Ask Him Why (19 page)

I honestly think Aunt Sheila meant to click on the headline of the story, but I’m only guessing. I think she accidentally hit refresh because she’d been doing it all morning, and she was as stunned as I was, and her hand was on autopilot.

Five new versions of the same headline popped up. It was like the chicken pox, I thought—you barely have time to absorb the fact that you found the first bump, and then when you look again it’s already spread like a forest fire.

She hovered the cursor over the first headline, and then we were on the page, and it was CNN, which I thought was kind of shocking, because who would ever have guessed my little brother had something to say that would end up on CNN? And there were printed words of course, and I started to try to read them without even realizing there was also video. It wasn’t the kind that auto-played, though, so if you were shocked and going fast you could mistake it for a photo and ignore it. It was the words that were pulling at me.

I got as far as:

In a surprising development, when asked what he thought about his older brother, Joseph Stellkellner, being sentenced to ten years in a federal prison, youngest sibling Aubrey Stellkellner replied, “I think it’s not enough.” When asked by reporters why he thought this, the young Stellkellner replied, “Because he’s a coward. And he—”

That was when Aunt Sheila pressed play on the video.

We sat transfixed, watching Aubrey, his face washed out by the portable lights the cameramen shined on him, looking resolute and sure and adult . . . and really not afraid at all.

His name was written across the bottom of the screen, and it struck me again what miserable luck our last name had proven to be. Couldn’t we just have been the Smiths? Then when we met people and told them our name, no connection would ever be made. It was like a nasty little joke from the universe, a sign that we had been singled out for abuse long before Joseph came home. We had been set up in an elaborate plan.

“I think it’s not enough,” Aubrey said. I didn’t realize how completely his voice had changed until I heard it on a videotaped playback. I guess I didn’t realize until that moment just how much he wasn’t a kid anymore.

“Why do you say that?” a woman’s voice asked from off-camera.

“Because he’s a coward. And he hurts people. And they should have put him away forever, for the rest of his life. Because he deserves it. And because then he couldn’t hurt anybody.”

Which struck me as ironic, because Joseph had only hurt Aubrey once that I knew of, and he’d done that from his prison cell. But leave it to my little brother to propel himself more on vitriol and less on logic.

Then he just stood there, looking adult in attitude but small and slight in stature, and I thought his face looked a little whiter, but I wasn’t sure. Maybe it was only the lights.

“Is there anything more you want to tell us about your brother?” a different off-camera voice asked. A man.

“No,” Aubrey said. “That’s everything. I just think ten years is not enough.”

Then he turned and walked back through Aunt Sheila’s gate, closing it behind him, and the camera stayed on him the whole walk to her front door, and that was when I realized my heartburn was back with a vengeance and I could hardly breathe around it.

The video play ran out, the image froze, and we both just sat there and stared at the screen and said nothing.

“Well, that was ugly,” Aunt Sheila said after a time. “Just when you think things can’t possibly get any worse.”

When I woke up the next morning, I got dressed and wandered into the kitchen, not so much looking for breakfast as for more antacid.

I was a little surprised to see my mother sitting at the kitchen table with Aunt Sheila. Not stunned, by any means, but nobody had mentioned it was about to happen—still, it’s one of those things you know in retrospect you might well have seen coming.

Before they knew I was there, I heard my mom say, “We’re not blaming you, Sheila. Brad’s not, either. Believe me, if anybody knows what an intractable little shit he can be, it’s us. We just think they need to be where we have more control over their situation. Not that he doesn’t defy us just as much, but I think he’s a lot more scared of us. And then if anything goes wrong, we’ll have nobody but ourselves to blame.”

I was thinking about that last sentence and how it didn’t match with the first one, about how they didn’t blame Aunt Sheila in the first place, but I was thinking in a muddy way because I was still half-asleep. Also, I didn’t think about it for long, because my mom looked up and saw me there.

“Pack your things,” she said. “You kids are coming home today. And I don’t mean later today. I mean now.”

I didn’t ask where home was, but not so much because I wanted to be cooperative and sweet. More because I was afraid of the answer.

“I had nothing to do with this,” I said. “I just want you to know that.”

“I do know that,” she said, which was an odd vote of confidence from my mom. Or it seemed like one, at least, until she added, “We heard you on the video, yelling at him not to say anything.”

“I didn’t hear that on the video,” I said.

“Well, there are four or five different versions of it out there now. Some are longer than others. I’m not taking you home to punish you. Your father and I just think we all need to stay closer together till this blows over. Which it should now, because there’s nothing left to report. Every day in jail is like every other one, so Joseph won’t stay interesting for long. Now seriously, Ruth. Chop-chop. We’re clearing out of here as soon as I can get downstairs and drag your impulsive little brother out to the car by his ear.”

I thought it had been a figurative statement—I really did—but when I got to the front door with my suitcase, there was my impulsive little brother being dragged out to the car by his ear.

All he said as he got dragged past me was, “Ow. Ow. Ow.”

