The Altruists

by Andrew Ridker

  The blue-eyed man looked down at Arthur. “Are you talking to my kid?”

  “He spilled on my son.”

  “Don’t talk to my kid.”

  “He needs to apologize. Look at him. His hair’s all wet.” Arthur patted Ethan’s head. “It’s running down his shirt.”

  “Fuck off,” said the man.

  “Dad . . . ,” said Ethan.

  “Hey,” called a woman two seats to Ethan’s left. “What’s going on?”

  “This pervert’s talking to my kid,” the man in the T-shirt said.

  “Pervert!” the woman said to Arthur.

  “I’m not a pervert. I’m looking for your son to apologize to mine. For spilling your beer on him.”

  “Fuck off, pervert,” said the man.

  Arthur shook Ethan by the neck. “Apologize,” he said to the boy.

  Ethan tensed. “It’s fine, Dad.”

  “Listen to your kid,” the man said, sneering at Ethan.

  Ethan scrambled for a place to look, somewhere he could divert his gaze until the humiliation had ended. He met the eyes of the freckled boy, whose mouth was screwed up in disgust.

  “I want an apology.”

  “You’re a pervert.”

  “And you’re a goon.”

  “Come again?”

  “You’re a goon!”

  “You wanna take this outside?”

  “We are outside.”

  The man spat and rolled up his sleeves. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The man cocked his arm and lurched forward. Arthur flinched, his hands raised in front of his face. He froze in place, then looked down at Ethan, his son’s face flushed red.

  The man laughed. “Guess we know what the big guy’s made of.”

  “Okay. Okay. We’re leaving.”

  He pushed Ethan down the aisle, trailing behind him.

  “Smart move,” the man called after them. “Faggot.”

  Ethan cringed, his breath catching in his throat.

  Arthur was silent on the T back home. When Francine greeted them at the door, and asked, “Back so soon?” he pushed past her and disappeared down the hall. He slammed the bedroom door behind him.

  “What happened?” Francine asked, but the tears were already falling down Ethan’s face. Somehow he knew that this was it, there would be no more baseball games, no more outings at all.

  Until now.

  Twenty-one years later, in a station wagon rolling through the suburban Midwest, Ethan wiped his eyes. He took a long, slow breath. “Dad,” he said, his voice laced not with fear but love, and pity.

  Arthur’s cheeks flushed impatient red.

  “You did good,” Ethan said. The words surprised him as much as they surprised his father. “You did good.”

  THIRTEEN

  Maggie went to Forest Park to clear her head. Same route she always took, ever since her golf-ball-mongering days, cutting through Danforth past construction cranes and the Seidel Library, a Starbucks, and a student center. Her bandaged thumb hung at her side. Wind cooed through gothic archways. The sun was somewhere else. The quads had emptied for spring break, leaving only nervous test-preppers behind, future doctors and lawyers with standardized exams still to come. Corners of the campus were haunted by spectral pre-meds, MCAT answers tucked under their breath.

  She could not imagine why her father had hung the photographs. Four of them, framed, in a row on the dining room wall. She could not, for the life of her, imagine why.

  Each image portrayed a foreign landscape, a terra incognita, the beige dirt tufted with ochre grass. Tree-covered hills in the far background.

  All four pictures centered on two figures, posing before a cylindrical concrete structure. There was Arthur: young, raffish, Jewfro’d, hair sprouting from the neckline of his collared T-shirt. And there was a little boy, black, thin, wide smile, a canoe-shaped depression down the center of his torso.

  Four photos, four poses.

  Arthur kneeling, with his hand around the boy

  Arthur with the boy on his shoulders

  The boy and Arthur back-to-back

  The boy in Arthur’s lap

  In the pictures, her father was smiling wider than she’d ever seen him smile before. He was touching the boy, and being touched. Arthur, who balked at the most obligatory of embraces. Arthur, around whose body was a force field, even to his children. And the boy. He looked happy, posing with Arthur like he was his friend. His older brother. His father.

