Killer's Cousin (5 page)

At that point I'd known for sure that I was dreaming, known also that I was close enough to the surface to wake up. It was then I'd heard the humming again, insistent. And I'd opened my eyes in the gray dawn.

For a second in the doorway across the bedroom I saw that shadow again—but this time it was distinctly human. A girl—a woman. I struggled up onto my elbows and said fuzzily, frantically:
“Emily? Emily!”
even though I knew, I
knew
, it was not Emily. But then the shadow had … not disappeared, but
dissolved
.

And the humming had stopped.

In short, it had been a nasty night, a rotten preliminary to my first day of classes.

I glanced sideways at Frank Delgado, glad of his presence as a distraction. What was this raggedly dressed skinhead kid doing at an exclusive prep school? Was it really that difficult for Dr. Walpole to enroll boys? Of course, she'd enrolled me. Probably the skinhead had a desperate family, too, willing to pay any price.

The bell rang, and a minute passed, and it was only then that the teacher entered, at a pace a shade faster than brisk. Next to me, Frank Delgado withdrew his feet from the neighboring desk and casually angled to face the front. The teacher put some books down and moved to sit behind her desk. It was only then that I saw who it was: Dr. Walpole. I glanced down at my schedule. Yes, there it was: Sr Hist Sem Medv. Walpl.

I remembered now, she had said she taught history. But I hadn't expected to find her teaching
me
. It made me feel … watched. I sank down a little in my chair.

Dr. Walpole's gaze moved rapidly, comprehensively, from face to face. “Senior seminar in medieval history,” she said. “Yearlong, three credits. Everybody in the right place?”

Everybody was. “Good,” said Dr. Walpole. “Maybe you'll all move up into the first and second rows, then, to indicate your intense interest in the subject. We shouldn't need to use the last two rows at all. Come on.” Slowly, the rest of the students moved, filling in the desks beside and behind Frank Delgado and me.

Possibly Dr. Walpole was being kind. Possibly this was simply her usual mode of operation. Whatever, I didn't care for it.

At three-thirty, I escaped to my car. I'd parked facing
the school, with a view of the front entrance, and as I turned the engine on, I spotted Frank Delgado coming out. I continued to watch as he made his solitary way across Memorial Drive and loped down along the Charles River.

If I'd been home, I would have talked about him that night at the dinner table. “There's this kid, a skinhead, in one of my classes,” I would have said. My parents would have been very interested. But then, if I'd been home, I'd have already known all about him. I had been thoroughly entrenched in the information circles at my old school.

I went back to the Shaughnessy house. I had homework to do. Calculus would be easy for quite a while; I'd done it the year before. Same with several other subjects. But Dr. Walpole wasn't teaching history out of a textbook; instead, she was assigning a lot of primary source reading. That night's was on the medieval church hierarchy. Thrilling.

On the porch beside the front door, Vic had nailed up a new mailbox for me. In it was a large manila envelope from my mother. I ripped open the envelope and found some college applications. Stanford. University of Chicago. Dartmouth. My mother had attached a short note:

She had also included newspaper clippings from
The Washington Post
: a series about the college application process and the pressures on Young People Today. I grimaced, and then stuffed everything back into the envelope. I was staring down at it when I felt a presence at my elbow. Lily.

It was time to forgive her for what she'd said to me about Emily. She was just a kid; she couldn't have known what she was saying. I opened the door and gestured her inside in front of me. We mounted the stairs. I reached for conversation. “Wasn't today your first day back at school? How's sixth grade so far?”

“Rotten.” Lily opened the door of her parents' apartment with her key.

“Care to elaborate?” I asked. I wanted to go on up to the attic, but felt uneasy leaving Lily. Where was Julia? She didn't work. Shouldn't she be home to greet Lily?

“Nah.” Lily bounced on into the living room. After a second the television sang out in a commercial. Reluctantly, I followed her. Lily had flung herself onto the carpet in front of the TV and was wielding the remote control with an expert hand, rapidly flicking from channel to channel and finally settling on a cartoon,
Scooby Doo
.

