Michael ducked his head. In shame, Tracy happened to know.
“Where were you?” said Desiree.
“I repeat,” said Tracy, “do you recall where you were on the night of December 31, 1991?”
“I was at home,” said Michael, still not looking up, which was even more incriminating than perhaps he realized, since his eyes were now focused squarely on Desiree’s chest. “I was at home,” he said again. “In bed.”
“And do you recall what you were doing that night,” said Tracy, “alone and in bed?”
“I plead the fifth,” he said.
“There is no fifth to plead here,” said Tracy. “You will answer the question!”
“I was jerking off, alright?”
“To what?” said Tracy.
“To a picture of Desiree,” said Michael, “from the yearbook.”
Tracy knew just what picture it was, the page dog-eared in Michael’s copy of the yearbook, which he’d given to Veronica and Desiree as a wedding present after learning they’d both burned theirs in grief during the years of their separation. The photo was of Desiree in her field hockey uniform, smiling for one of the many cameras that followed her that year—one of the guys on the school newspaper took it upon himself to get a photo of her into every issue, even if there was no legitimate reason to do so. She had her white shirt on, her plaid skirt, and her knee socks of course, and every piece of her ensemble was a bit dirty, as if she’d just finished up a game. But the pièce de résistance was the hockey stick she clutched to her chest, between her breasts to a certain extent, a happy accident that had been the impetus for many happy “accidents” on the part of Mr. Michael Silver and his perverted fourteen-year-old imagination.
“It’s okay,” said Desiree, blushing, smiling, lifting his face up by the chin.
“It is not okay!” said Tracy. “Mr. Silver, are you aware of where Desiree and your cousin Veronica were that night?”
“Tracy,” said Veronica, “what does the one thing have to do with the other?”
“Mr. Silver,” said Tracy, “are you aware?”
All at once, the dancing stopped, the lights faded, and the record stopping spinning.
“I am,” said Michael, walking away from Desiree.
“Where were they?” said Tracy.
Michael looked over his shoulder. Veronica and Desiree were side by side now. “They were at a party,” said Michael, “at Veronica’s house. They were drinking and playing spin the bottle.”
“And?” said Tracy.
Michael looked away from them again, staring off into the distance as he said, “After Veronica spun the bottle and it landed on Desiree, it caused quite a ruckus. They kissed, and that was enough to cause all of the hornballs at the table to pair off.”
“And did Veronica and Desiree pair off?”
“No,” said Michael. “They didn’t.”
“Objection!” said Veronica. “Relevance?”
“Overruled,” said Tracy.
“Tracy,” said Desiree, “what is the point of this?”
“The point,” said Tracy, “is that your quote-unquote sweet prom date was no better than the hornball who took you to bed that night, no better than the runt who got my mother pregnant. And yet, he consistently tries to pass himself off as sensitive and—”
“No,” said Desiree, storming back toward Michael, the lights and the band and the crowd returning as she did. “Do you know what he said to me that night? Prom night?”
“Thank you for saying yes,” said Michael, as they began to dance again.
“I’m having a great time,” said Desiree.
“It must suck,” he said, “to see her with him.”
They both glanced over at Veronica, who stood against the far wall, nodding along as she listened to the Runt. She tried to get a word in, but failed.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Desiree.
Michael said, “I know how much you both like—”
“You’re wrong,” said Desiree, cutting him off. “I don’t know where you got that idea.”
“I’m not wrong,” he said. “I’m a details guy. You’ve seen how long it takes me to get anything done. That mural down the hall, the one with the lions chasing the Indians, I obsessed over that for months.”
“And?” said Desiree.
Tracy watched him swallow, as if trying to build up some head of steam inside himself to say what needed to be said. For a moment, she saw her uncle again, the man she wanted him to be, the man he was capable of being: a man who said the right thing, who did the right thing. Always.