  Maggie and Arthur had been at each other’s throats since she was old enough to speak. But it wasn’t until the end of her freshman year, when Francine told her about his time abroad, that she began to fear him. What she might have inherited. What she might become. If her father had once been like her—determined, ambitiously philanthropic—did that mean she would one day be like him? Her good intentions weaponized against the people she was trying to help? It was a chilling thought. She expended tremendous effort trying to put it out of her mind. And now she was confronting Arthur’s missteps—his crimes—face-to-face. He wanted her to see them. She suspected they’d been hung for her benefit—not Ethan’s, hers—but why? The images portrayed a happy man, a blameless man, a loving man in the prime of his young life. But Maggie knew the truth. Knew how things had turned out over there. This was the Before picture. Did he know that she knew what came After? Maggie had never asked him about his time abroad, for fear that he would confirm her mother’s story, or worse—that he would say in no uncertain terms that it was his mistake that had led to all this death. Her head hurt. She couldn’t parse her father’s hypocrisy. But what was the purpose of the photos? What did he want from her?

  Maggie shook her head and pressed on.

  Forest Park was a thirteen-hundred-acre civic center with a sledding hill, art museum, fountains, zoo, and skating rink, plus a state history museum less concerned with the Missouri Compromise than the World’s Fair, which was once held—proudly, still, to some people, 111 years later—on its grounds. She walked the outskirts of the golf course sweating confusion and stress before climbing the hill to the art museum. Across from the museum entrance, at the center of a small pavilion, stood a bronze statue of Louis IX on horseback, the Apotheosis of St. Louis, overlooking the fountained basin below. Standing there at the top of Art Hill, above picnickers and paddleboaters, reeling from the sight of the photographs in her dining room, Maggie felt that she herself was reaching some kind of upside-down apotheosis—and that a reckoning was close at hand.

  She turned to face the bronze horse. And, whoa, she thought she recognized the person standing by its side.

  “Dee?”

  “Maggie . . . ?”

  “Hey!”

  Dee Hall had gone to middle school with Maggie. They hadn’t been especially close. Dee’s father was the school principal, and by sixth grade Maggie was already wary of authority figures, even if the figure in question belonged to a historically wronged minority, as Principal Hall, the school’s only black administrator, did. That her father wielded such great influence over the students’ lives made Dee, to Maggie’s mind, unapproachable.

  “What are you doing in St. Louis?” Dee asked, stopping short of a hug. She tugged the leash of the beagle at her foot that was trying to wander away.

  “Just visiting. Ooh, puppy.” Maggie crouched, stroked its ears, and sprung back up.

  Dee had gone to Stanford on a tennis scholarship, a full ride that more than validated the long hours Principal Hall spent feeding her balls, critiquing her topspin, returning her serves. Arthur had taken a brief, passionate interest in Dee after seeing her hit in Shaw Park. For one month in 2006 he spoke only of Dee, her powerful backhand, her excellent form, expressing these opinions loudly in front of the daughter who’d never fa
scinated him in quite the same way.

  The other thing about Principal Hall was that his wife died while Dee and Maggie were in seventh grade. Breast cancer. Like Francine—though at the time Maggie didn’t understand what breast cancer even was, or that years later she would become one of its proxy victims. Now, she felt, she could forgive Dee for being such a tennis talent, and besides, they were bonded by their losses—wasn’t that the key to Kevin Kismet’s algorithm?—and Maggie rushed to make sure Dee knew it.

  “I haven’t seen you in so long,” Maggie said. “Maybe not even since my mom? . . . Died?” She didn’t feel great using Francine for conversation fodder, but was too relieved to find a fellow sufferer to mind.

  “Oh, right. I heard about that,” Dee said, with less sympathy than Maggie had hoped for. She tucked a twist behind her ear and said, “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

  “Yeah, thanks . . . I mean, you know, I remember what happened. With your mom. I thought—yeah. Anyways. I understand. She used to give me piano lessons.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Dee’s beagle yapped.

  “Yeah! But I, I quit. After a while. Not because of her, though.” Maggie stretched her digits. “Clunky fingers.”

  Dee nodded, and looked out on the park. A toddler waddled across the grass at the top of the hill. Its father followed close behind, mimicking a monster in pursuit.

