Nothing to See Here

by Kevin Wilson

  “That’s fine,” I said.

  “She’s not on fire,” Roland said, pointing at Bessie.

  “Not right now,” I replied.

  Roland came and sat down next to us.

  “I’m going to take care of you guys,” I said.

  “Are you a good person?” Bessie asked, which was such a strange question, the kind of question a kid asks because they haven’t lived long enough to know how easy that question is to answer.

  I paused, giving it mock thought. “Not really,” I said. “I’m not a bad person, but I could be a lot better. Sorry. But here I am. And here you guys are.”

  “You’ll leave, though,” Bessie said.

  “Someday,” I said. “When you don’t need me.”

  “I knew it,” Bessie said.

  “Not for a long time,” I said. Was three months a long time to a kid? It was a long time to me.

  Bessie and Roland looked at each other. They were doing that twin thing where they talked without talking.

  “I’ll stay as long as you want me to, okay?” I finally said. “I’ll stay.”

  They didn’t seem to hear me. We just sat there, and I prayed that Carl would not come to the house right at this moment. How would I explain it? I’d have to knock him out with a lamp, drag him to his car, and make him think that he’d dreamed the whole thing.

  “Our mom—” Bessie said.

  “I know,” I said. “I know I’m not your mom. Nobody will be as good as your mom was—”

  “She killed herself,” she said. “Because of us.”

  I tried to remember if Madison had ever told me that their mother had killed herself. Why hadn’t she told me? Did she know? Was it a secret? If I ever saw Madison again, I’d ask her.

  “Not because of you guys,” I said. “C’mon now, Bessie.”

  “She said it was too hard. She said that things were going to change, that we’d have to start going to regular school, that she couldn’t do it anymore. She said that our dad wanted us to be normal. She said that it would never happen.”

  “I’m sorry, Bessie,” I said. Roland curled up, and I put my arm around him.

  “She took all these pills,” she said. “We watched her take all these pills. And then she died.”

  “Oh my god,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

  Bessie looked like she was entirely empty of emotion, like there was nothing inside her. She looked over at Roland, who nodded.

  “She told us to take the pills, too,” she finally said.

  “What?” I said, though I understood perfectly fine. What else could you do but pretend that you didn’t know that was possible in this world?

  “She had these two little plates with pills on them for me and Roland. And she said to take them. And she had these huge glasses of orange juice. She was crying and said that this would make all of us feel better.”

  “But we didn’t take them,” Roland said, his voice scratchy.

  “I told Roland not to take them. We just put them in our pockets and pretended, and Mom didn’t even notice. We drank all this orange juice, and it was so much that we had to pee. But then Mom made us go into the bedroom and we all got into the bed. And she said we had to go to sleep, even though it was daytime. And Roland was on one side of her and I was on the other. And I couldn’t see him. Mom was between us. And I put my hand on Mom’s chest, and I felt her heartbeat, and it was fine.”

  “I’m sorry, Bessie,” I said, because I wanted to have just a little bit of time, a moment before I had to hear the rest, because I wasn’t ready to hear it.

  “And it took forever, but then Mom fell asleep. And I had my hand on her chest. And it took forever. It took so long. And I had to pee so bad, so I just peed in the bed.”

  “And I peed the bed, too,” Roland offered.

  “And then she was really asleep. And I told Roland that we needed to get up. So we got up, and Mom was still asleep. And I knew that she was dead, because I felt her heartbeat. And then we changed our clothes because they were wet. I made us peanut butter and crackers, and we ate them. We took all the pills out of our pockets, and we flushed them down the toilet. And then we went outside. We went into the front yard. And then we both caught on fire. It was really big, the fire. It was more fire than we’ve ever made, our whole bodies. And the grass around us caught on fire. And then a tree caught on fire next to us. And somebody, people who lived, like, a mile away, saw the smoke, and they called 911. And that’s how they found us. And that’s how they found Mom.”