“And,” he said, “I’ve been obsessing over you for years. I see the way you and Veronica look at each other. And I’ve seen the way she looks at the Runt. It may take her a while to see what she’s seeing, but she will. Eventually,” he said, “she won’t be able to ignore it.”
Desiree ducked her head and nodded. “You’re a pretty smart kid,” she said.
“Thanks,” he said.
Desiree kissed Michael on the cheek and pulled him into a hug. They danced close for a second before Tracy felt the anger swelling in her again, saw the Michael in this moment that she needed to purge, to wipe away. His hand was on Desiree’s back, her lower back, not quite where it wasn’t supposed to be yet, but getting there.
“The witnesses are excused,” said Tracy.
Desiree and Michael parted ever so slightly. They smiled at each other, kept dancing, as if waiting to see how long the moment would last. Waiting to see how long Tracy would let it last.
“Guards,” said Tracy. “Separate them.”
The bailiffs pulled them apart, the Gunslinger shunting Desiree off toward Veronica, the Swordswoman shoving Michael back onto the stand of the accused, all light going out except for the circle that shone down on him from above.
22
A Trail of Honey to Show You Where He’s Been
High atop the judge’s bench, Tracy was anxious to get on with things. She was on a roll, and Michael was reeling, so as soon as Desiree and Veronica were gone, Tracy said, “The prosecution calls its next—”
“That’s it?” said Michael. “No breaks? No res—”
Tracy nodded into the darkness, where she saw light glint off a gun barrel. The Gunslinger stepped from the shadows, slammed her rifle into Michael’s head once more, and laughed as he fell to his knees.
Satisfied, Tracy continued. “We call Robin Gates to the stand,” she said.
Michael’s head snapped up, his eyes still watering, a rivulet of blood on his chin, dripping down from where he’d bitten his lip. “Well that’s not possible,” he said. “She’s… she’s…”
Dead was what he meant to say. As a doornail. Just like Marley. Tracy held back a chuckle at the thought. Five years she’d been gone, compared with Marley’s seven, and she looked much better than Scrooge’s old partner ever had, as if those extra two years were when all the decay happened. No rotting teeth on her, nor crossed eyes, nor festering wounds held together by filthy rags. And, as far as chains went, there were only the ones she wore in life. No, the Robin Gates that walked into their courtroom was like no ghost Tracy had ever seen. She was the spitting image of the girl Michael had fallen for all those years ago, the girl on his best friend’s porch, the one he’d painted and drawn again and again.
She looked cold, her thin body shuddering as if still held in the grip of that steady January breeze they’d met in. And she looked just like the pixie Michael had always painted her to be. It wasn’t just the way she carried herself, as if, like a bird, her bones were hollow and full of air, as if she might fly away at any moment. It was her hair, too—the short, chunky, playful cut of it. It was her bright, mischievous eyes. And it was the fact that it seemed as if the only things weighing her down at all were the jewelry that she wore, and the leather.
There were earrings everywhere, one dangly one in each lobe, two studs in each as well, and one up near the top of her right ear, right in the cr
ook of a fleshy part, a puncture that made Tracy swoon for a moment at the sight of it. When Robin laughed, Tracy spied a stud splitting through the middle of her tongue. Michael, down below, searching for somewhere else to look, besides her eyes, besides her plunging neckline, seemed to have found the final piercing, or at least the final visible one, a small jewel lanced through the flesh above her navel.
“Ms. Gates,” said Tracy, “what is your relationship to the accused?”
“Well,” said Robin, fixated on Michael and not on Tracy, “for a period of approximately three years, I fucked his brains out on a regular basis.”
Tracy banged her gavel down, half-amused and half-annoyed. She liked this girl, always had, and she thought she might miss Robin almost as much as Michael did. “Language,” said Tracy, admonishing her.
“Which one?” said Robin.
“Excuse me?” said Tracy.
“Which language would you prefer?” said Robin. “I can do French—J’ai baisé le cerveau hors de sa tête—or German—Ich sein Gehirn aus dem Kopf gefickt. My Swedish is a little rusty, but I could give it a whirl.”
