Burning September (31 page)

She knew all my layers, sure, but I knew next to nothing about hers.  I’d peel them back like an onion, but the thing about onions was they made me cry and they smelled. 

A boy’s club, what the hell did that mean?  I guessed it meant men could catcall you on the streets with impunity, send you lewd texts and then declare you a prude for taking issue with a dick pic.  It meant they could pay you filthy compliments—nice ass, baby—and if you got offended they’d pretend it was a kind thing to say, nice ass, that you should be flattered. 
Why can’t you take a compliment?
  Because you disgust me, asshole.  Only you couldn’t say that, that would just make them say worse to you. 

You could take Caroline’s route, her lone panther ways, buying into the man’s world idea when it suited her, hacking it to smithereens when it didn’t.  She pretended to believe the man’s world stuff when she needed to, when she had some idiot to manipulate, but she kept her fingers crossed behind her back. 

Or one could go the way of weaker willed women, I supposed, women who sobbed and followed their leaving husbands out the door, despair casting its unflattering aura.  Women who pretended they loved football, didn’t care if you hadn’t called when you promised you would, didn’t mind that you always were ‘out with your boys’, loved painfully waxing themselves hairless.  Those women were mostly liars, the others were deluding themselves. 

How could I respond to her letters when I didn’t have words?  I couldn’t articulate everything I felt.  I didn’t know how to throw words like darts the way she did, but I couldn’t let this dead air stretch further and stay silent forever. 

The red sun sunk lower behind the palms.  It looked like the sky had caught fire, and I stared blankly up at it for a minute before I realized how I should stage my reply to those innumerable emails. 

I headed back inside and almost fell to my death as Nicholas streaked past my ankles, tripping me on my way into the living room. 

Looming above the mosaic urns was that stupid photograph that had netted Caroline even more attention than she normally got, and suddenly I hated the fact that she’d used an image of me to launch her career. She’d always treated me like clay.  Use me, mold me.  Make me anything you want, I’m yours for the taking.  Paint me in your image, isn’t it such a shame you can only see your face in mirrors?  How can you resist turning this blank canvas into your twin?   

My artistic skills would never be of Caroline’s caliber, but I could still send her a clumsy message in oil paints. 

***

I spent the bulk of the night hunched over a fraying piece of canvas, and the clock had ticked over to one in the morning by the time I’d finished.

Burning September, Victoria Rasmussen had told me, was so special an image because of its contrast.  I was so young and tender, innocent and translucent, but I was trapped in the heart of a blazing landscape and didn’t seem to realize it. 
It’s like you’re turning over your fate to the gods
, she’d said. 
Asking the cards your future.

My replica had none of those qualities.  Where Caroline’s was almost transparent, mine was lush with garish colors, I almost got sick looking at it.  I’d painted my little girl face like one of those hypersexualized little girl beauty pageant contestants.  Thick, overdone eyeshadow layered three hues deep, long nails with a French manicure, lips glossed to high shine, looking every bit the duped idiot Caroline had made me feel like.  Her photograph only had the vaguest hint of flames, wisps of smoke in the air, but my painting had bright wildfire that, if you looked hard enough, resembled hissing snakes circling the blanket I sat on. 

And face-up in front of the painted me, the tarot cards told a much different story than the slightly out of focus ones in Burning September.  The Queen of Wands, The Fool, Death.  There would be no room for interpretation, Caroline would know I meant them literally.  I didn’t need to cloak myself in words the way she did, I could say everything and nothing at the same time. 

***

I mailed the canvas I’d painted the following afternoon, splurging for next-day delivery.  No doubt it would spawn a flurry of furious emails from Caroline, but what else was new?

Back in the condo, I replayed voicemails Kyle had left me.  I hadn’t been able to bring myself to delete them.

Kat, look, I get why you’re upset, but you can’t just run away, okay, that’s not how relationships work.  I understand that you need some time to process, but you’ve got to talk to me eventually, so—fuck—stubbed my toe—just call me back when you’re ready.

If you think for one second that I’d take some twisted pleasure in telling you this stuff about your dad, then you clearly don’t know me at all.  Why would I want to hurt you, I’ve never done it before.  It’s been three days already, you’ve got to stop with the silent treatment. 

I feel like I’m in a relationship with your voicemail, Kat.  I need to hear from you. 

But what could I say?  I couldn’t even formulate an email to my own sister.  I knew my tongue would tie up in knots the moment the call connected.  And it had been two weeks since we’d last seen each other.  He probably didn’t want to hear from me anyway.  A lot could happen in two weeks.  A lot could happen in a minute even, it hadn’t taken that long for Caroline to stoke the flames that annihilated Brian’s house. 

