Perfect Family (8 page)

William opened his hands. “It's what she wanted, Dad,” he said.

“It's not binding, not notarized. It won't hold up.”

“Like in court?” William pulled out his chair and let it drop loudly. “Why would it need to? We all know she wrote this.”

“I'm saying you don't have to take it on. It's not required by law.”

“It's what she wanted,” William repeated, and sat down.

“There's the matter of the baby's father,” Jasper said. “It might not be as simple as that.”

“Do you know Seth's last name?” Tinker asked William. “It has to be Seth.”

“We are not going to contact Seth,” Jasper said. “If Seth is indeed the father, he'll have to take it upon himself to take action. I have no intention of making it easy for him.”

“It isn't Seth,” William said.

“Who is it?” Mira asked.

“This isn't a game any longer,” Jasper said.

“It never was a game, Dad,” William said. “Pony slept with a guy she met. She didn't even know his name.”

“No way,” Tinker said.

“Get a life,” Mira said.

“And your source on this, William?” Jasper asked.

“Pony,” William said.

“Did she tell either of you differently?” Jasper asked Mira and Tinker.

“Jesus, Dad,” William said.

“She told me it didn't matter who the father was,” Mira said.

“It matters.” Jasper tapped the table with a pencil. “It matters a great deal.”

“She didn't want to have to share Andrew with anybody else. You have to admit that it simplifies things,” William said.

They all turned to look at Andrew in his crib. With the sudden attention on him, Andrew smiled happily.

“How is Andrew faring, Tinker?”

“Oh, he has his moments, Daddy. Isabel adores him.”

“Perhaps it would be best if Andrew continued to stay with Tinker and Mark. It's certainly a stable environment.”

“Oh,” Tinker said. “Well—”

William tapped the legal pad. “All due respect, Dad, but—”

“You'll agree, William, you're not set up for a child,” Jasper said. He'd already prepared this; he'd had all day to figure out what he'd say. He forged ahead. “Your hours. Your capriciousness. Having a child would change all that. You need to be fully prepared to take on a baby. It's an enormous change in a person's life. Tinker will vouch for that.” The son of a bitch smiled at Tinker. “Tinker and
Mark's is an established home, and I think Andrew needs continuity.” He glanced at the girls. “I'd like us to come to an agreement about what's best for the baby, as a family. I have to say I'm more than relieved to learn there's no father out there who will make a claim on him.”

“We can keep him,” Tinker said. “It's no trouble. And consult with William about decisions and stuff. I mean, if that's what William wants, too.”

“Who does Andrew like best?” Mira asked.

“He's calmer when he's held by women,” Tinker said. “Mark noticed it, too. When Mark holds him, he cries.”

“I imagine,” Jasper said, “a court might rule it was in Andrew's best interest to live with Tinker and Mark. All else being equal.”

The train had left the station. William was back in that lousy old familiar territory where, either way, he'd lose. Could he raise a baby? No. He didn't know the first thing about kids. Kids got sick. Kids had accidents. He didn't like kids much. But did he want to agree that he couldn't? Hell, no. Not that, either.

Jasper and Tinker were passing the legal pad back and forth, looking it over again as if they could make it say more than it did. Mira crossed her legs, sat up straight, raised her arms over her head, and stretched. “Guardian,” she said. “Isn't that like William has to approve of stuff?” She opened her eyes and poked Tinker. “Like, you can't send him to a military academy without running it by William first?”

“He's not going to any military academy,” Tinker said.

“I'm kidding, Tinker.” Mira rolled her eyes at William.

“There's nothing funny about this,” Tinker said.

“We'll all be involved.” Jasper looked at William, Mira, and Tinker in turn. “So we're in agreement?”

William looked across to Pony's chair and ached for her like a missing limb. She was his phantom pain. He said something affirmative. He was beat. Jasper ran the show. He always had and he always would.

 

When William was a child, the sun had risen and set on his father. William would get up early for school just for the chance to join his father at breakfast. His father wore wonderful black suits, crisp white shirts, and darkly striped neckties. He smelled powerfully of aftershave. He carried a leather briefcase, cracked with age. His shoes were always highly polished. At exactly eight
A.M
. his father walked to a large black Buick, William right behind him, copying his father's head-down, long-stride gait, one hand pretending to hold a briefcase, the other behind his back, palm out.