  “What are you up to lately?” Maggie asked.

  “Living here. Moved back a few months ago.”

  “Oh, bummer.”

  “It was my choice.”

  “Yeah?”

  Dee rested her right hand on her hip. “I went to school out west but I came back.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I felt obligated after what happened.”

  “Mm. For sure.” Maggie paused. “Sorry, after what happened?”

  “The riots.”

  “Right.”

  “The protests?”

  “No, yeah, sure, I know. It’s still going on, then?”

  Dee cocked her head.

  “I’m in New York myself,” Maggie said. “Queens, but also kind of Brooklyn? Right on the border.”

  “Okay.”

  “I don’t have a job job right now, but I help out in the neighborhood. People who don’t speak English that well. Running errands and that kind of thing.” Maggie wanted to be Dee’s friend. To have a friend, period. Someone in St. Louis who could save her from her family. Someone to talk to.

  “Hey,” she said. “You could visit! New York!” Maggie put a little Broadway gloss on it, twinkling her fingers.

  “There’s a lot of work to do here.”

  “Sure, right.”

  “Listen, I should—”

  “You look great, by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Still playing tennis?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I said, ‘Still playing tennis.’”

  Dee sighed. “No. No, I was injured.” She said something about her rotator cuff. “It was pretty bad. But it gave me some perspective.”

  “Hey,” said Maggie, feeling Dee’s attention slipping. “So if I didn’t say it back then, back in school, let me say it now—I’m sorry. For your loss. Your mom. Because I get it. Unfortunately, now, I get it.”

  Dee scowled. “It’s a little late for that.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  Dee huffed. “Maggie. Do you remember, when my mom was diagnosed, I got into awareness raising for a while.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “I made T-shirts and hats, and sold them—”

  “During Free Block, right. I remember your little stand. Lots of pink.”

  “Yes. Pink hats, all that stuff. The proceeds went to cancer research.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you remember what you said to me?”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “You said—shit, Maggie, really? You came up to my booth, and you said, ‘Do you know where those T-shirts come from?’”

  “Okay . . .”

  “And you said, ‘China. Made in China means Made in Sweatshops. Some little kid stitched that under slave conditions.’ You hassled me in front of everyone. For selling T-shirts. For promoting breast cancer awareness! While my mom was sick. I was like—are you kidding?”

  “Well, I—okay! I mean, it’s true! But okay, sorry.”

  Dee shook her head. “You were super shitty then, you know.”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “I told my dad about it. You know what he said?”

  “Principal Hall?”

  “He said, ‘Don’t worry, honey. She’s an Alter.’”

  “Meaning . . .”

  “Meaning you and everyone in your family are incurably self-involved.”

  “Wow. Okay.”

  The beagle snarled.

  “You were always on a crusade, Maggie. And it was never right. That was always your problem. You were never upset about the right things.”

  “This is really, really mean,” she muttered.

  “‘Made in Sweatshops.’ God, Maggie. A few miles north of here, everything is falling apart. The grand jury letting that cop off the hook—people are upset. I’m upset. And you. You don’t even know what’s going on. You don’t have a fucking clue.”

  “Yes I do!”

  Dee flicked her wrist. “Come on, Sampras,” she said, tugging on the beagle’s leash. “We’re going.” And she disappeared behind the statue.

  Maggie needed a hit of affirmation. A quick salve to rub on the burn. She fished through her pocket, removed her phone, and pulled up her text thread with Emma.

  SAT, MAR 28, 6:24 PM

  Coming tn?

  En route

  Yay!!

  SAT, MAR 28, 10:32 PM

  Get home ok?

  Maggie?

  SAT, MAR 28, 11:46 PM

  Pls call back

  SUN, MAR 29, 12:03 AM

  Is everything ok

  MAGS

  TUES, MAR 31, 2:29 PM

  ???

  She pressed the Call icon and raised the device to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Emma, hey! It’s me. Maggie. I mean, you knew that, obviously. So . . . yeah. Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Not much.”

  “How’s New York? I’m in St. Louis right now. Do you remember Dee? Dee Hall?”

