Burning September

by Melissa Simonson

  “Done. But I get to choose which one.”

  “Fine. And wipe that smile off your face.”

  “No can do.”

  Jax as he smiled up at me, tongue lolling, tail bouncing. “Et tu, Brutus?”

  I told myself it was no big deal as I helped Professor Lawlis set up. As far as public appearances went, this one was nothing, couldn’t compare to Karen Stone interviews or press conferences. The whole of Southern California wouldn’t be gawking at me this time. But none of that made my heart beat any less fast.

  Who even had a hankering for coffee at nine o’clock at night? I asked myself, pulling the speakers into place as Professor Lawlis did a sound check. So I’d face the critical eye of a few hipsters. So what. They had no room to judge, what with their beanies and funny glasses half of them didn’t even need.

  But nine p.m. came and went, and the normally punctual Professor Lawlis didn’t seem to mind, fiddling with chords, serenading Jax, whose snout followed the bass guitar his master swayed. I couldn’t help smiling at it all, how ridiculous yet unbearably sweet watching this gruff grump sing to a collie was. I would have been content to watch it forever, because it meant I wouldn’t have to sit in the stool beside him, but at fifteen minutes’ past, he abandoned his own phone, straightened up, and motioned me over.

  “You ready, kid?” He played the E chord on his keyboard and adjusted his mic.

  I nodded, though I’d never been less ready.

  “Jeez. I’ve never actually seen someone look green before.”

  “Glad you noticed.” I accepted the sheet music he bandied, settling into my stool. “Really?” I shot him a surprised look after reading the song title. “You’re going to sing, too?” I flapped the paper. “I can’t sing this on my own.”

  “Sure I’ll sing. You’ll sound that much better after they get a load of me. I wouldn’t make you do it alone.” And the soft way he smiled made it seem like he was talking about more than just the song. I didn’t have to be alone, so long as I had him. My only friend didn’t have to be a locked-up lunatic I was related to.

  “Thanks.”

  He turned to his microphone, clearing his throat. “We’re gonna get started now. What a crowd we’ve got here.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the four bored patrons glance up from their phones.

  “I finally convinced my girlfriend here to join me. I’m no Huey Lewis, but she can do a decent Gwyneth Paltrow impression.”

  I groaned, feeling a hot wave of blood rush into my cheeks.

  “You’ve got your mic on, kid. Everybody heard that.” He cocked an eyebrow, gave me a smirk as he played the relaxed opening E chord of “Cruisin’” on his keyboard, kept his eyes trained on me the whole time.

  “Baby, let’s cruise…” he sang, though it sounded more like a screech. I was sure he made his voice purposely bad. Even without the burgeoning smile, the twinkle in his eye proved it. See? You’re bound to sound better than that. The whites of his eyes shone blue, reflecting the blinking OPEN sign from the front of the shop.

  I followed his lead, kept my gaze on him, not the lackluster audience as I gave the answering line. Away from here. It was hard not to burst out laughing through the lyrics, watching him do a truly dreadful Stevie Wonder impression. My cheeks hurt through the effort of holding back a laugh. I was sure the overacting was for my benefit, forcing me to look at him, not the audience, trying to keep my nerves at bay.

  And if you want it, you got it forever

  This is not a one-night stand…

  The sheer thought of a one-night stand involving Professor Lawlis was enough to make me wet myself with derisive laughter.

  He gave me what I assumed was supposed to resemble bedroom eyes, something akin to a come-hither look, but it seemed more like Bugs Bunny’s rendition of Carmen Miranda as he fluttered his sparse lashes. It looked like he’d gotten dust in his eyes more than anything.

  And it was almost like we were back in his classroom, despite the hot lights and overpowering scent of espresso. Our voices blended the same way they had back when we’d first played the song together, his lower tenor and my alto. Not perfect but better, just messing around as we had a thousand times before, like that one time I convinced him to play ‘Mambo Number Five’ on his EVH Stealth and sing along. He hadn’t even noticed when a horde of curious faces materialized in the doorway of his classroom, wondering what all the commotion had been about. I never saw him happier than he was when he was playing. It was like it turned him into someone else entirely, someone whole and intact, who’d never seen a war or lost a leg and a wife.