William was mystified by what his father did all day—where he went and what he did. He must have asked his mother this question, because on his tenth birthday, he was given permission to skip a day of school and accompany his father to the office. He'd seen Carteret Ball Bearings a few times, but only from the outside. It was a large collection of ancient brick buildings surrounded by an expanse of patchy lawn, several asphalt parking lots, the whole thing enclosed by a tall chain-link fence.

They rode in silence that morning. William assumed his father had serious matters on his mind. They slowed at the gate and were waved through by a guard. They parked directly in front of the main building, which was grand compared to the others and in much better repair. William held his father's hand as they walked down the glistening corridors. He felt lifted, adored. He was the crown prince, pretender to the throne. Everywhere, people said good morning to his father. They made a fuss over William, the beloved son of the beloved man.

They rode the elevator to the penthouse. Two secretaries sat at large desks facing each other: frowning Miss Falconer and plump, smiling Mrs. Casey. They crossed to his father's office, a huge room with plush silver-colored carpeting, floor-to-ceiling emerald-green draperies, and a modern-looking desk. William's father told him to sit on the couch. He gave him some paper and pencils, then he took one phone call after the other, swiveling in his chair, hoisting his feet onto his desk. After a while, William leaned back against the sofa
and raised his feet to the coffee table, letting them down with a thunk. His father swung around to see what had made the noise, scowled at William, and made a dusting motion with one hand that said,
Remove your feet.

His father left the room for a time, saying only that he'd be back in a bit. While he was gone, William sat in his father's chair. He opened the long desk drawers and tried out the pens and scissors and stapler. He hit pay dirt with a package of playing cards that featured pictures of women naked from the waist up, wearing Santa hats, their nipples adorned with tiny wreaths. William separated out his favorites, slipped them into his pocket, then returned the rest of the pack to the drawer. He studied the three photographs that sat on the desk, all in silver frames. They were the Christmas photos taken in the years when his three sisters had been born. In each photo his parents sat in the center, his mother holding the newest baby. In all of them William stood to the left, apart, a hand on his mother's shoulder, like a little soldier.

He made the rounds of the walls and the portraits of his dour ancestors. The first Jasper W. Carteret, with his off-center beard and hard stare. Jasper Junior, Jasper II, and finally, William's father, Jasper III, clean-shaven and in color. There were other photos, too. Some had been taken at picnics in the great yard behind the house on Steele Road, a hundred years ago, William thought. And parties at Fond du Lac. Both houses had been in the Carteret family for generations. There were so many people in the pictures, the women in long white dresses, the men in suits standing at long tables covered in flowers and serving dishes. Life seemed happier then. The parties were enormous, everything decorated in streamers and bunting, even the trees.

His father returned and took him to lunch in the executive dining room. With a slight tip of his head, he indicated men at other tables. Joe Donaldson, a patent attorney; Irving Sykes, marketing. William had no idea what any of it meant.

After lunch his father's office filled with men. Even at his age,
William understood that these men both admired and feared his father. William was filled with an eye-watering pride in his father. The men all shook William's hand and clapped him on the back, anxious to be liked by a little boy. William knew he was being indulged because he was his father's son. He understood that it had nothing to do with him, he hadn't earned it. He basked in it anyway.

They adjourned to a conference room off his father's office where the chairs were upholstered in leather and had heavy wooden arms. The meeting began with banter, punctuated with laughter. Mrs. Casey served coffee in small cups and saucers to the men, a glass of milk to William. At some unheard signal, the meeting changed. His father cleared his throat and began to direct a series of questions at a young man who sat opposite William. Again, William didn't understand the content. What he understood was the crescendo of accusation and the ratcheting up of questions afterward until the young man, red-faced and sweating, faltered over his answers.

Then William's father fired him.