But I wanted to see him, even if it meant having to admit that Caroline knew a whole lot more about our father’s death than she let on. 

It took a full hour to convince myself to get in the car.  When I did, it took another ten minutes to psych myself into putting the key in the ignition. 
What’s the worst that can happen?  The worst has already happened.  There’s no way this can mangle things further.  Right?

I made myself point the Challenger in the direction of Kyle’s apartment, though I kept wanting to pull a U-turn at every red light. 
Don’t be a coward
, I kept chastising myself, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. 
You know him, this shouldn’t be scary, he’s seen you naked, for God’s sake.  You’ve given press conferences without being this nervous.  Stop being such a chicken.

All too soon, I found myself pulling into the visitor’s parking in Kyle’s apartment complex.  I pressed my forehead into the steering wheel, eyes shut tight, until I was down to my last shaky nerve. 

The lights were on in his living room, I noticed, climbing the staircase.  But still, I had to stand there on his welcome mat for a minute before I finally summoned the strength to knock.  My heart hammered harder with each footstep I heard drawing nearer, and I thought I might very well pass out before he answered.  I clutched my purse tighter, just to have something to do with my hands as the door swung open. 

The silence that followed was huge, it seemed too big for the entire world to contain. 

“Hi.”  He looked surprised to see me, but his surprise couldn’t top mine.  The second he’d answered my knock, my eyes had cut right past him and landed on a woman standing there, holding one of his stemless wineglasses. 

I was too horrified to even be catty.  Whoever she was, she was pretty.  Not the way Caroline was, not disturbingly beautiful, like she’d come from another dimension, but normal pretty.  Shiny hair the color of Cherrywood, glowing skin, big dark eyes framed in deep black lashes.  Probably prettier than me.  Age appropriate too, she looked to be at least mid-twenties, like someone Kyle was always meant to be with.  What was I, just some silly girl, a nice distraction for a few months, but never anything serious.  I wasn’t the sensible choice. 

And I knew right then, as my limbs turned to gelatin, that I should have never broken Caroline’s rules.  She’d made them up for a reason, right?  To avoid this horrible feeling.  My heart shot into my throat, and I knew why she’d killed Brian now.  Murderous rage had to feel better than this. 

“Kat?”

I blinked a few hundred times and looked back at Kyle, but I couldn’t bear holding eye contact for long.  I wheeled around and galloped down the staircase, ignoring him when he called my name.  I hoped he wouldn’t chase after me.  I had a feeling if he did I might mow him over with the Challenger he so envied. 

AUGUST

The landslide of texts and voicemails from Kyle began the moment I’d left his apartment. 
She’s just a friend, Kat.  You really think I’d cheat on you?  Answer your goddamned phone. 

Sure she was.  I always invite my friends over for wine and cozy mood lighting.   

I didn’t need to hear explanations, the sight I’d witnessed in his living room had said it all. 

Three days of absolute silence passed, and for that, I was thankful.  I’d rather sit alone with Nicholas on the couch, watching bad reality TV without really seeing. 

I didn’t think there was any love out there as unconditional and enduring as the love of an animal. 

Nicholas loved me no matter what I looked like, he thought I was wonderful for doing something as simple as opening a can of Fancy Feast, for filling his water dish.  He loved me so much, he could spend hours curled up in my lap.  He would never bring me horrible news or one day decide he didn’t like me after all.  I could get used to it, I thought, stroking his velvety ear, I could learn to love being a spinster.  What the hell, I could get a few more cats, find some playmates for Nicholas.  Maybe I’d get a female and she’d have kittens to fill up the place.  I loved the contented sound of purring, I couldn’t think of anything better than ten purring cats roaming about the house.

Early one morning, as I fed Nicholas on the kitchen counter, the landline rang.  I figured it would be safe to answer, since Kyle didn’t have that number, only my cell phone. 

“I need to see you,” Caroline said after my
hello
.  “It’s important.”

Sure it was, everything she needed and wanted was always of vital importance.  “I don’t know if I’m free.”

“You’re free,” she said flatly.  “It’s something you’ll want to hear.  Come today.  Leave now, okay?”

There was something urgent and almost scared hiding behind her lack of affect, like she had to work hard to keep her voice in a monotone. 

“Okay,” I told her.  “Give me an hour.”

***

I met her in her bedroom and found her sitting in a chair by the window, staring off into space, the sun setting the ends of her hair on fire. 

She jutted her chin at the mattress, where the painted canvas I’d sent her lay.  The palest flicker of her old humor glimmered behind her eyes.  “I asked them for thumbtacks so I could hang it, but they said they couldn’t give me anything sharp.  I should have known.  If they won’t let me shave my legs, they sure as hell wouldn’t give me any pushpins.”