  Maybe the lyrics had sunk in a little too well. Let the music take your mind. I did as the song instructed. I didn’t need my mind, I was tired of listening to it, it never had anything good to say, anyway.

  When the song had concluded, I begged off the stage, pointing at my throat, feigning thirst. Professor Lawlis rolled his eyes, shouldering the guitar I gave him, and waved me off. “You know you’ll be back for another round, kid.”

  I told him I didn’t know any such thing and made my way to the register. The barista barely looked up from her phone as I handed over a sweaty bottle of water I’d fished out of the fridge. I flinched when her arm shot past my shoulder, reaching for something I couldn’t see. A five-dollar bill was clenched in her hand when she pulled it back, and I glanced behind me to find the last thing I’d ever expected to see.

  “What are you doing here?” I fell back a few steps, like he was rattlesnake I’d come across in some brush, fangs bared, ready to strike.

  “He called me.” Kyle nodded to the stage, where Professor Lawlis carefully avoided my gaze, rifling through his sheet music.

  I waved my hand, trying to catch the traitor’s attention. “You Judas.” He pretended not to see me, so I turned back to Kyle. “When did he call you?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “How did he get your number?”

  “It’s in the yellow pages. He called the firm, asked to leave a message for me. I called him back.”

  “Well I’m sorry he wasted your time.”

  He rolled his eyes up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “Why do you have to be so difficult? If it were a waste of time I wouldn’t have bothered showing up at all.”

  I stared at the floor, walking to a back table by the windows, silent as I sat, twisted the cap off the water bottle, took a slug.

  He pulled out the chair opposite mine, the streetlamps lining the sidewalk pouring white light over him. “Why didn’t you call me back?”

  “Because I was mad. And when I wasn’t, I went to see you. Which was a giant fucking mistake, obviously.”

  He barked out an unhappy laugh, slouching back in his seat. “You didn’t even give me a chance to explain anything. You can’t be mad over something you know nothing about. I tried, okay? I tried to reach you. I did everything short of just showing up on your doorstep, because I knew that would be crossing some line in your mind. The ball was in your court.”

  “Yeah,” I snapped, angrily shoving a wad of hair off my face. “I knew where the ball was, thanks. I went over to apologize. I wouldn’t have, had I known what I’d find.”

  “You’re the most hardheaded person I’ve ever met, you know that? Second only to your sister.”

  “Well I didn’t ask for your company tonight, did I? You can leave whenever you want.” I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. “There’s the door. It’s a free country.”

  “She was my best friend’s wife, Kat.”

  I tipped my head back and laughed, but it wasn’t my usual one. It was bitter and harsh, the same laugh Caroline had given me when I first saw her straightjacketed in Breakthrough and asked her what the hell had happened. How did we get here? she’d asked, shaking her head, foggy eyes barely able to focus through a slightly drugged haze. You tell me, because I’ve got no idea.

  I stared out the window, watching the hot wind thread through palm trees. “He won’t be your best
friend for long, once he knows you’re screwing his wife—”

  He smacked his hand on the tabletop, startling me into silence. “Look at me, okay?”

  I did, but grudgingly.

  “She wanted to throw him a surprise party. He was turning thirty, it’s a milestone birthday. She couldn’t plan it at their house, now could she? Hey honey, ignore all your friends colluding in the living room—it wouldn’t have worked. I told her she could come over, that I’d help her with the details at my place. If you’d given me even one minute to explain before rushing off, you would have realized that.”

  I sighed and looked away, back at Professor Lawlis, now playing some vaguely blues-ish guitar solo. “You could have made all that up just now.”

  “Why would I have come here to lie? How much sense does that make? If it really was what it looked like, me cheating on you, I wouldn’t have bothered coming at all. I just wanted to see you.” He grunted, hauled out his phone, stabbed a few icons. “Look. Look at this. Anyone look familiar?”

