Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  I turn the other way, but Theo’s disappeared too. The chamber orchestra members, the only other people I know, are busy playing. I glance in their direction, slightly surprised they accommodated my request. I don’t do favors like this, so I don’t ask for them. But Mary Alice Porter is popular with fellow orchestra mates, and I suppose being a good stand partner has earned some benefits. In the name of charity, she commandeered her friends to play.

  India’s sister, Helen, catches my eye. She’s alone in a corner, observing the festivities. Her antsy demeanor is evident—a leftover from her drug-addicted days, or maybe she’s currently high. Out of curiosity, I make my way over. “Take Me to Church Catering has put together a lovely event.”

  “You think?” She looks permanently tired, like something more taxing than this evening has taken a toll. Sunken eye sockets rimmed in too much black eyeliner or dark circles—could be one is meant to blend with the other in a punk rocker way. Helen’s tall frame is missing about ten pounds, making her cheekbones jut out; it’s more of an ill appearance than super model. If Theo thinks she looks good now, I wonder how bad she looked before. She’s wearing a simple black dress, one that someone probably insisted on, the kind that makes you blend. “Mrs. McAdams was determined to get everything she wanted tonight. She won—everything.” Her gaze flicks around the room like there’s a bee buzzing through. It stops on Theo.

  “The Churches, you’re their daughter, right?”

  In Helen’s peripheral glance there is a distinct attitude of “Why the fuck should I talk to you?”

  I can respect that; it’s even relatable. I’ve often used it on music teachers and my mother. “I’m not the daughter people usually think of, but yeah.”

  “So India’s your sister.”

  Her expression reflects the idiotic remark. “Why? Do you know India?”

  “No. But I know her ex-fiancé, Theo McAdams.”

  Helen’s sideways gaze turns steadily onto me. I have said something very wrong. “Don’t tell me you’re fucking Theo?” She takes an appalled step back. I do the same. But she comes right back at me, devouring personal space. “Am I supposed to send that message back to India? Their breakup isn’t enough?” She snorts indignantly. “Don’t count on it.”

  A loyal drug addict. How fascinating. Helen makes my usual candor feel like a feather duster. “Uh, hardly,” I say, clearing my throat. “We’re just friends. I’m doing required community service hours at Braemore, in his classroom.”

  Helen appears intrigued. “You’ve been arrested?”

  “Yes. Even did a little time. The community service hours are how Theo and I met.” Helen looks me over, my gray beaded gown not fitting with the confession. Yet my admitted break from society evokes solidarity. “Theo’s confided to me about him and India . . . their breakup. I feel very bad for him . . . them. I was wondering if she’s here tonight.”

  “Here?” Helen’s deep-socketed eyes spring wide. “Uh, no. Look, my sister is tough and giving and she’d do anything for me. But she’s no masochist.”

  “And why would being here make India a masochist? The way I understand it, she broke up with Theo. I get it if she felt her presence here would cause Theo more upset, but . . .”

  Helen reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “Look, I need a smoke. Can’t do that in here. I don’t know what your interest is in Theo and India, but filling in your blanks isn’t my problem—or your business.”

  She starts to walk away. I go for it. “One more question—a really giant one that isn’t my business either. But I only want to help.” Helen turns back; she’s annoyed but listening. “Is it true? Did India leave Theo because she ran into an old boyfriend, because she kissed him and became wildly unsure about marrying Theo?”

  “India did run into Tom. She kissed him; it’s true. Surprised me. I’m the one who’s supposed to fuck up in this family.” Helen’s gaze pans the pristine event. “But mistakes aren’t allowed when it comes to Theo—even by someone as good as India.”

  Helen and her cryptic reply vanish through a door. As she does, a man cozies up to the tiered tray of pastries displayed beside us. “That girl is a piece of work,” he says.

  “You know Helen Church?”

  “I know of her. Didn’t catch your conversation, but I caught her attitude.” His gaze travels my formfitting gown. In turn, he is one of a handful of men in the room not wearing a tuxedo. He extends a hand. “Shep Stewart.”

  Jackpot . . .