“Lily?” I had to raise my voice. “Lily!”

She didn't turn. “What?”

“Where's Jul—your mother?”

“She has her O.A. meeting at four today.”

“O.A.?”

“Overeaters Anonymous.”

“What?” I said. “She's not fat. Did she used to be?”

Lily was concentrating on the TV. “No, she just likes
the people there. She says they've all suffered deeply and they have great strength. It's uplifting to hear them.” Lily restored her attention to the TV, and I thought she was finished, but then she added: “Mom goes to G.A. and A.A., too. They're sort of the same thing, only different. You know?”

Gamblers Anonymous. Alcoholics Anonymous. “You okay down here by yourself?” I asked.

“Oh, puh-leeze.” Lily rolled her eyes. Relieved that at least she and I had been able to talk, I retreated upstairs as the TV yelled, “Good boy, Scooby! You unmasked the ghost!”

I don't know when Julia or Vic got home.

T
hree or four weeks went by. I did my schoolwork more or less diligently, but could not make myself actually show up for cross-country practice. Instead, I began running by myself every day after school. I chose a five-mile route that circled through North Cambridge and then looped around the Fresh Pond reservoir. While I ran, I wore headphones and thought about nothing. It felt good. Sometimes I ran the loop twice.

Yom Kippur came. I didn't intend to fast; I had not fasted since my bar mitzvah year. But somehow or other I forgot to eat until just a few hours before sunset, and then I thought, why not hang on? So I did. It was just a test of will. It meant nothing. I didn't go to synagogue. I didn't feel cleansed. I didn't feel forgiven.

One October afternoon I came home after my run to find Vic stacking a half cord of wood in the backyard against the house. He nodded at me, and I took off my
headphones and joined him, ignoring his protests. We went back and forth from the base of the driveway, where the wood had been dumped, to the back of the house. I found myself glancing at Raina Doumeng's first-floor windows for signs of her presence. Nothing.

“Hard to believe this'll be needed,” I said idly, nodding at my armload of firewood. It was a perfect Indian summer day, about seventy degrees.

Vic shrugged. “Believe it. It gets plenty cold around here, though we haven't gotten a lot of snow the past couple of years. Thank God. I hate shoveling.”

“I'll do it this year,” I said.

“I didn't mean—”

“I know.” I finished stacking my current load. “Don't worry about it. Least I can do.”

“But—”

“Think of what my mother would say if I didn't pull my weight around here.”

“Eileen.” A smile lightened Vic's eyes for an instant, and then disappeared. “Okay. You do the shoveling.”

We continued working in silence, and as the stack neared completion, I wondered if my mother would consider this a bonding experience. She had called regularly every Sunday morning with her pick for Congressional Idiocy of the Week, a list of books I ought to read, gossip about my father's activities, and a few carefully worded questions about my life. Then, just before hanging up, she'd ask, as if casually, “And Vic? What's new with Vic and Julia?”

Each week I considered telling her to leave me alone and call Vic herself. But I never did.

“… been thinking about installing a woodstove up
on the third floor, too,” Vic was saying. “But I'm not sure if there's enough clearance.”

“No, I don't think there is,” I said. There was nothing wrong with a conventional heating system. “I'm sure it'll be warm enough without one.”

Vic adjusted the last few logs on top of his stack. “Well, yes, I put in insulation, but a home needs a fire. I'd always planned—”

I interrupted him. The last thing I wanted was Vic cozying up the apartment for me. “Vic, there's something I've been meaning to ask you.”

Vic blinked. “What?”

“My mother says they're thinking about driving up here for Thanksgiving.”

For a moment, he didn't seem quite able to take it in. “Eileen and Stuart? Here?”

“Yeah.” I watched his eyes slide away from mine, back to the woodpile. His left cheek twitched. “She says she'll roast a turkey in my oven,” I said. “Invite you and Julia and Lily up.”

