Catching Genius

by Kristy Kiernan

  “Then what the hell is going on?” I shouted, my hand finally clutching the keys. I turned to run back down the stairs.

  “Honey, there’s been a little problem between Luke and Gib.”

  I froze halfway down. Both Estella and Tate were looking at me from the bottom of the stairs, their faces tilted up with twin expressions of dread. I waved my hand at them and mouthed It’s okay, though I hadn’t gotten that thought through my own mind yet. “What problem?” I asked cautiously.

  “Apparently Gib was supposed to spend the night at a friend’s home but decided not to. I believe they had a fight. When he arrived home . . . your husband had a guest at the house.”

  I sat down on the top step, still gripping the keys. “A guest,” I repeated, already knowing who. “Deanna.”

  “Yes, honey.”

  “Oh God,” I said, dropping the keys and shielding my eyes with my hand as though a searchlight had suddenly been turned on me. “Oh God,” I repeated. Estella slowly climbed the stairs and sat in front of me, her hands clutching my knees.

  “He’s there?” I asked. “How is he?”

  “He’s sleeping. I gave him a Valium—”

  “You did what?”

  “Relax, Connie. The child is at least eighty pounds heavier than I am, he’ll be just fine. He was in quite a state when he got here, though. From what he says, he attacked Luke.”

  I felt the color drain from my face. “He attacked him? How? Is he all right?”

  “I told you, he’s fine. And Luke has already called here, so he seems to be fine too. I called the gatehouse and told Otto not to allow him in.”

  I took a deep, ragged breath, shaking my head. How could it have possibly come to this? “Hang on,” I said to my mother and told Estella and Tate that everything was fine so they would stop gawking at me.

  “We’ll go upstairs,” Estella said. They stepped past me, and I raised the phone to my ear again.

  “Tell me everything,” I said.

  “Gib called me from his cell phone—”

  “He’s not supposed to be using his cell phone,” I said.

  “You can ground him later, Connie. Anyway, he called and asked if he could come over. I said of course he could, and he was here within a few minutes. He was just like a little boy, Connie. I could cry just thinking of how he looked when he walked in that door.”

  Tears came to my eyes. Gib had never come running to me in need as a little boy, so I had no frame of reference, but my imagination worked quickly.

  “All he would tell me was that he and Sean had a fight, and when he came home Luke was—well, he said he was in the hot tub with a woman, and they were nude.”

  “Oh, no,” I moaned, leaning my head against the railing.

  “I’m so sorry, dear.”

  “What then?”

  “Luke got out, and that was when Gib attacked him.”

  “What does attack mean, Mother? Did he hit him, did they fight?”

  “I don’t know. Gib looks fine; I didn’t see a mark on him. His clothes were damp, and he was obviously upset, but other than that he looked fine.”

  “What did Luke say when he called?”

  “He asked if Gib was here, I said he was, and he said he was coming to get him. I told him I didn’t think that was a good idea and he hung up. I called down to the gate, and Otto knows not to let him in. If there’s a problem he’ll call the police.”

  “Oh, God, Mother. Don’t call the cops,” I said, horrified.

  “What would you like me to do? Let him come up here and fight it out?”

  “No, no, of course not. You were right. Okay, I’ll pack my bag and be there tomorrow. I’ll leave early; I can be there by afternoon.”

  “No. Gib and I are coming in the morning.”

  “What?”

  “Why not? I don’t want you coming back to town like this, and Gib could certainly use the break. Bob thinks it’s a good idea too.”

  “You told Bob?”

  “Yes, of course I did.”

  I was silent for a moment, trying to absorb it all. And why not? I had been missing both my boys. I was the one who’d been wishing I could show them Little Dune. Hell, I’d even regretted Mother not being here.

  “Do you remember how to get here?” I finally asked. I could almost feel her smile.

  “There’s my smart girl,” she said quietly.

  Estella

  Tate and I pace upstairs. I can hear Connie, but I’m trying not to listen. Tate is avoiding my eyes, and I wonder about their day. My mind inevitably touches on the possibility that he made a pass at her. I know she didn’t make a pass at him; she’s too proud of her marriage to ruin it over an old flame.

  Obviously, Gib has gotten into some kind of fight over a girl. I bring his face to mind, mentally going through the photos Mother sends me. But what I see instead are the Christmas cards we receive every year with a family photo on the cover, the four of them dressed in matching shirts, or with little Santa hats on their heads. I remember Gib is tall, taller than his father, but he has Connie’s coloring. Carson, the younger boy, has Luke’s darker good looks, though arranged in a more delicate way.

  With that sorted out, my mind jitters, looking desperately as it does in times of stress for something else to occupy it. I realize that I am stepping carefully in the center of each tile, avoiding the grout lines. But knowing that I am doing it and stopping it are two different things. Instead, I pull a chair out from the kitchen table and force myself to sit, my knee jiggling.

  I wish I had a pencil and paper. All my muscles have been placed on high alert by my unquiet mind. Tate is staring out the sliders. I can smell the faint odor of Gulf and fresh fish on him.

  My head pounds.

  Connie comes up the stairs. Her face is ashen. I stand so quickly that my head swims.