Tracy said, “What I meant was—”
“Oh,” said Robin, cutting her off. “I got it. Jag knullade hans hjärna ut!”
“If we could keep the vulgarity to a minimum,” said Tracy, “that would be most appreciated.”
Robin laughed, finally looking up at Tracy. “Well,” she said, “fuck me in the ass and call me Charlie, I’ll sure as shit do my goddamned best.”
Once upon a time, she had been called—by the Phoenix, no less—“Boston’s most notorious rock and roll slut.” The mouth on her, Tracy now remembered, was a big part of why.
Tracy looked down at her notes again, trying not to get starstruck by this girl she’d spent her adolescence idolizing. She continued: “You were Mr. Silver’s girlfriend from January 1995 through January 1998, is that correct?”
“Oui, oui,” said Robin.
“And together you made up two thirds of the popular local band Gideon’s Bible?”
“Well,” said Robin, “at the beginning, technically speaking, we were one half of the band. But, you know, love triangles and all that.”
Tracy knew that. How had she forgotten that? Or had she forgotten? Maybe when she’d written the question down she’d simply been trying for simplification. Maybe—she cut herself off and asked her next question: “Could you describe how you came to be involved with Mr. Silver?”
“Could I?” said Robin. “Man, I remember the night I met Michael Silver so well it hurts.”
Tracy listened as she told the story, the third most recounted love story in their house, just after the story of her two moms getting together and the story of Michael and Jenna. They were headed to a Nine Inch Nails concert at the Centrum, Robin and David (the corner of the love triangle since lost to history), and in walked their ride, Michael, a guy in paint-stained jeans and a torn Voltron t-shirt, looking all innocent and unkempt, like he had no idea what he was in for. The way Robin used to tell it, he was the best kind of handsome: the kind that doesn’t know it yet, and maybe never will.
“And it was at the concert that he made his move?” said Tracy.
“The concert?” said Robin. “I haven’t even gotten there yet.”
“We don’t require every detail,” said Tracy, which was true, though secretly she loved every one of them, from the crazed teenagers leaping over their heads to get to the mosh pit below, to Michael and Robin singing to each other of the tainted touch of each other’s caress.
“Well, listen,” said Robin, “Ms. Judge, Jury, and Executioner, you need to pipe the fuck down. I’m telling a story here.”
“That’s not how this works,” said Tracy.
“I don’t care how this works,” said Robin. “This is how it should work. You argue against him, someone gets to counter. Basics of academic discourse, baby.”
“I understand that,” said Tracy. “I’m the valedictorian of—”
Robin shouted, “I’m the valedictorian of life, sweetheart!” and it was as if the judge’s bench shrunk as a result, shriveled up a bit, tucked itself closer to the ground. “I know what’s what,” said Robin. “So, sit down and shut the fuck up for a while.”
Tracy stared at Robin and Robin stared back. Robin seemed to be waiting, to see if Tracy would interrupt again. And only after a full measure of silence did she continue.
She talked about the car he drove, a gray Ford Tempo that was falling apart in every way imaginable. She lingered over the lights on the dash that were illuminated when they shouldn’t have been, over the noises coming from places that should have been silent. And then she talked about how none of it mattered once they were on the open road, how the stereo drowned out all that was wrong in the world, how they sang along to anything and everything.
Robin knelt down beside Michael now. “And you could sing,” she said. “Oh, man, could you sing. Your voice was heavy, and warm, and untrained, and when you hit a note you didn’t hit it because it was what you were taught to do. You hit that note because it felt right, because it felt good.”
“You can’t be here,” said Michael, his hand creeping toward her cheek, as if to see if she was real. “You…” he said, pulling his hand back, wrapping his arms around his body, shaking his head. “You’re—”
But Robin put two fingers to his lips to quiet him.
“Do you remember the concert?” she asked him.