It was as though all the air had been sucked from the room. The men were silent, looking down at their hands. The young man sat stunned for a moment and then pushed his chair back. He stood and left the room. There was a pause, a shifting of chairs, a clearing of throats, and the meeting continued as before. When it was adjourned, the heavyset man beside William, whom people called Sully, said, “You okay, son?” William nodded. “Your old man sure put on a show for you,” he said. “But don't tell him I said so.” And William didn't. For years he kept that remark a secret until one night at the lake, heavy with alcohol, he told his father what Sully had said all those years earlier, expecting his father to laugh about it. Instead, his father had become angry. “He had no right” was all he said.

Becker's was a spanking-white colonial-style funeral home with stately columns in the front, a broad circular driveway, and a bright, chemical-green lawn. A sign, white plastic letters on black, just inside the front door said
ANGELA CARTERET
—
SALON B
. William stared at it. Angela? She'd never been Angela. She'd been Pony since the day she was born, and William had given her the name. At the age of eight, he'd wanted a pony, not another sister. So he'd called the new one Pony and kept on calling her Pony until Tinker and Mira and, finally, even their mother started calling her Pony, too. After that the name stuck. It was the right name for her. Even as a very little girl, she had long legs. She could outrun anybody.

William felt Ruth at his side, pressing close against him. She'd surprised him by wearing a dress. It was outdated; even he knew that the loose-fitting dark blue print with puffy sleeves was from some other time. But Ruth wasn't a girl to own many dresses, and he was touched that she'd done this.

He felt as if he were walking through water, as if he were pushing
his way through the sea to move past the sign and join the line for the guest book, where he could stop and catch his breath. He and Ruth were behind a group of kids all in black, tattoos snaking up the backs of their necks, sliding from under their cuffs onto their wrists. His father's neighbors were among them, the women in veiled hats, strings of pearls at their throats. The men in dark suits. Death was the great leveler. He spotted Tinker heading toward him, large and important in some black tent like dress, her flyaway hair held in place by combs and barrettes.

She gave him a long hug, pressing her body against his. Her eyes were red. She pointed across the salon to an alcove where Pony's white coffin lay, lit savagely. Beyond the coffin, his family was standing in a line. Salon B had gold carpets, red brocade drapes, small gold chairs in rows. It was the same room, he was sure. His mother's wake had been here. He felt sick.

“Daddy thinks you should come now.” Tinker gave Ruth an imploring look.
Make him
, it said. Then she turned and went back to the alcove. The line inched forward. When it was William's turn, he was unable to write because his hands were shaking too badly. Ruth wrote out their names—William Carteret and Ruth Czapinski. He couldn't believe this. He couldn't believe he was here. And yet he knew he had to keep moving forward, right into it.

The coffin lid was raised, showing the white tufted party-dress lining. And his family, what was left of his family, stood off to one side, shoulder to shoulder, in a line against the wall.

William was on automatic. All at once he was looking down into the face of his little sister. His beloved Pony. Her skin was dotted with copper freckles, like thrown confetti. Her lips were parted slightly so that a trace of white teeth showed between them, and her closed eyes made two perfect crescents, the lashes long and resting on the tops of her full cheeks.

“Oh, Pone,” he whispered, taking her in greedily. Somebody had pulled her hair back so tightly that it tugged at the corners of her eyes, pulling them up. Her eyes appeared almost Asian. All wrong.
He kept staring. And saw, on closer inspection, that her hair had been bluntly cut on one side. The fibers of his grief gathered into a rope at the base of his throat as understanding spread. He remembered what he'd been told: The divers had had to cut it to free her. He made himself look into her face and imagine what might have happened. He felt compelled to picture everything. If she had experienced that torturous cruel death, then he could damn well stay here, standing on two feet and breathing air. It was the least he could do. And maybe, by seeing the scene in his mind's eye, he would understand more of what happened. Maybe he would see a detail that would explain what the hell had happened to her, because the more he thought about it, the less he understood. It didn't make sense. Hair could snag. Sure it could. But wouldn't she have to be right up next to the chain for that? Cheek to metal? Yes. Then her hair could snag. Just a few strands at first. She would have jerked away in annoyance, but more hair could have wrapped around and become tangled with the first. If she reached up to yank the hair free, she might have inadvertently pushed more hair into the tangle. Panic would have set in for real. She would have been thrashing and in that act catching a great deal more of it, like a glue trap where the greater the struggle, the tighter the snare.