  It looked like a wedding photo. I raised an eyebrow, glancing up at his face. “Why do I need to look at a wedding album?”

  “Because it’s Carissa, right there next to Josh. You’ve seen pictures of Josh before. That’s him, the guy in a tux. See anyone in a big white dress standing next to him who looks halfway familiar? Keep scrolling. I was the best man, you’ll see me crop up sooner or later.”

  The woman was more than familiar; my mind had conjured all sorts of images of her locked into naked acrobatic positions with Kyle since the second I’d seen her in his apartment. “This doesn’t prove anything. So she’s your best friend’s wife, so what? What kind of friend drinks wine all alone with his best friend’s wife?”

  “God.” He pushed back from the table. “She told me to stop you after you stormed off. I should have. I should have made you talk to her. Do I have to show you pictures of the surprise party too? They’re all over Instagram.” He snatched the phone back, shaking his head, fingers swiping at the screen. “Thanks for helping plan the best party ever, Kyle. Dated a month ago. Look, there I am with a beer funnel. Scroll through her feed, I don’t care.” He pushed the phone back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not sure what else I can do to prove this to you. You want to talk to her?”

  He looked ridiculous with that beer funnel, an exact replica of the frat president type he so resembled. I bit back my bottom lip, scanning the captions. You’re the best, Kyle, thanks for all your help. 50 people like this! And he thought we could never surprise him! beneath an image of Josh, white-faced and wide-eyed, Carissa’s lips planted on his cheek as he stood in the threshold of a door.

  “Do you believe me now?”

  I felt like one of those crazy women I’d seen on Dr. Phil’s stage, wives going through pockets and underwear drawers, trying to find evidence to prove their delusions of infidelity, planting spyware on computers, scrolling through text messages, Facebook chat history. I’d always thought they were ridiculous, I never thought I’d have turned into one.

  I pushed the phone back, eyes on the scarred tabletop, feeling a hot flush wash over my face.

  He put it back in his pocket, dipping his head to meet my eyes. “So? Do you believe me?”

  I wanted to stay mad to cover my embarrassment, but he’d see through that like he saw through everything, so I just nodded stupidly. “How long were you here?”

  “Since the song started. I didn’t want to ruin it, have you see me standing there and storm off, so I stayed in the back. You looked happy. I couldn’t help smiling.”

  “Looks can be deceiving.”

  “Well, I haven’t been exactly happy either, you know. If you’d bothered calling me back I could have gotten that message across.”

  I swallowed my pride and a snarky retort, but it didn’t leave me with much. My insides felt hollow, like a huge ice cream scoop and tunneled through me. “I’m sorry about how I reacted over that thing about my dad. I shouldn’t have gotten so upset.”

  “I don’t blame you for being mad,” he said, softer that time, kneading his forehead with a fingertip. “I expected it, kind of.”

  “Really?”

  “Come on, would I lie?”

  “That’s your job, lying.”

  “Well,” he said after a long, languid sigh that looked like it had released several years’ worth of tension and toxins, “maybe technically it’s a part of my job. But I wouldn’t lie to you.” He followed the path my gaze had taken, watching Professor Lawlis croon to Jax. “So that’s him, huh? He’s exactly like you described him.”

  “No.” I bit back a smile. “He’s better.” Before this mess with Kyle, the two of them had been the only wholly good things in my life, the only people I knew I could count on.

  I didn’t fight when I felt his hesitant fingers close around my hand on the table. “You want to go somewhere?”

  “Yeah. But I have to say goodbye first.”

  “Wanna meet me outside?”

  “Okay.”

  He didn’t let me get two steps away before he pulled me into a hug, kissing the top of my head as though I were a child. “I’ll be waiting.”

  The coffee shop had emptied, leaving behind just one guy hunched over his laptop at a cramped table. I sidestepped chairs to get back to the stage, and suddenly I hated to leave Professor Lawlis like this, alone with his dog in a coffee shop, playing blues to nobody. It didn’t seem right, not after everything he’d done for me.