  “Olivia . . . Van Doren.” My grip and gaze hang on to his. “Did you say Shep Stewart, as in the Boston Ledger reporter?”

  His roundish face lights like a bulb. “Do you know me?”

  “I know your work. Who doesn’t?” I edge closer. Helen’s instinct was to tell me to fuck off. Shep may be more forthcoming. I clung to his articles out of an aching curiosity. The fascination they arouse in most readers is herd mentality. Shep is the leader of the herd. Surely he’d enjoy expounding to one of his followers. “I’m a fan,” I say, smiling flirtatiously, in a way I haven’t since high school. “I’m also a violinist with the New England Symphony.” He nods at the instant integrity symphony violinist elicits. It will get you a dinner reservation at Mistral and give you street credit with people like reporters. “Actually, it’s your 9-11 stories I recall most vividly. They’re riveting.” He beams; I’ve plucked the right string. “I, um . . . I volunteer at Braemore. I didn’t realize Theo was one of them . . . your 9-11 kids, until I ended up in his classroom.” This fib will put me in Claire’s league, one of the many do-gooders in Bates Hall. “In addition to playing, I’ve always wanted to teach.”

  “Commendable, wanting to mentor young minds.” Shep shifts the topic back to himself. “Yeah. Those stories have been my bread and butter, assured me a place at the table. Ledger sales jump forty percent every year on 9-11.” He grabs a mini meringue tart off the display. “Uh, of course the tragedy itself . . . Well, awful, goes without saying.” He shoves a tart in his mouth, dabbing a napkin at a bit of runaway cream left at the corner.

  “Yes. Absolutely . . . of course.” If smarmy has a carbon footprint, I believe Shep’s covers a chunk of Earth, at the very least New England. “What a complex and interesting experience, your stories. You must have developed an intimate rapport with the children . . . their parents over . . . How many years is it?”

  “Next year would be seventeen. And definitely.” He points to Claire. “None better than her. When the kids became adults they took over the annual interview. Kind of made young Theo different, kept him at a distance.”

  “That’s right. He may have said something about his mother being his go-between.”

  “Mmm . . . more than that. I’d go as far to say that I’ve become Claire’s confidant, maybe her annual source for venting.” He pauses and looks me over. “And you? Do you know the McAdamses well?”

  I play this tightly. He is not asking out of polite interest. “I only met Mrs. McAdams this evening. I don’t know her at all.”

  “Yet you know Helen Church.”

  “No, not her either. Just Theo.” Shep is intrigued because, really, he doesn’t know Theo at all. I enhance my innocent bystander role by grabbing a salmon puff from a passing tray, showing more interest in it than the conversation. “Just some friendly facts I learned from Theo—gossip at his school. You know. Bad habit of mine.” I chew. He assesses.

  “So is it the sensationalism of my chronicle that you find riveting?” He snatches up a berry-covered mini tart and waves his arm at the crowd. A berry or two tumbles off.

  “Oh, not at all. Not on the whole. I mean, who wouldn’t be drawn in to the tragedy and triumph of your stories. But it’s the content that’s so compelling. You’re a magnificent writer.” Actually, Shep’s writing strikes me as hackneyed: repetitive introductory clauses, an overuse of superlatives, trite see ya next year conclusions. “After meeting Theo, eventually he mentioned his broken engagement. We’ve gotten chum
my. Naturally, I was even more moved. It was such a shame to hear. Theo’s an outstanding young man.” I press my hand to my heart. “His mother must be so proud. Did you say you’re friendly with her?”

  “Definitely on a first-name basis with Mrs. McAdams,” he says, noting that I am not. I smile warmly and wait. “You didn’t read about the broken engagement because Mom makes certain readers only get the upbeat, positive points of Theo’s year.”

  “Oh yes, understandable. But it must require such wisdom on your part—knowing what to print, what to keep private.”

  “Part of being an ace reporter is rapport.” He wallows in his prowess. “I’d say there isn’t anything in Claire’s life, or the kid’s”—he points to Theo—“that I don’t know . . . On, or off, the record.”

  “I see . . . Like maybe the nitty-gritty details of her son’s breakup.”

