by Merry Jones
And what, he was different? Harper looked at the fork waving in her face. The hand that held it was solid, fingers thick, almost rough. But the fingernails were manicured. Polished. A contradiction. She saw the intensity of Lou’s eyes. Remembered their dangerous flash. But she held his gaze, thinking that, if he didn’t shut up soon, she might just cold cock him. And finish eating in peace.
‘So explain it to me,’ he went on. ‘What is it that gets you two going? She says you’re the only good thing she ever did in her life.’
Wait. Harper put her spoon down. Vivian had said Harper was something she’d ‘done’? The way a person might ‘do’ their nails or a kitchen?
‘All she wants is to make you happy.’
‘Right.’
‘I’m serious.’
Really? ‘You’re wrong.’ All Vivian wanted was for others to make Vivian happy.
‘Think about it.’ Lou licked the last of his pie off his fork. ‘You ought to give her a break. Start fresh. She’s your mother, after all. And you only got one.’
‘Right.’ Thank God, she had only one. Harper finished her corn flakes, drank the last of the milk out of the bowl. ‘I’m going up. Night.’ She stood and carried her dish to the sink.
‘It’s good we talked, Harper.’ Lou stood, too. ‘Maybe you gained some insides.’
Harper figured he meant to say ‘insights’. But, as she climbed the steps, feeling the weight of her expanding belly and the cereal she’d wolfed down, she figured that Lou was right. The conversation had taught her nothing, but she’d definitely gained some insides.
For a while, Sebastian drifted between blankness and fog. When he finally became conscious, he could only open one eye; the other was swollen closed. It took a few seconds to remember snapshots of what had happened. Then, instinctively, he tried to get up and run, but his hands and feet wouldn’t – no, couldn’t – move. He gave up and lay still, straining to figure things out. Things like where he was. And how he’d gotten there. He fought the urge to look around, sensing that he shouldn’t let on that he was awake. Gradually, he became aware of the pain. It expanded, balloon-like, until it was overpowering, hot and alive, possessing his whole body – his chest screamed with each breath, his face throbbed. Bones must be broken – ribs. And his leg? His hand? Christ. He couldn’t separate the pain into pieces. It owned him, head to toe, and now his nerves were spazzing, making him tremble and quake. Or maybe it was the cold. Damn. He remembered now. Evan. Being caught in bed with him. Were they here? If they saw him shivering, would they know he was awake? He listened for their voices. For movement. Remembered their faces, their intense concentration as they held the melon scoop in front of his face, promising to take his eyes out. Oh God. Was that why he couldn’t open his left eye? Was it gone?
He almost choked, swallowing a bloody scream. Thrashed, despite himself, remembering. Panicking, trying to sit up. Feeling the restraints on his ankles and wrists. Fighting them, wriggling and twisting, even though he knew he had to be still. Sebastian couldn’t close his mouth all the way, tasted blood. Moved his tongue to an empty pulpy space where some lower teeth had been. Tried to remember what had happened. Where he was. Tried to think. Tried to cry. Couldn’t do anything. Even breathe. God, his nose was stuffed, probably smashed.
Okay. Okay, he had to think. Had to ignore the pain long enough to figure things out. He closed his eye, focusing, and what came to mind were their faces, watching him. Wearing twin expressions of fascination. And then another memory: the drink they’d given him. Insisting that he drink it. Their curiosity as they studied him while, slowly, his vision blurred, his eyelids sunk. Someone had held an eyelid open, watching his eye. Talking about the iris?
Sebastian’s body contorted involuntarily, trying to get free. Recalling how he’d escaped into the woods, how they’d come after him, slamming onto his legs, kicking his face, his chest. Why? Why were they doing this? What did they have against him? He’d only spoken to Evan that one time, at the bar. And the other one? Sebastian was sure he’d never even seen him before. So what could it be? Because he was gay? There were tons of gays. Why him? Oh God, why him? He lay there, wracked by pain, wiggling the wrist of the hand that wasn’t broken, trying to get loose, until he heard footsteps.