  And then she was quiet. And Roland was quiet. We were all breathing, in and out, deep breaths. Our hearts were so steady, so strong. If there were a button that would end the world, and that button were right in front of me, I would have smashed it so hard at that moment. I often thought about a button like that, and when I did, I always knew that I’d push it.

  “That’s awful,” I said. “And that wasn’t your fault. Your mom was going through something, and she didn’t mean to hurt you guys. She just couldn’t think clearly.”

  “Sometimes I think we should have just taken those pills,” Bessie said, and I was about to cry, but these kids, who had been so fucked over by life, were not crying, and it felt like such a wimpy thing to do if they were holding it together.

  “Then I wouldn’t have met you,” I said. “That would suck for me. I’d have been so angry.”

  “You’d have been pissed off,” Roland offered.

  “So pissed off,” I said. “You guys are so cool, and I’d be sitting at home, all by myself, no friends, and I’d never know you guys had ever existed.”

  “You’d be so fucking pissed off,” Bessie said, and it seemed to sound exactly right to her.

  “So fucking pissed off,” I agreed.

  “I do want to learn math,” Bessie said, and I almost laughed because, Jesus, what the fuck was she talking about right now? My muscles were so tight I thought I was dying, but I said, “I’ll teach you math. We’ll go slow.”

  “But not today,” Bessie said.

  “Not today,” I said. And after a few minutes, I took the towel and threw it into the garbage can.

  That night, while the kids were taking baths, the phone rang. I hustled over to it, eager for any news from the outside world, wondering if something awful had happened. But it was just Carl.

  “Oh,” I said. “It’s just you.”

  “I’m calling you on behalf of Mrs. Roberts,” he said.

  “Why doesn’t she just call me?” I asked. “Or come over?”

  “Can I give you the message,” he asked, “or are you going to keep asking questions?”

  “What does she want?” I finally replied.

  “She would like to see you, tonight, at eleven p.m.,” he said, and I could hear it in his voice, how miserable this was for him.

  “Oh,” I said. “I can’t leave the kids, though, right?” I asked.

  “I’m going to watch the children while you’re meeting with Mrs. Roberts,” he replied.

  “You?” I said, almost laughing. “If they wake up and find you in the house instead of me, they will burn it to the ground.”

  “Do they ever wake up at night?” he asked.

  “Well, no,” I answered, perhaps realizing this for the first time, “they don’t. They sleep like rocks.”

  “Okay, then,” he said.

  “Don’t snoop around my stuff,” I told him, and he didn’t respond.

  “Where do I go?” I asked.

  “She’ll meet you at the front door of the mansion,” he said.

  “What do I wear?” I asked. “Are we doing something?” I was starting to feel a little dizzy, not sure what to do. I wasn’t sure that I could go back into that house again without passing out.

  Carl took a deep, steadying breath. He was trying not to yell at me. “Just normal clothes,” he said, and then hung up the phone.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to tell the kids what I was up to. I felt like if they were go
ing out while I was asleep, and Carl was on the sofa downstairs, I’d want to know. But I needed something for myself after so many hours with the children wrapped around me, the constant pressure. Madison was a secret, and I was going to keep it from them.

  And it wasn’t that hard to disentangle myself from them once they’d fallen asleep. I had been keeping children’s hours since they’d arrived, finding it too much trouble to get out of bed. Once, actually, I think I fell asleep before they did.

  I put on some cool jeans and a T-shirt, sneakers. I had to look good enough that if Madison wanted to see some alternative band in Nashville, I wouldn’t have to come back to change, to tell Carl what we were up to.

  At 10:55, Carl was at the door, holding a Sports Illustrated and a book of crossword puzzles.

  “Hey, Carl,” I said, smiling. “They’re asleep.”

  “Have fun,” he said, brushing past me. I wondered if he was jealous, if Senator Roberts ever played poker with him, let him drink some of his expensive scotch.

