Drowning Instinct
Page 17

There wasn‘t much else, some links to follow-up articles about how pissed the Japanese got, lawsuits, and stuff like that. There were links to some essays, a couple unauthorized biographies, blah, blah, blah.
I hadn‘t a clue where to go with this. So I logged out and decided not to think about it.
20: a
Mom‘s big Oktoberfest gig was on a Saturday, and it was a good thing I had the whole next week of fall break to rest and recover. The party was my crazy Grandma Stephie‘s idea way back when. They started out serious, the Wisconsin equivalent of the Algonquin Round Table— only instead of famous writers and literary critics and actors meeting for lunch in some swank New York restaurant, snarking about their friends and drinking themselves into a stupor, Grandma cultivated Milwaukee beer barons, shipping magnates, and guys who owned brownstone quarries. Basically, anyone loaded enough to make the trip up to Lake Superior got a weekend of drinking, gorging, schmoozing, and general debauching with New York and Chicago writer-types. In exchange, the fat cats all coughed up a tidy sum for books at their full retail price. A pretty good deal, all the way around.
When Mom took over the store, the parties continued but scaled down and moved south: first to our old house and now to the McMansion. She invited mainly regional authors, some famous but most not. Mom supplied the books and invited a bunch of book clubs and other, mostly pretentious and preferably wealthy, people who liked (or pretended to like) and discussed (or pretended to discuss) books. But mostly they hankered for free food and free booze.
The only problem was the bookstore had been losing money on the parties for years now, mostly because people came to drink and eat and didn‘t cart books away in wheelbarrows the way they used to. So, like clockwork, my parents spent the morning after arguing about how much more money Mom had lost and how cost-ineffective the parties were and blah, blah, blah. Dad always threatened to pull his support until Mom groveled enough and the issue got tabled for another year.
My job was always the same: meet and greet, trudge upstairs to Mom and Dad‘s room with coats, trudge back, circulate between the house and the patio where Dad had the fire pit going and, in general, be charming. I had my stock answers down pat: fine, working hard, thinking of a place out East, maybe a doctor but I don’t really know yet. Most of the guests were people I‘d known for years, so I didn‘t mind and I really did like listening to some of the writers.
Well, most of them.
b
Nate Bartholomew was even more handsome than the picture on his dust jacket.
Judging from the adoring faces of a bunch of the women—and a couple of Evan‘s friends—he was going to walk away with a whole new fan base. He talked about Sandlot Blues and the movie and how he and the stars went for a round of golf in the dead of winter.
Mom sat in the front row and beamed. Every now and again, his eyes would meet hers and I swear she blushed. When he posed for pictures, he hugged Mom a lot closer than was strictly necessary. Later, she hovered as he signed autographs, making sure he had plenty of pens and a glass of water and whatever else he needed, which was sort of standard. I mean, she did it for all the writers, only I noticed that she laughed a lot at Nate‘s jokes and put her hand on his shoulder.
I thought back to the night she hadn‘t been at her store, when she said she and Nate Bartholomew went out for a few drinks. Now, I wondered if knocking back a couple was really all they‘d done.
So I watched, carefully, as Bartholomew whispered something in my mom‘s ear and a flush crept up her neck. Her eyes sparkled.
Oh yeah.
Oh ... yeah.
c
Maybe four hours in, I escaped. The guests were fed and watered and since I wasn‘t the main attraction, no one noticed me ease into the house. As I dragged upstairs, I was thinking how lucky I was that I‘d started running again—on my own, just to blow off steam and no, Bob, I did not think about Mr. Anderson when I did—or else my legs would‘ve turned to wet noodles with all that up and down and in and out.
I hadn‘t bothered with a light because both the downstairs and outside spots were on, filling the upstairs hall with a thin, silver glow. So it was just enough for me to notice what was wrong.
The door to Matt‘s room was open. Just a hair. Which was wrong because that door was always shut. Mom made sure of it.
Then, I heard something so faint it was almost no sound at all. What? I crept to Matt‘s door, reached for the knob, and then froze as the sound—sounds—came again.
A low, urgent murmur . . . A man‘s voice, I thought. Next, there came the creak of bedsprings—and then, a weepy little cry that was almost a groan.
Holy shit.
d
Okay, time out.
Bob, I may have a few problems, but I am not some sicko Peeping Tom. To tell you the truth, when I was younger, I sometimes heard Mom and Dad, which completely grossed me out. (Come on, Bob, admit it. You overheard your parents, too. Don‘t tell me you thought those were mice.) That had been in the days before Matt had gone and things were better: Mom not drinking herself into a stupor; Dad not screwing nurses; and me most definitely not a slice ‘n dice away from a psych ward.