Above him. Upstairs? So he was someplace with an upstairs. Maybe back in Evan’s room? Or in a basement? And were the footsteps Evan’s and the other dude’s or were they somebody else’s? Somebody who might help him? Oh God. Maybe he should call out, shout for help. He opened his eye again and looked up, down, left and right, saw only darkness. He dared, slowly, to turn his head. Saw a sliver of light flat against the floor. Coming in under a door.
The footsteps were coming down the stairs. Leather shoes on wood or tiles. Coming closer, approaching the door. Sebastian’s mouth went dry; his stomach churned. He turned his head back where it had been and closed his eye, aware that he’d lost control, had soiled himself. But still he lay motionless, pretending to be unconscious. He heard the door open and, recognizing Evan’s voice, he was careful not to move his lips while he prayed.
Vivian slammed her coffee mug onto the table and glared. ‘Dammit, Harper. Why are you always trying to ruin things for me?’
‘I’m not—’
‘Can’t you just let me be happy? Is that too much to ask?’
Harper clenched her jaw, wondering why she’d begun the conversation. What delusion had led her to think it would be possible to be open with her mother?
‘What is wrong with you, Harper? Always finding fault. Looking for something evil and twisted in everybody – especially everybody who cares about me.’
‘All I said, Ma, was that Lou went out—’
‘Lou is a decent guy. For once, I found a decent—’
‘—in the middle of the night. I didn’t say there was anything evil and twisted—’
‘—guy who cares about me. And now you have to go trying to—’
‘—about that.’
‘—ruin it.’
They stopped talking at the same moment, fuming at each other in silence. Finally, Harper stood, took her cereal bowl to the sink, rinsed it, and put it on the dish rack, replaying the last few moments in her mind. All she’d done was ask her mother if Lou had seemed all right this morning, since she’d seen him go out in the middle of the night. How had her mother turned that into finding fault or looking for something evil and twisted?
‘You blame me, don’t you?’ Vivian’s voice was even lower and more ragged than usual.
Blame her? For what?
‘I did my best, Harper. It wasn’t my fault what your father did. I had no—’
‘Oh please, Ma.’ Not this again.
‘Well, I didn’t. I had nothing to do with his shenanigans. First I knew about it was when they came to the house to arrest him.’
Harper’s hand ran through her hair. She didn’t want to rehash everything. ‘I know, Ma.’
‘But you act like it was my fault. You always have.’
Ridiculous. ‘I was just a kid.’
‘A judgmental kid. Anyone I brought home, you hated.’
‘Sorry,’ she lied.
‘Seriously. Name one guy you got along with.’
Oh Lord. Faces of her mother’s men raced through Harper’s mind. What was his name – the hairy one with the stinking cigars? Carl? Or Sydney, the shoe salesman who’d made a pass at her when Vivian was in the shower? Or the so-called personal trainer. Enough. Harper closed her eyes, pushing the memories away.
‘You’re right.’ She came back to the table, sat down. ‘I didn’t like them.’
‘You didn’t give them a chance because you wanted your daddy back. But really, Harper. Was I supposed to sit and wait for him for fifteen to twenty? A guy who lied to me and stole from his clients, even his family? Your daddy was a smooth operator, Harper. Handsome and charming, but he wasn’t who we – or anybody else – thought he was. So get over it.’
‘Fine, Ma.’
There was no point saying anything else; her mother wouldn’t listen, never had. Harper wrapped her hands around her cup of chai, stared at the rim.
‘You’ve always blamed me, though. Don’t deny it. You resented me for trying to move on.’
‘Ma, please.’ She resented her, but not for that.
‘God knows, I tried to be on my own. How many jobs did I take? A dozen?’
More, probably. Harper tried to remember them: waitressing, babysitting, washing hair, answering phones, telemarketing – whatever. Her mother hadn’t kept any of them very long.
‘But, face it, I’m not educated like you. I couldn’t get a good job that would support us even close to the way your dad did. And – honestly? I’m no good on my own. I need to be with someone.’ She leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘Look. Lou’s not sophisticated or classy like your dad. But he’s good to me. I’m happy with him. Don’t begrudge me—’
‘Ma, stop. I’m glad you’re happy. Really.’ Lord, how did her mother always manage to turn things around, making her feel that she’d done something wrong? ‘All I said was that Lou—’
‘All you said was something that would make me suspicious of him. You want me to doubt him.’