  I walked under the stars, strolling across the manicured lawn, and then around to the front porch, where Madison was sitting in a rocking chair, waiting for me. She was wearing a huge T-shirt that came down past her knees and a pair of tights, no shoes. She had a bucket of iced-down beers, some chips and salsa. “Hey,” she said, once I stood next to her.

  “Hey,” I replied.

  “Sorry for the secrecy,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” I told her, and then I tried to think about what the secret was. Did the senator not know we were meeting? What was going on, exactly? “I mean, it’s been a weird few days.”

  “Super weird,” she said, nodding. “But . . . but you’re okay?”

  I nodded. “I’m okay,” I said, though I liked being asked. No one had asked yet, and I realized how much I’d needed it.

  “Thank you, Lillian,” she finally said.

  “You’re welcome,” I told her, and then I sat in the rocking chair next to her. She handed me one of the beers, and I drank it in a few gulps, not even trying to pace myself. I didn’t know how much time I had before I’d have to go back to the kids. I was going to take what I could get.

  Madison took a beer and sipped it slowly, staring out into the darkness. “They caught on fire,” she said.

  “They did,” I answered.

  “It was something to see,” she admitted. “It was . . . well, it was so scary.”

  “It doesn’t hurt them,” I said, just as I realized that Madison wasn’t worried about the kids.

  “I mean, I knew that’s what they did, of course,” she continued. I realized this was what she needed me for. Someone to tell her that what she saw was real. “But I wasn’t prepared for how . . . bright, I guess? How bright it was.”

  “It’s intense,” I admitted.

  “And have they caught on fire since?” she asked.

  “Nope,” I lied. I didn’t hesitate. “No fire. Not even a spark.”

  “Well . . . that’s good,” she replied. “That’s what we hoped. I knew you could do it.”

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “I just knew,” she said. “I just knew that if anyone could do it, it would be you.”

  In the years since high school, sometimes Madison would invite me to come visit her, to reunite, but in my next letter, I’d talk about everything but the invitation, hoping it would just drop. And it always would. Madison never tried too hard. And I had always wanted to say yes, but I couldn’t bring myself to go to her. Because I worried that if I went, just once, and it didn’t work out, if she realized that I wasn’t who she thought I was, I’d never hear from her again. If I stayed where I was and she stayed where she was, we’d still have the year at Iron Mountain, when things had been perfect for a little while. And now here I was, sitting close to her, the world so silent that it was like no one else existed.

  “Have you told them about me?” she finally asked, her voice so soft.

  “The kids?” I said, and I could feel the disappointment in my stomach, to remember the reality of the situation. “Have I told them about you?”

  “Yeah, like, have you talked me up? Have you told them that I’m good? That I’m cool? That I’m kind? That they can trust me?”

  I was still trying to get the kids to believe all those things about me. I hadn’t had time yet to bring anyone else into the discussion. But Madison looked so hopeful, and it was strange to see her this way, worried about what someone else thought of her.

  “Of course,” I said. “I told them that you’re a great person, that you’ll be a great stepmother to them.”

  “And they believe you?” she asked.

  “I think so,” I said. I could tell this didn’t satisfy Madison, so I said, “By the end of the summer, I promise that they’ll love you.”

  “Okay,” she finally replied. “Find out what they like, and I’ll buy a bunch of it and give it to them.”

  “Bribery?” I said, smiling.

  “What’s the point of having money if you can’t use it to make people like you?” she said. She reached into the bucket and produced another beer, popped the top, and handed it to me.

  “How much time do we have?” I asked her.

  “How much time?” she replied, confused.

  “Until I need to go back to the kids.”

  She thought about this, looking at me. “How much time do you need?” she asked, but I didn’t even answer. Nothing that I said would be enough.

  Seven

  “We want to shoot!” Roland said, but I wouldn’t let them. Not yet. We were building something, and we had to start with the most basic things. I was learning, with these children, you had to build some kind of foundation or life would get tricky very quickly.