I sat across from her on the bed.  “So you’re going au natural these days?”

“I don’t know how French women can do it.  I feel like an ape.”

A soft smile tugged at my lips.  “So.  What’s up?”

“Not to put a damper on the mood or anything, but are you wearing a wire?”

“Are you serious?”

She didn’t answer, just blinked at me, one eyebrow shooting up on her forehead.

“No.  God.  Why would I do that?”

“Just wanted to make sure.”  Her gaze strayed away from mine as she sucked in a long breath.  “You asked me for the truth last time you were here.  I feel like I should give it to you.  I suppose it’s time.”  She nodded like she was talking to herself.  “I had a speech all planned and everything, but I forgot most of it.”  Something between a snort and a laugh twisted her mouth.  “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

“Just tell me,” I said, fighting back the swelling urge to go to her, hug her, do something to wipe that quasi-frightened look off her face.  Caroline wasn’t afraid of anything; how could talking to me cause any distress?  “You can tell me anything, you know that.”

“I did push him,” she said, after a long bout of silence.  “But I need to explain.”  She glanced at me like she’d expected an interruption, but I gave none.  “I was around ten years old when our dad started acting funny around me.  Making up excuses to come into the bathroom when I was in the tub, walking into my bedroom when he knew I was changing clothes.  I guess I didn’t think a whole lot about it at the time.  Even then I knew he was a drunk, I figured he kept getting lost in his own apartment.  Thought my room was his, or something.”

It was right about then that the world tipped on its axis. 

My stomach felt queasy, bile roiling around, creeping up into my throat. I could imagine it so easily, him peeking through keyholes and creeping around corners, trying to get a glimpse of my beautiful sister—his beautiful daughter.  A fine mist of hair rose on my arms the longer the silence stretched. 

“I don’t need to paint you a picture, do I?  You get the gist.”

I nodded mechanically, squeezing my hands together so hard my knuckles looked bleached.  “Who knew?  Did Mom know?  Is that why she killed herself?”

She gave me a noncommittal half shrug.  “I didn’t tell anyone.  She never asked me about it, so I have a feeling she had no idea.  She was off in her own world most of the time anyway.”  She sighed, swung one leg over the other.  Ran her fingers through her hair, untangling a snarl.  “So, yeah, whatever, that went on for a few years.  I think he stopped when I was fourteen.  I must have gotten too old for his tastes, I guess.  I was relieved, you know? 
Thank God this is over
.  The funny thing is, that kind of stuff is never over.  The past is never gone, even though he stopped eventually.  But I thought maybe things would get easier, since the physical stuff had ended.”

“So he stopped, or he didn’t?”

“He…stopped,” she said, choosing her words carefully.  “He stopped with me.”

“Caroline,” I started, catching hold of her clue, “he didn’t do anything to me.  Trust me, I’d remember if he did.”

“No,” she agreed.  “But he would have.”  She held up a hand to quell my questions.  “You didn’t know what the signs were.  You wouldn’t have known what to look for.  I knew what was coming, though.  I could see, feel it.”  She blew out a huge horse sigh, her lips flapping together.  “You were just turning ten when he…died.  I was ten when he started with me.  And I couldn’t be home all the time, you know?  I couldn’t keep watch over you twenty-four seven.  I wouldn’t know anything had happened until it was too late.  I just kept thinking about what he’d done to me, how it affected me.  Even now, it affects me.  And I couldn’t let that happen to you.  I
wouldn’t
let it happen to you.  And so ends the saga of Caroline and Viktor Smirnov.” She pursed her lips, looking me dead in the eye.  “I don’t regret it, either.  He had it coming.  I should have done it earlier than I did.  So.  You can think what you will about it.  You can think I’m a liar, or that I’m exaggerating.  But I had to do it.  And I’m not sorry I did.”

I wanted to believe her acts couldn’t work on me any longer, that she couldn’t possibly fool me again, but I wasn’t entirely sure if I could believe her, or that look on her face.  She lied like she breathed, effortlessly.  I could so easily imagine her at the top of those stairs, her hatred for this bumbling, drunken fool roiling over, her shoving him down.  He was worthless, and she’d grown tired of him.  I could picture her killing him with no more provocation than his inebriated idiocy.  After eighteen years, she’d had enough.  It could have happened, it was more than plausible. 

I stared at her for a long time, feeling deflated in both body and spirit, hardly able to process her new story and unsure if I’d ever be able to.  She didn’t look too far from what I felt.  She reminded me of Jenga, how you’d remove just one plank and the whole structure came crashing down. 