“How could I forget it?” he said. “So many people were rushing to the floor that security lost control. The railings started to buckle.”
“It was amazing,” said Robin.
“It was,” said Michael.
“And then,” said Robin, “do you remember afterwards, when I made my move?”
Tracy caught the emphasis, rolled her eyes at it. Yes, technically, Robin had made the first move. But his eyes, the way he looked at her, the way he looked at Desiree—the way he looked at every woman, dammit—they proved that he was just as much at fault.
At fault for what? asked a voice in her brain, a voice she silenced with a shake of her head. You know what, she thought to herself.
Michael stood and walked away from Robin, the room transforming into the hall outside the auditorium. It was a zoo of people in black t-shirts and fishnet stockings, their mopey make-up ruined by sweat and post-show smiles.
Robin said, “Good show, huh? They play everything you wanted to hear?”
“I was hoping they’d do ‘Heresy,’” said Michael. “It’s become my, sort-of… I don’t know… my anthem?”
Robin smiled, drawing nearer to him. “God is dead, huh?”
Michael ranted for a minute about how that wasn’t what the singer was really saying, how the song was really more about why God sucked. He quoted lines, talked about the presence of the capital H in the song, and Robin ate it up, sauntering up to him, nodding along.
“You’re really into it,” she said. “I like that.”
And then it was his story about his grandfather, the one who’d died the spring before, the first death he’d ever experienced for himself as a grown-up. Blah, blah, blah. That was Michael for you, co-opting family tragedies to explain his wild mood swings and his sudden changes in musical taste.
He coughed a little at the end of his monologue and that was when Robin did it, when she sealed the deal. She leaned in toward him, tilting her head, and pressed her lips to his Adam’s apple, lingering there for a moment, puckering as she withdrew, as if to suck away the hurt with her as she stepped back.
“All better?” she said.
Michael turned away from her, and Tracy was startled by what happened next. And equally startled that she hadn’t noticed it before. The room changed when he decided it should change. Michael was just as much in control as she was. They were back in the courthouse, the jury murmuring all around them, the bailiffs whispering something to each other too.
“Yes,” said Michael, “it was all better
. Except for the part where I lost my oldest friend over you. Except for the part where you cheated on me with that drummer you met at Berklee.”
Robin squeezed his bicep, such as it was. “You do know it wasn’t just that drummer?” she said. And then she rattled off the list: the slam poet from Maine, the part-time DJ at BCN, the bi drag queen from Swarthmore, and, of course, the twins from Wellesley.
“They didn’t count,” said Michael.
“Why,” said Robin, “because they were chicks?”
“No,” said Michael, “because that was our autumn of anything goes.”
“Oh yeah,” said Robin.
“Objection,” said Tracy. “You’re skipping ahead.”
Robin scoffed: “I thought you wanted us to skip ahead.”
“Only in the places I tell you to,” said Tracy.
“Fine,” said Michael, standing beside Robin, the two of them a united front now. “Where do you want us to go back to?”
Tracy consulted her notes, though she already knew the part she wanted to hear. “Your first time,” she said, more timidly than she wished she had.
“The first time we did what?” said Robin. “The first time I blew him?”
Michael blushed, ducked his head.
“Because,” said Robin, “that was a totally different time than the first time he ate me out, which was up in his room while you and the rest of the family were downstairs watching the Pops play the ‘1812 Overture.’”
Robin turned and squeezed Michael’s arm with two hands now. “Do you remember,” she said, “how I came in time with the cannon blasts? It was a good thing they had the sound blaring—”
Tracy slammed her gavel against its sounding block, cracking the block in two. She looked down at it, unsure how she’d done it. She was angry, yes, but they weren’t even to the part that pissed her off the most. Maybe the stories of their escapades were swaying her, like the always did, convincing her that Michael was just being Michael. Maybe these old stories were doing more harm than good when it came to making her case against him.
Missing Mr. Wingfield Page 15