon copy paper over three months ago.
Once he’d disappeared around the corner and I heard the cough of a car engine, I whipped the paper out from under the mat and brought it into the kitchen, where I’d left the other ones.
And like Kyle, I didn’t have to be a professional footprint examiner to see that they were identical. Same chevron tread, same shoe size, same odd way of standing, with the right toe turned slightly in.
I couldn’t tell if I wanted to laugh or scream, the weird way my throat constricted. What in the world could his motivation possibly be? Always hanging around, calling and texting, inviting me to soirees I couldn’t possibly care less about, asking for pieces to contribute to his magazine. How could he do all that and then threaten me with cat kidnapping and interrupting The Bachelor?
For the first time ever, I used the same scary words that had set my heart aflutter not very long ago, but this time they were directed to Caroline’s email: We need to talk.
***
I held up the carbon copy papers wordlessly as Kyle opened his apartment door at half past ten that evening. He stood there just as silent for a few beats, eyes darting from me to the papers, then back again.
He gave me a blank look. “I have no idea what to say to this. Is this a performance art?”
I shook one of the papers. “This is from months back, the day you came over, when I wound up calling the police.” I waved the other. “And this one is from tonight. When I noticed Jeff had on a pair of Vans. I put another sheet beneath the welcome mat so I’d get the footprints as he left. Look at them! They’re the same.”
He opened his mouth, but I cut him off with a particularly violent shake of the papers.
“And I don’t want to hear any I told you so’s, so let’s not even go there.”
He grabbed my shoulder, steering me inside. “I just thought he was the media snitch, not a stalker.”
I peeled off my hoodie and hung it on the rack near the door. “I must have hit the lottery, because it seems like he’s both.”
“Dumb asshole. Didn’t seem like he had the balls to pull something like this off.” Kyle took the papers from my hands, studying them for himself. I’d looked at the damn footprints so long they were engraved on my retinas, so I studied him instead, his plaid pajama pants and fraying T-shi
rt I assumed had been white in another lifetime.
“Well it’s not hard evidence or anything, so calling the police would be fruitless. Does he know you know?”
“Not yet.”
Kyle bit into his bottom lip. “You want me to talk to him?”
“I’ll talk to him myself. I’m not afraid of him.”
He gave me an almost-frown, his forehead creasing as he handed the sheets back. “You think that’s wise, talking to him alone?”
I almost laughed. As if I was afraid of Jeff. He couldn’t even formulate sentences properly half the time. “He’s a pathetic little weasel, I’m not worried about it. I’ll do it at school. Tons of people around.” I followed him to the couch, sighing as I fell into a heap beside him. “God. I could kill him, I really could.”
“Don’t. I don’t want to have to defend another Smirnov on murder charges.”
“I can’t understand any of this.” I slapped the papers on the coffee table. “What his motivation is. It makes zero sense.”
“Well, you said he’s always calling, sending messages, inviting you out,” Kyle said, wearing an isn’t it blindingly obvious? expression. “Making it pretty plain that he wants to be a part of your inner circle. Maybe he thought you’d come running to him with your ‘stalker’ problem and he could be the gallant white knight, swooping in to comfort you. If he really is in love with Caroline, it would only endear him to her, him taking care of her little sister in her absence.”
I rolled my eyes so hard it felt like they would get lost in the sockets.
“Men are stupid. Especially when it comes to impressing a woman,” he said with a shrug. “They do all kinds of things for attention.” He crossed his thick arms over his chest, sending me a sideways look. “It went predictably bad with Caroline, in case you wondered. I sent you an email. You never answered.”
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