I thought,
Well, you wanted a reaction, Aubrey, and you got it. You wanted to go off like a nuclear weapon, so now here’s your nuclear waste. You can’t tell me you never saw this coming.

I didn’t say any of that out loud. I was beginning to think the best thing to say, at least 99 percent of the time, was nothing at all.

I should’ve known, if I ever learned anything from my little brother, it would come in the form of what
not
to do. Aubrey Stellkellner teaches Don’t Let This Happen to You 101. And brings his message home in rare form.

I pictured Olympic judges holding up signs, giving Aubrey damn close to a perfect ten in man-made disaster.

Aunt Sheila followed after them with the two big duffel bags of Aubrey’s stuff. I was the only one who thought of the fish.

I tried to find a plastic bag and a rubber band, but I had no idea where they were kept at Aunt Sheila’s, and I couldn’t get anybody’s attention, so I just grabbed the bowl and poured out about a third of the water onto the lawn on my way to the car.

I was careful not to pour out any fish.

“Oh, my fish,” he said when I handed them into the backseat, as though he’d forgotten them, too. “Thank you.”

Thank you.
From Aubrey. I took that to mean he cared. About something, even if it was just a crowd of cheap little orange fish.

Chapter Sixteen: Aubrey

The curse of the shotgun seat continued. I lost to Ruth again.

I sat in the back by myself. Trying to pretend I didn’t see my mom looking at me in the rearview mirror. Every ten beats or so, she looked back. Like she might catch me in some fresh shenanigans.

Thing is, I was riding in the back of a car I’d never seen before.

It was a lot like Aunt Sheila’s car, except newer. It had the ping doors. Not the thunk doors.

I didn’t dare ask. I didn’t dare say a word. I’d pushed my parents further than I’d ever pushed them before. Now I figured I should treat them like huge, dominant lowland gorillas in aggressive moods. Take a passive stance. Never once look them in the eye. Pray. Wait for them to get bored and move away.

Ruth asked.

“Whose car is this?”

“It’s ours,” my mom said.

“Oh. Do we still have the Mercedes or the SUV?”

“No.”

“Oh. I just . . . I don’t know. I know this one is cheaper. But the other ones . . . we already had them. I’m not sure what the advantage is of buying something new.”

“They weren’t paid for.”

“And this is?”

“Yes, Ruth. This is. Your father took out a loan and paid . . . a couple of things that needed attention, and bought this car. We couldn’t have kept the other two, anyway. There’s a limit to how much your car can be worth and still keep it in a bankruptcy.”

That last word stopped all conversation cold.

I wondered how the person felt who approved my father’s loan, only to discover he planned to spend all the money, file for bankruptcy, and never make a payment. I didn’t care much, though. At that point, I figured everybody was pretty much out to take everybody. I didn’t expect better. Not even from my own family.

My cell phone let out a tone in my pocket. Someone had text-messaged me, from the sound of it. For only the second time ever.

“What was that?” my mother asked. Like a watchdog hearing a noise in the front yard.

“Nothing,” I said.

I pulled it out of my pocket and looked.

It was from Luanne.

“Is that somebody calling on your cell? Because we have to pay for incoming calls, too, you know.”

“No. It’s not. It’s a text message.”

“A what? I never heard of such a thing.”

It was 2004, let’s not forget. Lots of people had phones with text messaging. But half of them hadn’t even figured out how to use it. Or didn’t even know it was there.

“It’s new,” I said. “Don’t freak out.”

I read the message.
I know you wanted to hurt him, Aubrey. You accomplished that. But I think you won’t find what you’re looking for in this impulsive act.

“Who is it?” my mom asked. In that aggravating voice. Like the electric drills at the dentist’s office. A wholly negative sound.

“None of your business,” I said. Then I realized these were not normal times. I was down behind enemy lines. And I’d forgotten to humor my captors.

Next thing I knew, the phone disappeared from my hands. She’d reached over between the seats and snatched it.

“Dr. Gravenstein? Why would she be . . . whatever you said . . . to you?” She swerved dangerously in the road. I held my hands over the fishbowl. Then she straightened out and handed my phone to Ruth. “Here,” she said. “I don’t want to get us in a crash. Read that and tell me what it says.”

I reached forward and grabbed for the phone. My seatbelt stopped me. And the fishbowl water sloshed. It wasn’t hard for Ruth to keep it out of my reach. I watched her read the message. I waited for her to humiliate me by reading it again out loud. To betray me. Just to keep on good terms with our mom.

She didn’t.

She just stalled there. Looked once over her shoulder at me. And I saw she didn’t have it in her to betray me
that
badly.

I appreciated that in my sister. I did. I never said so, but I did.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” my mom said, and pulled over onto the shoulder. Even though it was the freeway. Emergency stopping only.

“Hey!” I yelled. “You’re spilling the fish water!”

I’d actually spilled more grabbing for my phone. But now any spills would be her fault. Not mine.

She read it for herself. Then she handed the phone back over the seat.

“At least she was right,” she said.

“I don’t even understand it,” I said.

“There’s nothing not to understand, Aubrey. It was perfectly clear.”