  “Is Gib okay?” I ask.

  She nods and then sighs, rubbing her forehead, and looks at Tate.

  “Should I go?” he asks.

  “No,” she says. “Tate already knows, so I might as well tell you, Estella. Luke is having an affair.”

  I am so shocked that I sit back down in the chair wrong and almost fall off the edge of it. I catch myself and stare at her.

  “I’m leaving him,” she says and gives Tate a pained smile.

  She leads us to the living room, and for the first time since we’ve been here I don’t give a thought to my head, and there are no useless numbers competing with each other for space in my mind. Instead, I am fully focused on my little sister explaining that her perfect life is not perfect.

  To my surprise, when she finishes the story she leans, not toward Tate, but toward me, and I put my arms around her and rock with her there on the sofa while she cries. For this, a gratitude flows through me.

  We are family.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The phone rang just as I finished humiliating myself in front of Tate and Estella. Estella pulled slightly away from me and looked carefully, embarrassingly, into my face.

  “Oh, go ahead,” I said, wiping my face.

  She answered it, and I could tell by the calm chill in her voice that it was Luke. I started to hyperventilate a little. Tate reached out and held me around the shoulders.

  “You don’t have to talk to him right now,” he said, but I shook my head. Estella reluctantly handed me the phone.

  “I’m here,” I said.

  “Why haven’t you called me?” he started, on the offensive. “I’ve been worried sick.”

  “Cut the crap, Luke. I’ve already talked to Mother.”

  “Listen, Connie, I don’t know what she said—”

  “Was it Deanna?” I asked.

  Luke was silent.

  “I know about her, Luke. I know about all of them. I know about the Beetle, I know about your lunches.”

  “Oh, God, Connie,” Luke whispered. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

  “I guess you should have thought about that a long tim
e ago,” I said. “Is she still there?”

  He hesitated, and then said, “No.”

  “Liar.”

  “She’s upset. I didn’t want her driving.”

  “Well, I’d hate for her to be upset, Luke. Mother and Gib will be here by tomorrow afternoon. I want to talk to Gib before I speak to you again. So, can I count on you to be able to soothe Deanna enough to be free by five?”

  “Connie, please, it doesn’t have to be like this,” Luke said. “If you would just be reasonable—”

  “You don’t get to tell me how to behave, Luke.” As soon as I hung up the phone my composure ran out of me like water, and I sagged against the counter. Estella and Tate stood behind me, uncertainty freezing their features. I shook my hands out, as though getting rid of something sticky.

  “What am I supposed to do?” I asked, aware there was no answer.

  But I was in good hands. After a brief consultation, Tate and Estella decided to get me well and truly sloshed. They swung into action like a superhero duo. Estella ran out for liquor while Tate cleaned the fish. We finally got to watch the sunset from the widow’s walk, and we waved and shouted to Vanessa.

  By eight o’clock, I was showered and eating dinner, laughing at Tate and Estella, who were arguing about the Velvet Underground. They’d already argued the ethics of breeding purebred dogs, the theories of some poor sap named Tesla who apparently was afraid of pearl earrings, the politics of cloning, and whether I was drinking enough or not.

  “Y’all should get married,” I finally said. That shut them up for a while.

  By ten o’clock, and several rum and colas later, we were back on the widow’s walk. I stood, or rather, leaned heavily against the railing, laughing at Tate and Estella again, now arguing about constellations.

  I made it over to one of the benches, away from the Andromeda and Perseus talk, and lay down. The slats were damp, but I didn’t care. I gazed straight up into the sky, drunkenly able to perceive the stars whirling and rotating above me. I don’t know how much later Tate shook me awake.

  “Hey there,” he said softly. “Come on, you can’t sleep up here.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “It would be wonderful to sleep up here, wouldn’t it?”

  “You’d get eaten alive by mosquitoes.”

  He was right. Little specks of black were flying in my face, and my bare arms were already itchy. He held my hands and helped me to sit upright.

  “Where’s Estella?” I asked.

  “She’s setting up a little surprise for you,” he said. “Come on.”

  I moaned as he pulled me to my feet. “What? I hope it’s not more rum.”

  He laughed. “No, no more rum for you. In fact, there is no more rum.”

  Standing made me dizzy, but after a few deep breaths my head cleared. Tate was still holding my hands to keep me steady, and I pulled them away with a laugh. “I’m okay, I’m okay.”

  “All right, but I’m going to help you down.” He pulled the door up, calling down, “Estella?”

  Estella smiled up at me, holding her arms out, beckoning me down the stairs as though she were planning on catching me. With Tate holding me by one arm, I swung my leg over the lip and made contact with the stairs, finally making my way down them safely.

  The library glowed softly, and I looked around in surprise. They’d dragged the two sofa bed mattresses in front of the open windows, on top of the Bokhara rug, and made them with fresh sheets. One of the end tables from the living room sat between them, with a few books and two tall glasses of water.

  “We have to make room for Mother and Gib anyway,” Estella said, looking almost embarrassed.

  “It’s wonderful,” I said. I fell upon the closest mattress and crawled beneath the covers. The pillow felt heavenly.