So I knew what people in bed sounded like. I didn‘t need a map. None of my business, right?
Looking back, this was another of those key moments, Bob, when my story could‘ve taken off in a very different direction.
Because if I‘d only pretended nothing was there, the fight would never have happened.
21: a
But I didn‘t pretend.
Instead, I inched forward and eased open the door just a hair more. Why? Mostly because the guy‘s tone wasn‘t right and now, this close, I could make out words: Relax, baby, just relax, come on come on....
So I looked. There was just enough light for me to get the general idea. Honestly, in retrospect, better I should‘ve stuck pins in my eyes.
They were on the bed. The guy was on top. He was the only one moving. He was still talking, but now I could hear, much more clearly, how frustrated he was: C‘mon, c‘mon, let‘s go. Actually, he sounded pissed.
The woman was limp and only moaned every now and again. Not a good kind of sound, Bob, if you know what I mean. Not like she was having fun but more of a sick, hurt, whatthe-hell-is-going-on moan: the kind of thing I‘d heard on the ward from kids who couldn‘t get the voices in their head to stop torturing them. And I remember her hand, Bob, hanging like a dead flower over the edge of the bed.
I didn‘t know what to do. I‘m sure this kind of thing— people sneaking into rooms and hooking up which, considering how upset adults get when kids my age do it, is pretty hypocritical, if you ask me—had been going on since Grandma Stephie‘s time. Knowing her, she probably took notes. Hell, these two might even be married, but I didn‘t think so.
You had to be there, Bob, but the vibe was all wrong.
Then I heard the hitch in the man‘s breath as he felt my eyes. His face was a silver blur as he looked over his shoulder and sucked in a quick gasp: What the fu—
I gitted. Spinning away, I yanked the door shut and then bolted down the hall for my room. I slammed my door and didn‘t bother with a light but scurried for the far side of my bed where I huddled, the wooden frame biting my back. My eyes felt like someone had taken a blowtorch and melted them right down to the sockets. My windows were open and there was background chatter, voices running together like water over rocks, the pop and crackle of the fire pit, and gusts of laughter. The band was playing a jazz set and that made me think of Mr. Anderson, which I immediately wished I hadn‘t. He would have helped that woman. I was such a coward. This was like Psycho-Dad killing the kitchen wall and me turning tail like a scared little bunny rabbit. I should have done something. Screamed.
Yelled. Turned on the light. Pulled the creep off. Something.
Time passed. I don‘t know how long. Over the thud of my heart, I heard the man‘s footsteps as he came into the hall and then turned into the bathroom— my bathroom. A light flicked on, the glow seeping through the seams along my doorjamb. Water ran and splashed in the basin, gurgled down the drain. Then a brief, quivering silence.
And then footsteps. A dark tongue of shadow licked at the light at the base of my bedroom door.
Jenna? He didn‘t knock or try to come in. Jenna, you in there, sweetpea?
b
Sweetpea.
Now I knew who he was.
Sweetpea, said Dr. Kirby—my dad‘s partner and a guy I‘d known since I was old enough to know anyone. Jenna, sweet-pea, it‘d be better for me if you didn‘t say anything.
I know you know that, right? When I didn‘t reply, he said, I didn‘t force her.
Oh no, she was just dead drunk. She couldn‘t have consented to save her life. Dr.
Kirby said something else stupid, I don‘t remember what, and then the shadows of his feet vanished and he went away. I waited a few more minutes just to make certain and then eased out of my room.
The woman was on her knees by Matt‘s bed. His room was close and stuffy, and when I bent down, she had a hand to her mouth. I think, she gulped. I think I‘m going to be . . . I‘m gonna be ...
We made it to the bathroom just in time. I held her hair as she hugged the toilet. The stink was like this black oily cloud, bad enough that I held my breath and concentrated on keeping what little I‘d eaten where it was. When she was down to spitting, I ran cold water over a washcloth and sponged off her face and neck. The first three buttons of her blouse were gone and her stockings were ripped and there were scratches on her neck.
I‘m really drunk, she said, stating the obvious. Her words were all mushy. She struggled to focus on my face, but her eyes kept clicking from side to side like ball bearings. She sagged against the tub, her mouth slack, her breath fruity and sick.
Did you come with someone? What‘s your name? I had to ask a couple times.
When she finally got the sentences out, I said, Okay, I‘m going to get your husband. Just stay here. Don‘t move, all right? Like she was in any shape to go anywhere.