The room swayed under the reality of the image.
Stay with it
, he told himself. Because the central question remained: Why? His father had speculated that she had been trying to fix the chain or inspect it. But the chain was fine. Maybe she hadn't been trying to get to that broken link. Not
to
anything at all but from something. Or someone. Someone had called her from a pay phone in Burlington. Who the hell had it been?

 

The mourners kept coming with hands to be shaken and cheeks to be offered. He caught glimpses of Pony, her pale profile sleeping through all this. Everything was surreal. The sounds, the murmurs, the muted colors. Pony's friends were coming toward him. Lulu Garner, Carolla Lyon, and Katherine Nicely. The three little kittens.
Summer after summer they'd practically lived at Fond du Lac, sleeping over many nights, giggling into the wee hours, spying on William. Now they were dressed in black and drained of color, their cheeks cool as they leaned up to accept his kiss.

Katherine lingered. She was a square-faced girl with long pale hair, the kindest and smartest of Pony's friends, a second-year med student at Columbia, he'd heard. She pressed her face into his chest. “William, I need to see you later. There's something I want to show you. I'll be at the lake most of the summer.”

His father's loud voice erupted from the other room, cutting through the reverential quiet. At the same time, he saw Tinker bearing down on him, her face twisted in dismay. “Do something,” she hissed at him. “It's Minerva!”

In the larger room, his aunt Minerva seemed to be hanging from his father's arm, like a brightly feathered bird attacking much larger prey. His father stood head and shoulders above her, trying to shake her off.

“This is
exactly
the time and the place, Jasper.” Minerva was tiny, dressed in layers and layers, more clothes than person. She had a theatrical voice, one that carried. She and his father were in a cleared space like a pair of dancers. His father said something. “I will
not
keep my voice down,” she said, louder than before, seeming to give him a small push. William's father dusted his sleeve and shot his cuffs. He said something else to her angrily and walked off.

William smiled. He hadn't known Minerva was here, and her presence lifted his spirits. She was his mother's much older sister, eccentric and wonderful. She used to come up to the lake in a taxi from New York, and there was always great fanfare when she arrived, the bright yellow cab appearing through the trees and Minerva stepping out in her weird attire, laden down with ancient luggage and gifts for all the children. And always the expectation that something would happen. Each evening during her visit, Minerva and William's mother had walked arm in arm along the dirt road, his mother leaning down, their heads together, talking. When Minerva
was around, William's mother seemed to have new energy. The sisters adored each other.

Upon seeing William now, Minerva broke into a wide smile, rushed toward him, and tipped her papery cheek up for a kiss. “William, my dear,” she said.

He was struck by her scent.
Gardenia.
He guided her to some chairs nearby. She took his hand. Hers were cold and delicate. “I've been watching you,” she said.

“I hope I've behaved.” He grinned at her.

She squeezed his hand. “You never do.”

“What was that all about with Dad?” he asked.

“Your father being your father.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “He's a stubborn man.”

“He sounded angry.”

“I'm sure he was,” she said. Her skin was whitened with powder, her mouth a shock of red lipstick. Her watery blue eyes were rimmed darkly in black. She was wearing blouses in pale and ruffled fabrics with various frilled necklines and cuffs. And she had on many skirts in frothy pastels, shrouding her legs and feet, like a peony. Pony had always defended Minerva. “It's her style,” she would say. “Her flair.” But Minerva exasperated Tinker. “If she has enough money to live on the Upper East Side in New York City, she has enough money to dress decently. She looks like a bag lady,” Tinker would say.

“This would have killed your mother,” Minerva said. “You and Pony were her great loves, you know.”

William felt tears push at the back of his eyes. He looked away.

“You go right ahead and cry,” Minerva said. “Don't hold it back.”

But he couldn't. Not here. Not with his father watching them from across the room.

“Life is a web, William,” she said. “Everything is connected.”

He had no idea what she meant, but he felt reassured. He put an arm around her and held her for a minute or two before she pulled away.

“Your mother would forgive me,” she said. “I'm sure of it.”