  “You’re leaving,” he said on my approach, no question mark punctuating the statement.

  “Yeah, but I—”

  “Don’t worry about me. Maybe I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it.” I slipped my arms around his neck, planting a kiss on his cheek which was as lined as a road map.

  “Think that’s enough PDA for one night, kid.” But he didn’t pull away, just patted my forearm until I finally let him loose. “Keep holding onto me like that, your boyfriend’s going to start wondering.”

  SEPTEMBER

  September fell over Southern California like a chopped-down tree, bringing sheets of fire and ash, befitting the arrival of my sister’s murder trial. The harsh smell of smoke that got caught in my throat whenever I set foot outside was a constant reminder of Caroline, everything she was, the good, the bad, and the slightly sociopathic.

  The media had been allowed in the courtroom, and the nightly news never failed to show snippets of the more interesting testimony. Sometimes the camera would zoom in on Caroline, and she never made the mistake of letting a smile cross her face the way other accused murderers sometimes did, she never gave anyone a reason to assume she was anything but serious and subdued. She wore a cardigan for the first time in her life, it had faux pearl buttons she rolled between her fingers.

  I lied like I was always meant to, my story never changed, and though the prosecutor tried valiantly to paint me as the desperate sister who would do anything to get Caroline off the hook, I had a feeling the Karen Stone interviews had done exactly what Kyle wanted—he’d told me it’s always a good sign if the jury makes frequent eye contact, and throughout my three-day stint on the witness stand, they only ever looked away from me to look at Caroline.

  It seemed amazing that the trial only lasted three weeks when the build-up had taken a year. A year in which I’d cried, suffered, lost everything and somehow got it back again, and now all it came down to was more waiting. The jury had to deliberate, after all. Kyle said generally the longer they took, the better it was for the defense, but qualified it by stating that people were always the hardest things to predict. You could never be sure what was going on behind those closed doors.

  I’D BEEN painting for hours, so long blisters had bubbled between my fingers as I flitted from wall to wall. I’d turned twenty-one that morning, and Kyle would come home soon to the townhouse we’d just bought. The thought of his reaction to the newly made-over living room had butterflies flapping aro
und in my stomach. Bigger than butterflies, even. Maybe bats.

  I heard his key in the lock and crossed the room in two strides, in time to see a sliver of his face behind the security chain.

  “Uh,” he said, jiggling the chain. “I’m supposed to meet my girlfriend. Have you seen her?”

  I kept the chain in place, bracing one palm against the doorjamb. “Remember how you said I could do whatever I wanted to the living room?”

  “Oh, shit.”

  “You said that, right?”

  “I did. Let me in. You’ve got paint on your cheek.”

  I pushed the door closed, removed the chain, and stepped back to let him in. “Remember, you promised.”

  It looked like he wanted to laugh as he stared around the place. “You can take Caroline out of the States, but you can’t take her out of you.”

  I walked backward toward the center of the room, facing him as he stood in the foyer. “I always loved Alice in Wonderland when I was a little girl.”

  “I know.” He dropped his briefcase, loosened his tie as he followed me into the living room. “Did you glue those teacups together? They’re making me nervous.” He nodded at the hutch, where row upon row of precariously balanced, mismatched china sat beneath a DRINK ME sign I’d made out of a slab of old wood.

  “Yeah.”

  “And the Cheshire Cat.” He slipped his arm around my waist, turning us to face the mural. The rows of pearly teeth I’d painted winked back at us, you couldn’t be sure if it looked malicious or mischievous. “Nice touch.”

  “Well, we’re all mad here.”

  “You should take pictures for your sister.” He tipped his head back, looked into the blinding rays of a thrift store chandelier I’d found and welded a gold chain dripping with old fashioned skeleton keys upon.

  “Already done.”

  She was in Milan this week, something to do with the fashion shows. Photographing it, probably, I hadn’t spoken to her for a few days, not since she’d been in France. I’d woken her up in the middle of the night after being shocked into a frenzy. There were other people I could have called, but all I’d wanted was her.