  “Um, yeah. Sure. Hold on.” Cackling, ambient fuzz while Emma futzed with the phone. “Principal Hall was her dad.”

  “Yeah! Right! I just saw her, actually.”

  “Okay.”

  “I should’ve asked if she remembered you!”

  “I guess.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So . . . what else is going on?”

  Emma scoffed. “Seriously, Maggie?”

  “What?”

  “Jesus Christ. I was worried about you.”

  “Huh?”

  “You have no idea. It’s like—after you passed out at my apartment I completely freaked. But when you came to, you said you were fine, and that you’d text me when the cab dropped you off at home.”

  “Oh! Sorry. Yeah, I forgot.”

  “Why didn’t you text back? Or call? I kept trying to reach you. It’s been weeks.”

  “Yeah, I forgot. My bad. Hey, can I ask you something?”

  “What.”

  “Am I likable?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Am I likable. Yes or no?”

  “What are you—I don’t—Maggie, that’s a weird thing to ask right now. I’m kind of pissed at you, to be honest.”

  �
�Right, but that aside, can you answer the question?”

  “Fine. Fine. Yes, sure.”

  “Yes what.”

  “Yes, I like you.”

  “I know you like me. But what I’m saying is, am I likable. Not only to friends but to the general public. Do I have qualities that make me a likable person.”

  “You’re acting ridiculous. You’re acting like a child.”

  “Am not!”

  “‘Am not.’ Do you hear yourself? You sound like a kid throwing a tantrum.”

  “I do not throw tantrums.”

  Emma snorted. “That’s practically all you do.”

  Maggie huffed. “You know what, Emma? Your whole ‘nice girl’ thing? It’s an act. I know you had everyone fooled when we were kids, but I never believed it. Not me. No one’s that perfect! I knew it. I know who you are.”

  “Maggie?”

  “What.”

  “Don’t call me anymore. Okay? I don’t want to see you for a while.”

  “What th—” Maggie said, but Emma had already hung up. “This day is such bullshit,” she muttered, and shoved her phone back in her pocket. She thought of texting Mikey, but decided that if she was such a terrible person that all she did was alienate people and piss them off, then she better not. Yeah, she thought, better to be alone if I’m going to be such a nuisance to other people.

  She stormed down Art Hill. Couples lay on the grass, nose to nose, admiring one another. Young parents with infant children traded turns napping in the sun. A Labrador took off running and dove straight into the basin at the bottom of the hill, disturbing the path of a paddleboat.

  She kicked a pebble. Why was everyone so difficult? And why was Maggie inclined to feel generous and loving to people that she hardly knew, downtrodden or otherwise, while it was basically impossible, by comparison, to maintain positive relationships with the people already in her life? She had an easier time with the denizens of Ridgewood than her actual friends and family. Mrs. Wong, whom Maggie had assisted with her W-2. The Polish baby. And the boys! Bruno and Alex, who saw her like a sister. A mother. A mentor. An example.

  She had reached the bottom of the hill. She stood at the edge of the basin, looking out on the weak fountains spaced far apart within it. Maggie turned around. The sight of the grand museum, with its columns in front and wide stone wings, reminded Maggie of the National Gallery in London, and of the first and only overseas vacation that the Alters had ever taken as a family. (Modest trips were annually made, at Arthur’s insistence, to national parks, famous canyons and geysers, and tourist-friendly caverns throughout the contiguous United States; Maggie recalled her father chewing out a crystal-hawking hippie in Sedona who’d followed him into a restaurant, insisting that Arthur’s chakras were discolored.) But London, in the first year of the new millennium, had been an exception. Arthur booked a hotel in Belgravia and secured theater tickets to a long-running farce. The meaning of the trip, Maggie later guessed, because every anomaly in a family’s routine has a meaning, a reason, was a house fire Arthur had caused the previous fall while doing laundry. His incompetence and neglect with regard to household chores had almost bankrupted the family, or worse. Surely, Maggie reasoned, he had to be repenting for something—transatlantic flights weren’t cheap. They left in the spring of 2001. She was eleven years old.