  “Maybe,” he says.

  “I’m impressed.” I back off the topic but ease so close to Shep I’m sure he can smell my perfume. He’s one of a handful of media people permitted access tonight. Claire has great trust in him, the kind one-sided listening and years of preening will earn—it’s like having a lady’s maid. “So there’s more to the story about Theo’s breakup? Come on, Shep, entertain me! This event,” I say, nudging a shoulder at the crowd, “while incredibly elegant, is kind of . . .” I wriggle my nose at him. “Boring. Wouldn’t you say?”

  He doesn’t disagree. “The engagement fiasco is all water under the bridge, so . . .” He looks toward Claire, who is out of earshot. “During our interview two years ago, Claire—off the record—shared that she’d learned the particulars of the hooked-on-drugs sister, Helen. It wasn’t sitting too good with Theo’s mom.”

  “In what way? As far as I know, India and Helen weren’t sharing needles.” I listen harder, wondering if I’ve misjudged Theo’s fairy-tale version of his beloved India. Maybe it’s Claire who’s seen the harsh truths. “I thought the ex-fiancée’s life was the opposite of her sister’s?”

  “Sure. For now.” Shep licks sticky spots of meringue from his thick fingers. My grossed-out stare is averted by his next fact. “But then India went and kissed the old boyfriend.” He makes a sucking sound as his mouth disconnects with his thumb. “Claire caught her red-handed.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yeah. Apparently it happened at some swanky book-slash-martini bar Claire frequents when she’s in New York, meeting with her ‘literary types.’” He throws finger quotes in the air, his animosity for other “writer types” evident.

  “How devastating . . .”

  “For Claire or for India?”

  I stay right on point. “Claire, of course.”

  “It was the meringue on Claire’s cake,” Shep says, scooping up yet another mini pastry. “Based on India’s family history, she was already leery of the girl.”

  “I’m not sure I follow. Why does India’s family history matter?”

  And since telling stories is what Shep does, he settles into this one. “It might be a stretch for some, but . . .” Shep looks toward Claire’s captivating frame; she is the centerpiece in a room filled with priceless objects. “Between India’s bad move with the old boyfriend, Helen’s drug use, and the rest of the family skeletons . . . I’m pretty sure Claire decided Theo could do better.”

  “What family skeletons?”

  “Nothing horrific . . . Not unless you view the world through Claire McAdams’s eyes. From the start, she was concerned about the Church family. Did you know Daisy Church is a recovering alcoholic?” I shake my head no. “Yeah. The daughters were younger, so it’s not something the Churches dwell on. But Claire found out about it, along with a history of depression. Somewhere between Helen and India, Daisy tried to kill herself.”

  “My heavens. That is quite a story.”

  “And one Claire would never confide to her fellow committee members or these people.” He cocks his chins at a room where no one knows another person’s private business, particularly suicidal tendencies.

  “But what you said about India’s mother. It’s old news.”

  “Ancient history, until you get to Helen.”

  “I get it. Addiction on the whole can be intrinsic.”

  “Righto.” Shep tips his head back and forth. “Between that and India’s indiscretion, it was enough to justify Mrs. McAdams’s caution when it comes to her son—at least in her own mind.”

  “Theo seems capable of smart choices. You have to give him credit for that.”

  “Maybe. Or it could be that she takes the credit, and sees it as necessary to oversee the balance of his life.” Shep leans close, as if we’re exchanging dark alley information. “Did you know Theo was adopted?”

  “Is he?” Shep and I are so close now that if Rob glances over he may think we’re having an affair. “Goodness. But, um . . . didn’t the stigma of adoption go out ages ago, like forcing lefties to be righties because it’s a sign of the devil?”

  “Claire’s never dissed adoption directly, but I also happen to know it was David McAdams who pushed for that. When Theo’s father passed, her concerns became more acute. When the kid was ten and fifteen, I got her caution. Boys do stupid stuff. Ones without fathers can do even dumber things. Those that come with unknown DNA require a scrupulous eye—at least that was Claire’s take. In those formative years, she felt the pressure of raising a kid herself.”

  “Seems like she did a good job. So what is she still guarding against?”