I flipped through every conversation she and I had ever had about our father as I stared down at my knees.  How she’d have to close her eyes sometimes when she spoke about him, the way she vacillated from loathing and something near grief.  The grief had always confused me—she had no qualms telling me she was happy he died.   Maybe it was grief over something he’d stolen from her. 

“I’m not with Kyle anymore,” I told her, once I’d finally found my voice.

She didn’t ask me what happened, just exhaled loudly.  “I’m sorry, babe.  Men fucking suck.”

“I considered killing him, but then I changed my mind.”

“A wise woman learns from the mistakes of others.”  She got up from her chair to join me on her bed.  “Just for the record, I’m deeply disturbed by this makeup you gave yourself.”  She traced the edges of the painting I’d given her.  “It makes you look like a baby prostitute.”

“That’s kind of the look I was going for.”

She blinded me with her smile, tucking back a few wisps of hair the sunlight had turned red.  “Ah.  Well.  A-plus, then.”

***

The hills were alive with fire in early August.  Helicopters flying low, carrying loads of water became the norm; I hardly noticed their noise after a while.  Only wildfires thrived in the crescendo of summer.  The flowers lining the condo complex had turned crispy and brown, the grass grew bleach blonde yet again, and the whole of Southern California sank into a heat stupor, a fever it didn’t seem likely to sweat out.  Even Nicholas felt the weakening effects of the heat wave.  He no longer asked to go outside and harass the birds, just moped on the window seat, giving the outside world bleak stares of longing. 

“At least you have A/C here,” I griped to Caroline last time I’d visited her, after she’d baffled me by complaining about the soaring temperatures.  They’d finally let her go outside with the other well-behaved lunatics.  She’d said their basketball games and tetherball skills left a lot to be desired.  One guy tried chewing the rim of a Frisbee.  “Being in the condo is like being boiled alive.  I’m about to fake some synaptic misfiring just to commit myself.  Maybe
I’ll
start chewing a Frisbee.”  The heat seemed to have cooked my brain, turned it into a hardboiled egg.  Even my thoughts had grown sluggish, partially paralyzed from heat exhaustion. 

“So dramatic,” she’d answered, flinging the back of her hand across her forehead like Scarlett O’Hara.  “I guess you learned that from me.”

Eventually I’d had to check my email to register for fall semester.  I needn’t have dreaded logging in quite so much, I found when I launched Gmail.  He hadn’t written. 
Asshole
, a part of my brain piped up. 
How quickly he’s forgotten you
. 

The logical part of my mind sighed heavily. 
What about all those texts he left you, hmm?
 

It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to answer his voicemails and texts, but I didn’t think I could handle the disappointment of getting no response. 

There was one interesting email, though, sent from [email protected]. 

Hello Katya,

I’m writing to inform you about an upcoming taping Mr. Cavanaugh has arranged with Karen Stone.  She’s doing another segment on your sister’s case, but the footage won’t air until after the verdict comes.  Kyle wanted me to ask if you’re free Friday at 1 p.m., and he mentioned that you wouldn’t have to speak on camera, he’s going to be handling that, but he thinks it’s necessary you’re there beside him during filming.  Please let me know if that would work for you at your earliest convenience.

Best regards,

Gemma Anders

Poor Gemma, yet again doing his dirty work.  The woman was a saint. 

He couldn’t even be bothered to email me himself.  Caroline would deem this a great personal wrong; cowardice was unforgiveable in her book, and the punishment was permanent exile. 

I realized I’d overreacted on my part.  It wasn’t his fault he had to be the bearer of horrible news, but it seemed like he’d taken those sour lemons and made lemonade, cavorting with the brunette bombshell in his living room who sipped her port much more daintily—and legally—than I ever could.

Once again, I wanted Caroline back.  I wanted to tell her all about what had happened, get her take on this mess.  But I hadn’t given her the slightest detail on all things me and Kyle, and she’d never asked, sensing the delicate nature of the topic, unwilling to rock the boat when we’d finally hit calm waters.  Nobody had known about us, not even Gemma.  It went without saying that the law firm’s partners probably wouldn’t have been jazzed about the situation. 

I emailed Gemma an affirmative response, poking the
send
key a little harder than was necessary. 

I was sure he’d been too embarrassed to let his friends know about us, and I didn’t have any friends to tell.  A frivolous affair with a barely-legal child would only net him mockery and raised eyebrows, they might make jokes about him picking up girls at the elementary school. 
She’s too young for you, bro.
  But I didn’t think Kyle had ever watched Jersey Shore.  Probably not sophisticated enough for his tastes. 

How could I be around him without crumbling?  I couldn’t trust myself to be Zen about it, and I’d never dealt with a breakup before.  Breakups were Caroline’s forte.  She was the Breakup Queen, her shelves held thousands of dusty shards of broken hearts.