Harper shook her head. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘He’s a good guy, Harper. With a good heart. No fancy PhD like your guy has, but then, he didn’t get advantages like you.’
Advantages?
‘If Lou’d had the benefits you had – like that GI bill – maybe he’d have a college degree, too. Just because you got somebody to pay for your education doesn’t mean you’re better than him. Or me.’
Harper’s mouth dropped. She was done listening. ‘You right, Ma. As always.’ She picked up her mug and took it to the sink, biting her lip so she wouldn’t say what she was really thinking, that she’d earned whatever advantages she’d received by serving in the Army and nearly getting her head blown off. And that Vivian was completely self-centered and totally off her rocker.
‘That’s right, walk away. That’s exactly the superior attitude I’m talking about,’ Vivian sputtered.
Harper said nothing. She hurried out of the kitchen and, trying to ignore the pangs in her left leg, climbed the stairs to her room.
Upstairs, Harper tried to forget the exchange with her mother and work on her dissertation. She sat at her desk and opened her laptop, stared at the screen, unable to concentrate on symbolism in pre-Columbian relics, still smarting from Vivian’s words. How dare Vivian imply that Harper had had an easy life – had she missed the part where Harper’s father had gone to jail? Or maybe where her friends had dropped her as if she was a criminal, too? ‘Don’t let Harper get close to your lunch money,’ her pal Jenna had taunted. She could still feel her cheeks burn.
Jenna Bradley. Wow. Harper hadn’t thought of her in years. Hadn’t thought about high school, or how they’d had to move from their suburban Colonial home to that tiny roach-infested one-bedroom, or how, after her father left and all his assets had been seized, her mother had imploded, drinking all day, unable to perform even the simplest domestic chores, let alone to hold a job – no. Enough. Harper would not get stuck revisiting all that. She had a dissertation to write. Even so, her head throbbed because of Vivian, her obliviousness. As if, at fifteen, Harper hadn’t had to nurse her mother through the night when she’d come home puking and plastered? As if Harper hadn’t had to work after school at the A&P until she’d been old enough to enlist? As if she’d simply been given the benefits of the GI bill and hadn’t almost died in the war and didn’t even now suffer from her injuries? As if the war in Iraq had been a debutante’s ball? God, how had she let Hank talk her into letting her mother visit? With Vivian there, Harper was far more stressed than she would have been alone. In fact, her room was the only place she could find any peace; she was a prisoner in her own home.
Rubbing her temples, Harper closed the computer and went to the window. Snow was falling lightly, the sky and ground blended, grayish and white. Hazy memories drifted by, images of her handsome father. Of their big house, her room with the canopied bed. Damn. Why was she thinking about all this? It had happened decades ago. She’d buried it long ago. Except that her mother was here, raising the dead. Harper’s fists tightened, angry that she was still angry. That she wasn’t immune.
Well, she might not be immune, but she wasn’t helpless, either. She had resources, would use them. Her phone was still on Hank’s pillow when she picked it up to call her shrink. Leslie would let her vent, would help her gain perspective. Would probably help her find ways to avoid bludgeoning – or even engaging in discussions with her mother. Would help her survive.
Leslie’s voice mail picked up; Harper left a message about an appointment and reopened her computer. This time, she managed to open her document file and read half a page before her mother’s voice began carping in her head. ‘You’ve always blamed me. You’re always trying to start trouble . . .’
Okay. Enough. Harper snapped on the television, trying to drown out the nagging, and turned back to her work. The last section she’d written had been on parallels among symbols in pre-Columbian and Greco-Roman relics. ‘In discussing the recurring symbols among these artifacts,’ she read, ‘it’s essential to consider their significance in the mindsets of the times, especially with respect to the role of cosmology and the characteristics of the various deities.’