  “Theo being adopted was off the table in terms of my stories. I knew better than to test that boundary. But Claire’s always been concerned about his biological origins. She knows very little about Theo’s background.”

  I nod deeply. “What, exactly, has her so concerned?

  “Anything beyond her control,” he says matter-of-factly. “For example, is Theo the product of two scientific geniuses who weren’t interested in being parents, or is his biological father a rapist?”

  I do an excellent job of suppressing the urge to slap Shep Stewart. “That’s a wide-ranging scale. Maybe Theo’s biological parents were just two college-age kids, too young to raise a child.”

  “Maybe. But there are endless combinations in between. Claire’s always been concerned about wild-card influences, things she can’t control.”

  “So in her mind, it’s always been about nature versus nurture. She is determined to be the stronger force.”

  “Yeah. But don’t get me wrong. Claire feels like she hit the jackpot when it comes to the kid. She adores him.” He gestures in Theo’s direction. “He’s proven that wherever he comes from, the gene pool was pretty potent—Cornell, lacrosse champ, musical prodigy.”

  “Proclivity,” I correct.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Theo’s musical talent, it’s a proclivity. Prodigy is a pedestrian interpretation of aptitude and hard work. His musicality is a proclivity.”

  “Sure,” Shep says as if he’s learned a new word. “Whatever. Anyway, Theo’s roots were always a concern for Claire, less so once Theo proved himself. But then he hooks up with somebody whose gene pool has an obvious shallow end.”

  “I see. The genes and demons that run through Helen, and Helen and India’s mother—India might succumb herself, or worse, she could be a carrier.”

  “Now you’re catching on.”

  “My, that is a lot for Claire to try and . . . oversee.”

  He smiles. “You mean control.”

  “Either way, brava to Claire for doing her part, making sure Theo and his future offspring dodged a bullet, staved off a possible lifetime of hardships, risky behaviors.”

  Shep thinks I am referring to the Church family genes. Hardly. I look toward Theo, who is by his mother’s side. How lucky for Theo that he did not inherit Sam’s never-ending thirst for Jack Daniel’s and a good time, or our mutual proclivity for making bad decisions. Even more unnerving, what if Theo had inherited my specific list of questionable qualities? Imagine if Claire
’s son had my picked-last-in-gym-class coordination or terminally smart mouth. How incredibly fortunate for Theo that he chose wisely from the grab bag of genes. How would his adopted mother feel about a son who was less than a standout athlete, sweet soul, and a gifted musician? My envy and admiration for Claire swan dives off a cliff. “So Theo’s mother, she wasn’t terribly sorry when India left him.”

  “If that’s what Miss Church did.” Shep helps himself to more champagne. “Anyway, getting back to the 9-11 stories; don’t get too attached.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Readership has fallen off. That forty-percent spike was down to seventeen this year. But the better news is I’m left with a thumb drive of less feel-good moments.”

  “Ah, the less flattering, off-the-record parts. I guess Claire isn’t the only one who confided those.” I down the remainder of my champagne. “How is that ‘better news’?”

  Shep hesitates, then doesn’t. “A tell-all book about the less pleasant outcomes of 9-11 kids might make my retirement more comfortable.” He too finishes his champagne, depositing the empty glass and used napkin beside the exquisite tier of tarts. “Enjoy your evening.”

  “Enjoy my . . . Wait. What unpleasant outcomes?” I ask, following.

  Shep glances around the room, assuring that Claire is still a good distance away. “Joaquin Perez, he opted out last year, moved to Canada. A few weeks ago he died from a drug overdose. He was never able to make peace with his father’s death; it haunted him. But that was only the latest in years of domino tragedies. Andrea Wakefield, her mom remarried—they live a happy life in New Hampshire, right? I also happen to know DCF has investigated a few times. She’s hinted that the new stepfather has acted not quite so ‘fatherly’ toward the girl. Stacy Roche was just a toddler when her father died on 9-11. It might have worked out if her mother didn’t gamble away the life insurance money earmarked for her education. She was recently indicted for fraud. Just a few ways 9-11 went on to make victims out of its victims.”