  “Okay, we’re going to dribble,” I told them, holding my basketball. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this before. It was the thing that I loved most in the world. Maybe raising children was just giving them the things you loved most in the world and hoping that they loved them, too.

  And, okay, I understood that whatever I did was going to be stupid. The kids had confessed to me only two days earlier that their mom had tried to kill them. Of course, yes, Jesus, they needed to be in therapy. But it had been made clear to me that therapy was not an option. What else could I do? I had to believe that these children, who could not be burned, who were immune to hellfire for crying out loud, were simply tougher than most people. If their bodies were invulnerable to fire, what was inside them? Maybe they could keep themselves alive. Maybe I could keep them happy. And all I had, right at this moment, was basketball.

  “We want to shoot!” Roland said again, looking at the basket, but I put my hand on his basketball—such a weird broken-wing form he had—and pushed the ball gently back toward him. My hand was still aching from Bessie’s crazy teeth, but I could bend the fingers without much pain, and the swelling was gone.

  “Do you know what dribbling is?” I asked them. They looked at each other. They did not like questions, I knew, but how else would I know?

  “Like this?” Bessie finally said, slapping at the ball to make it hit the ground and come back to her. She caught it awkwardly, with both hands, like a fish had jumped out of the water and into her arms.

  “Like that,” I said. “That’s all it is. You bounce the ball and it comes back to you.”

  “And this is fun?” Bessie said. “Dribbling is fun?”

  “It’s the most fun thing,” I said. “You’ve got the ball, right? It’s your ball. And you bounce it and it’s not in your hand anymore. But before you can even worry, if you do it right, it bounces right back to you. And so you bounce it again. And it comes right back. And you do that, over and over, for hours every day, and after a while, you don’t worry about it anymore. You know that ball is your ball and that you will never lose that ball. You know that it will always come back to you, that you can always touch it.”

  “That does sound nice,” Bessie offered.
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br />   I felt like a coach in an inspirational movie, like the music would be really stirring, and you’d see the players’ expressions as they started to get it, and it wouldn’t be long before they were hoisting me up on their shoulders, fucking confetti just raining down on us.

  And then Roland bounced the ball right off his goddamn toe, and it rolled all the way across the court.

  “That’s a good try,” I said.

  “I don’t want to go get it,” he said, but I told him, “You have to go get it,” and he walked this Charlie Brown walk, head down, like a rain cloud was following him, until he picked up the ball and brought it back.

  “So let’s dribble,” I said, and I watched them standing there, their bodies robotic and rigid, while they bounced the ball. Bessie actually seemed to get it. She was up to ten, then fifteen bounces before she mistimed the rhythm and had to catch the ball so it wouldn’t bounce away.

  “You’re good,” I said to Bessie, and she smiled.

  “What about me?” Roland said, running off to chase down the ball he’d bounced off his toe again.

  “You’re pretty good, too,” I said.

  “I thought I was,” Roland admitted.

  We took a Gatorade break because eye-hand-coordination stuff is tricky with kids; it’s so easy to get tired and just keep fucking up constantly. We ate bananas with peanut butter, each of us taking a turn licking the peanut butter off a butter knife.

  “So you’re good at this?” Bessie asked.

  “I used to be. I used to be amazing,” I said. Sometimes basketball was the only thing I was honest about or felt like I knew inherently.

  “But you’re short,” she said. “Aren’t basketball players real tall?”

  “Some are,” I said. “They have it easy. But I’m good even though I’m short.”

  “Can you, um, slam . . . slam-dunk it?” Roland asked. These kids were like aliens, like they’d been given a really incomplete book about humans and were trying to remember every detail.

  “No,” I admitted. “But you don’t have to slam-dunk to be good.” I didn’t tell them that I’d probably pay a million dollars just to dunk a basketball once in a real game. I would never admit this to anyone, but it was true.