And with that, she pulled back into the traffic lane. Badly. Another driver had to merge left and honk.

“I wasn’t looking for anything. And it wasn’t impulsive.”

“What? You’d been planning it for days? That would be even worse, mister. But you couldn’t have been planning it, because the sentencing had just been announced, just the afternoon before.”

I
had
been planning it for days. Only not in response to the sentencing. I just thought I’d say what they ought to give him for a sentence. This had been cleaner, though. This had been even better.

I didn’t say any of that to my mom. I wasn’t a complete idiot.

I read Luanne’s text again. And I was pissed. Because she wasn’t even my therapist anymore. So why did I have to hold still for her criticism? I realized I’d started to have that reaction the first time I’d read it. But things had taken a sudden turn. My pissed had been interrupted.

I texted back,
What do you care? You got to wash your hands of me. I bet you were relieved.

A minute or two went by. I figured I’d never hear from her again. Why should she bother? She’d gotten her shot in. And she wasn’t getting paid. And obviously that’s all she’d ever cared about, anyway. Not me.

Then I heard another tone.

“When I get the bill,” my mother said, “I better not find out that message thing costs money.”

I was pretty sure it did. But how much could two messages cost? I ignored her and read the reply.
Beg to differ. Offered bottom of sliding scale. 25% normal rate. Your mother wouldn’t even discuss it. But I met them 3/4 of the way.

I looked up. Glared at the back of my mother’s head.

A few seconds later, she did the Aubrey check in the rearview mirror.

“What?” she asked me.

“Nothing,” I said, and slid the phone back in my pocket.

I never answered Luanne’s second text.

It wasn’t until we got onto Interstate 5 that Ruth asked the obvious question.

“Where are we going? And don’t say ‘home.’ I know ‘home.’ But where? Where do we live now?”

“We rented a little place. Not an apartment. It’s a house. But small. And not too fancy.”

“Where?”

A pause. I knew she wished she didn’t have to say.

“Bakersfield.”

“Bakersfield?” Ruth and I both said at once.

“Yes. Bakersfield. What’s wrong with Bakersfield?”

“I don’t even know where to begin,” Ruth said.

A mile of silence.

“So how did you choose Bakersfield?” Ruth asked.

“We were just looking for a place where nobody knows us. Where we could start over.”

“Which would also be every other city in the United States,” Ruth said.

“Your father got a little job there.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you say so?”

“It’s not much. Just legal research for a firm. And the pay is not great. But he has to start over somewhere. Don’t say anything to him about it. It’s a big step down, so it’s a sore subject with him. You know how your father is.”

“It’s all Joseph’s fault,” I said.

I hadn’t even realized I’d been about to say it.

“Hush,” my mother said.

Then nothing more on the subject. Or any other one. For quite some time.

I wanted to ask about the bedrooms. How many bedrooms? But I’d already said more than I ever meant to. Instead, I willed Ruth to ask for me. For several miles. Then, amazingly, she did.

“How many bedrooms does it have?”

“Only two. But we’re going to fix the basement up for Aubrey. I don’t think he’ll mind. Do you?”

As if I weren’t even there. But what’s new?

“I think he
prefers
basements now,” Ruth said.

After that, it was a long and quiet ride.

Around the time we pulled inside the Bakersfield city limit, she hit us again.

“There’s one more thing I haven’t told you,” she said.

“Oh, God,” Ruth muttered under her breath.

Rookie mistake. She’d let herself believe the worst was already known. I never did that. Not anymore.

“Your last name is not Stellkellner anymore.”

“What?” I asked.

“It’s more or less self-explanatory.”

“Whose last name is not Stellkellner?” Ruth asked.

“Any of us. All four of us. Your father went to court and had it changed. Your name is Ruth Rogers. And Aubrey Rogers.”

“Why?” Ruth asked.

She didn’t have to ask
why
Rogers
. That much was clear. Roger was our dad’s middle name.

“Well, isn’t it obvious, Ruth? So everybody will get off our backs and leave us alone.”

“You said it was easy to find out stuff like that!”

“For the reporters, sure. For a private detective. Other regular people don’t do investigations. Don’t you think it would be nice to tell somebody your name and get no reaction at all?”

Silence for the rest of the ride to the new house. While we thought about that. Yeah, it would be nice to get away from the giant stain. At least keep it to myself if I chose to. And it would be easier to make new friends.

Still. It’s one thing to be told there’s a whole new house. A whole new city. It’s another thing to be told there’s a whole new
you
. And in both cases, nobody bothered to get your thoughts before deciding.

Welcome to your childhood. Until you’re eighteen, it’s just more of this.

The house was what you might call a “fixer-upper.” If you were trying to be nice. Or if you were the agent trying to talk some family into renting it.

But honestly, I didn’t care.

I cared more that it was entirely unfamiliar.

I cared that it contained only a few of our things. A few familiar bits of furniture. Lamps I knew. But the rest was gone, and I would never know where.

I didn’t care that we would have to eat dinner in the kitchen. But I cared that there was no chandelier over the dinner table. Because I would have no place to look except at my family.