I wasn't thrilled with the idea either; in truth I didn't know whether I wanted them to come or not. But Vic looked as if the entire woodpile had fallen on him.

“They'd be staying with me, so if Julia …” I stopped. I couldn't go any further. It would be presumptuous. In fact, the whole situation was ridiculous. Two or three frozen turkey dinners while watching football on TV—alone—was a far superior holiday plan. Except what if Vic and Julia then felt compelled to invite me to their table? “Anyway, she wondered what you'd think,” I finished.

“Oh,” said Vic. He cleared his throat. “Well. It would
be good for Lily to see her aunt and uncle. It's been …” He set his jaw and continued. “Four years.”

I nodded. I thought he was done. I opened my mouth—

“Four years since Kathy died,” Vic said. His voice was unexpectedly loud, almost defiant. I realized this was the first time I'd heard him say her name since I'd moved in. Even Lily—on the one occasion she'd referred to Kathy—had said
she
. “It doesn't seem so long, does it?” Vic said. He stood up straight, as if he expected a medal.

And I felt myself tighten with anger. I knew this conversation was exactly what my mother wanted between Vic and me. I knew I ought to feel sympathy for him. For them all. I knew I ought to want to help.

I just didn't. What had happened in that family, what was happening now—it wasn't my business and I didn't want to be part of it. I had my own stuff.

I didn't answer. After a few uncomfortable moments, Vic went on. “Maybe I'll call Eileen about Thanksgiving. Do you think that's a good idea?”

“Why don't you talk to your wife first?” I said nastily. Vic stared at me. “Oh, I don't mean a
real
conversation. You can have Lily ask Julia about it, and then Julia can send Lily back to you with a reply.”

“David—” Vic stopped. My words sat in the silence. I wasn't sorry. For a long, long moment I wasn't sorry at all. Then Vic turned away.

“Look,” I said quickly. “I didn't mean to say that. It's not my business.” Vic turned back toward me, slowly.
“Forget it,” I said. “I've gotta go do some work. See you later, Vic, okay?”

I could feel Vic's eyes following me as I disappeared around the side of the house. I was still angry, but at myself now, as well as at Vic.

I went upstairs to the attic. After spending twenty minutes reading about the differences between Gothic and Byzantine cathedrals, I heard a loud knocking at the lower door. And a call: “David? Can I speak with you?”

Vic. After a moment, I went down the stairs and opened the door. “I'm sorry about what I said before,” I said, blocking the doorway with my body. “But can we talk about it another time? I'm studying—”

Vic waved a hand apologetically, but he didn't move. “It won't take long.” He looked off into space for a second. “Please.”

I moved aside. We climbed the stairs, and Vic pulled out a dinette chair. He moved as if to sit down, but then changed his mind and instead stood awkwardly behind it, grasping the back. I stood a few feet away, unsure what to do.

Not looking at me, Vic said, “About me and Julia. I realize it must seem strange to you …” He trailed off. Then: “I've never spoken about this before.”

I wished he still wasn't speaking about it. “There's no need to explain anything to me.”

Vic ignored me. “I didn't want Eileen to know,” he said. “I can't imagine what I was thinking. With you living here …”

He took a deep breath. I looked at him. He released
the chair and pulled at his hair instead. Then, finally, he sat down. “This wasn't what I meant to talk about.” He waved at the other chair. “Could you sit down, please? I can't talk with you looming over me.”

I sat.

“I didn't think your being here would matter much,” Vic said at last. “I just wanted to do something for Eileen. But it has made a difference …”

“I'm sorry—” I began, but Vic waved me into silence.

He wasn't looking at me. “I guess you know that Julia and I … we don't really see much of each other these days. We've sort of fallen into … I don't think it's so unusual. A lot of people—a lot of couples—when you've been married a long time …”

Vic paused again, then finally went on, his face still averted. “I kind of stopped noticing how we lived. But then you moved in. Just your being here has changed things. Even if you left—it's too late. We can't go back now. We can't … we can't be comfortable again.”