“For what?” William had to smile. What sin had she committed?

In a much stronger voice, she said, “My loyalty is to you, William. It is not to Jasper Carteret. You must come see me in New York. After all this.” She waved a pale hand at the room. William scanned the crowd for Ruth and found her behind Isabel. He motioned them over.

“Is that lovely creature yours?” Minerva asked him.

William smiled. “So far,” he said.

“Take good care of her.” She clutched at William's wrist. “You will come and see me. You must promise.”

“I promise,” William said.

“Soon.” She glanced over William's shoulder. “Oh dear, Jasper again.”

“Tell me what this is about.”

“I've said too much,” she said.

“Minerva, you haven't said anything.”

His father was gliding toward them, tapping his watch impatiently, a practiced smile on his face. The room was filling quickly. The service was about to begin. William took his place in the front row. A minister began to speak. He had a narcotic voice, droning and self-important. Pony would have wanted a poet. A weatherman. A drill sergeant. Anything but this. William concentrated on the gleaming white coffin, now draped in roses and irises, which had been moved to the front room.

He heard his name and started. It was his turn. He stood and went to the podium. Before him was a sea of faces. The room was full. People were standing at the back. He was stopped by the size of the crowd. He hadn't realized.

In the front row were his father, Tinker holding Andrew, Mira, Mark, and Isabel. In the row behind his family sat Ruth. She was sitting with Mark's family, who had turned out in force, all of them big like Mark, with broad, honest faces. He scanned the rows beyond. Katherine Nicely and a few other girls from the lake were there. The
Bells, too. That threw him off. They must have driven down. He hadn't seen them earlier.

William hadn't prepared anything. “We're here today because of our love for Pony. We are united in our love and our grief.”

“Amen,” someone said.

“Amen,” William repeated, taking strength. “‘Pony,' I want to say to her, ‘you had a standing-room-only crowd.'” A murmur came back to him from the congregation. He wiped his eyes. Ruth smiled up at him. “Her spirit was so big, too damn big to reduce to a few statements, you know?” In the front row, his father crossed his arms tightly over his chest, a sharp gesture that showed his displeasure. William addressed the people farther back. He found Katherine Nicely's upturned face, shiny with tears. “She was a generous person. A kind person. Right, Katherine?” People turned to see.

“She was always moving,” William went on. “You all remember how she never sat still. How she was always moving, always doing something. Engaged. Whatever it was, she did it to the max.”

The Bells were a few rows behind Katherine. Anita and Dennis sat side by side in dark nylon windbreakers. Denny, the youngest of the kids—the one who'd been shooting his BB gun that day—slouched at the end of the row, his long legs extending into the aisle, his head lowered as though he were studying something on the floor. William spoke right to him. He wanted the kid to sit up and be respectful. “Every summer, there's a swimming race across the lake. Pony took it the last four years. By a long shot.” Denny's sneakers were untied, the white laces loose on the carpet. Now the kid was examining his fingernails. William let the silence fall. Maybe ten seconds or so, enough to be uncomfortable. Anita reached across and must have given Denny the sit-up-straight signal, because he hauled in his feet and swung the hair out of his face.

“Pony could swim better than she could walk.” William couldn't take his eyes off Denny. The kid knew something. He'd wanted to know if they'd found who did it, a very odd question, if you asked
William. “How could this have happened?” William directed the question to Denny.

Anita looked from William to Denny and back, like,
What's going on?
A few people turned to see whom William was speaking to.

William paused, then continued. “If anyone knows anything that would help us, please come forward. Or call me. There must be something else.” His voice broke. The sea of people looked back with empty faces or with tears streaming down. He had their pity. He didn't want that. He pressed his hands together and forced a smile. “She'd hate all these tears. You know she would. She'd want us to celebrate her life, not mourn her death. So that's what we'll do.” William stepped down and took his seat. Ruth laid a hand on his shoulder from behind and squeezed. The minister invited people to speak if they wished. His father leaned forward to get a full look at William and glowered. William supposed it was for suggesting Pony's death had been anything other than an accident, for not toeing the family line. He held his father's gaze until the old man looked away.