  “I’ll come by tomorrow to see how she is,” Tate said. He sounded like he was in another room, his voice far away and deep. Estella said something, I didn’t know what, I didn’t care; then I heard footsteps going down the stairs. Estella slid under the comforter on the other mattress, and I turned on my side toward her, drawing my knees to my chest and smiling at her across the short space.

  She turned on her side too, and reached her hand out. I touched her finger with mine and then drew it back under the covers.

  “We’re having a sleepover,” I said, inordinately, drunkenly happy about it.

  She nodded. “Yeah, sorry I don’t have any pot or anything.”

  For a moment, I had no idea what she was talking about, and I stared at her blankly. Then I remembered Chelsea and Lisa from her house in Atlanta, and shame flooded me.

  “You knew about that?” I asked.

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  But it wasn’t, and I knew it. I should have gone and gotten her that night. Or I should have skipped the girls’ room and gone and gotten her anyway.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I just couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “You wouldn’t have bothered me—and I said it’s okay.”

  She turned over on her back and folded her hands beneath her head. She had a beautiful profile, and I stared at her, trying to see the girl in the woman’s face. It was there, especially in the worried brow, the teeth nibbling her top lip.

  “It’s going to be weird being here with Mother,” I said. Estella turned on her side again, and I could see her eyes shining in the dark.

  “How are you doing, Connie?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “So, this Deanna, you think she’s at your house right now?”

  I considered it. I didn’t see why she wouldn’t be, wrapped around Luke in our bed, maybe wearing something of mine, more likely wearing nothing. “Probably,” I said.

  “Who’s Alexander?” she asked, and I sat upright, then fell back down just as quickly as a wave of nausea washed over me.

  “Damn, I forgot all about Alex. What did he say?”

  “He just wanted you to call him. Is he involved in this?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “He’s the cello player in the trio. He probably just wants to make sure I’m practicing.”

  “You’re not,” she pointed out.

  “How do you know?” I asked, annoyed. “Maybe I’m practicing while you swim.”

  “Your case hasn’t moved from under the staircase since we got here,” she said.

  “Oh. Well, I’ll practice soon.”

  “So his call was just coincidence?”

  “It must be. He knows about Deanna—in fact, he’s the one who told me that Luke was still seeing her. But I don’t see how he could know about any of this.”

  “Why do you keep turning your rings?”

  “What?” I asked, startled at her sudden shift and realizing in embarrassment that I was indeed twisting my rings. I quickly put my hands back under the covers.

  “Your wedding rings. Tonight, whenever you set your glass down, you turned your rings, and you were just doing it again.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I could feel myself blushing and was grateful for the dark. Now it was my turn to flip over onto my back, avoiding her eyes, but she wasn’t ready to let it go.

  “You turn them in groups of three. I saw you. Three times, each time. Why do you do it?”

  “Why do you hate it when anyone calls you a genius?”

  “I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me.”

  “You go first.”

  “No, you go. I swear I’ll tell you.”

  “Okay, but it’s stupid. I used to do it all the time after we got married. It was just a habit. I don’t know, a superstition, I guess.”

  “But for what? If you turn them around three times your marriage is safe?”

  I hadn’t thought of it in those terms. It was simply something that had become natural in times of stress. I thought I’d broken myself of it years ago, when I developed an irritation on my ring finger. “I’m not sure,” I finally said. “If that’s what
it was, it didn’t seem to work, did it?”

  “What else do you do?” she asked, raising herself on her elbow to look at me.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve seen how you load the dishwasher. You won’t put a fork in with another fork unless there’s no choice. You divide them all up.”

  “What are you doing? Studying me?”

  “No, they’re just things I notice, that’s all. Paul touches his knuckles to the door handle before he opens a door.”

  I laughed. “Why does he do that?”

  Estella lay back down and laughed too. “I don’t know. He doesn’t know.”

  “What do you do?” I asked.

  She snorted. “What don’t I do?”

  “Really? Tell me,” I said eagerly.

  “Well, I count steps—”

  “I remember that,” I said.

  “You do?”

  “You used to count the steps to the windows in the music room.”

  She smiled. “That’s right. I’d forgotten about that.”

  “What else?”

  “I check for a dial tone after I hang up the phone. After I lock the front door dead bolt, I try to open the door three times. I won’t use liquid soap unless it’s in a clear bottle.”

  We were both laughing out loud as she recited her list, and I realized that I had my own things to add. “I can’t watch anything cook in the microwave,” I said.

  She laughed. “Why?”

  “Because I’m quite sure I can feel my eyes vibrating from escaping microwaves,” I said.

  “I can’t step on grout lines,” she said.

  I drew in my breath in sudden understanding. “That’s why you walk funny.”

  “I don’t walk funny!”

  “You do! I mean, I noticed that there was something different about the way you walked around your house—Estella! Your house, why would you tile your whole downstairs?”

  She started giggling again. “I was trying to break myself of it. It works sometimes, but if I have a single glass of wine, or I’m up too late and get tired, that’s it. I’m steppin’ mighty careful.”

  “Oh, Estella, that’s awful,” I said, unable now to stop laughing. “But why? What does it feel like when you step on the grout?”