Harper read and reread the sentence, trying to remember what she’d planned to say next. Where had she been headed with that? She looked at her outline, searching for the section, so she was only vaguely aware of the voices on the television. But when a woman sobbed, ‘We were expecting him home for Christmas and he never showed up. It’s not like Sebastian,’ the tears interrupted her concentration, and Harper glanced at the television screen.
‘He always comes home right after finals are over. He’s never been into drugs or any kind of trouble. He’s as straight a kid as they come . . .’
The woman’s nineteen-year-old son was missing. Sebastian Levering, from Elmira. Harper looked back at her outline, found the section. Right. She needed to separate the three sub-topics. Talk first about the cultural mindsets . . .
‘Authorities are hoping for help from the public . . .’
Harper looked again at the screen, saw the image of the missing college kid. Looked at her computer. Then at the television, at the kid’s photo.
Harper was no longer seated at her desk. No longer thinking about the role of artifacts in revealing ancient man and his relationship with nature or religion. Harper stood at the television screen, riveted by the photo of the missing college kid from Elmira, certain that she’d seen him the night before, out in the snow, begging for help.
Except that, no. Maybe not. It had been dark. She’d seen the guy for maybe twenty seconds, and he’d been moving, facing away most of that time. She’d actually seen his face for – what? Three, four seconds? Not long.
The photo was long gone; the anchor had moved on, talking about holiday shopping in downtown Ithaca. But Harper stood, riveted on the screen as if still seeing the man’s face. Sebastian was his name? He’d been wearing a suit in the TV shot, probably a high-school graduation picture. His hair had been neater, shorter than the naked guy’s. And he’d been huskier.
But this kid was supposed to be in Elmira. Why would he be in Ithaca? Or naked behind her house? Really, there was almost no chance that the guy she’d seen was this missing kid from Elmira. She was forcing herself to see a resemblance because she was upset about what she’d seen. Probably, they were two completely different people.
But maybe they weren’t.
Either way, one of them had asked for her help. Damn. Had he just been goofing around with friends, as Rivers suggested? Drinking too much, getting naked on a dare?
Okay. She wasn’t going to get any work done. Harper closed her computer, went to her closet, took out her snow boots, pulled them on. She needed to get out of the house. To clear
her mind. To move. Quietly, hoping to avoid her mother, she crept down the stairs to the coat closet. She was taking out a down parka when Vivian appeared.
‘He’s all upset, Harper.’ Her whisper was like tires on gravel.
What? Harper put on the jacket.
‘He’s not himself. He’s fidgeting and pacing, and he won’t eat anything. I think it’s because of you and last night. What the hell did you say to him?’
Harper exhaled, pulled up the zipper. ‘Why do you assume I said—?’
‘Because you must have. What else could it be?’ Her mother worried her hands, following Harper as she went to the door. ‘He was fine when we went to bed, and you saw him last night – so you must have—’
‘I didn’t say anything, Ma. He had a piece of pie.’
Vivian stopped harping, as if this information confounded her.
‘If Lou’s upset, why don’t you ask him what’s wrong?’ Harper pulled on her gloves, moved to the door, opening it. ‘I mean, you say you have this wonderful relationship.’
‘We do.’
‘Then talk to him.’
Harper stepped onto the porch. Pulled her hood up against the cold. And began walking.
She was halfway down the driveway when Vivian yelled, ‘Harper? Where are you going? You need to rest. It’s snowing!’
Harper waved a hand in the air and kept walking, didn’t even look back.
The suspension bridge was her favorite spot on campus. She stopped halfway across to watch the large snowflakes floating down, the icicles dangling on the rocky walls of the gorge, the trickling frozen stream at the bottom. A frigid wind had kicked up, biting her exposed face, making the bridge sway. Even in the middle of the morning, the light was muted, the sky the typical winter-in-Ithaca gray. Harper stood alone, back to the wind, her thoughts wandering, settling on nothing. She recalled the hot, sandy winds of Iraq. Wondered if it was hot or windy where Hank was. Wondered whether the baby would be a boy or a girl. Realized that walking had aggravated her injured leg, but that the rest of her muscles were grateful for the exercise. Enjoyed being away from Vivian. Braced for another three weeks with her.