Thin Ice (13 page)

“He’s not dead.”

“Is too. My uncle spent a day looking for him. It was my cousin’s birthday, and he was out looking. That’s how I remember. Sure, he’s dead. The river.”

“May I put them up?”

“Suit yourself.”

“I’ll need tape.”

“Aisle seven.”

I bought a deli sub, milk, apples, bread, saltines, peanut butter, juice, cheese, and six rolls of tape. I bagged my groceries and left them in a cart while I taped flyers to the registers. The only other customer was a young mother who was unloading diapers, cans of formula, and boxed macaroni and cheese onto the checkout belt. Her baby, bald and smiley, banged fists against the cart handle.

“I thought he was dead,” the mother said when she read the flyer. The baby sucked on a fist.

“He’s not dead,” I said.

“Did you know that?” the woman asked the cashier. “That guy they were looking for in the river, the one who crashed—he’s not dead, after all.”

“So what happened?” the cashier asked, tapping away at her register while the groceries flowed forward.

“He ran off,” I said.

The young mother stared at me, then looked at her baby. She didn’t seem so friendly now. “Then he should be dead.”

CHAPTER 5

The machine alerted me to three messages when I got home. Mrs. Drummond had called around six because she’d noticed the house was still dark, and an apologetic Walt Lorenzo had called to let me know that someone would be coming by the next day for Scott’s truck.

Then Claire.
Please come and see me. We need to talk.

Did we?

I ate the sub and drank some juice. Not a bad supper, the orphan committee couldn’t complain too loudly. They could have complained about the mess, though. I hadn’t cleaned for days and had made it all worse by scattering pictures around the living room. I picked up several and tossed them into the box. One caught my eye and I pulled it back out. Scott and I were standing on a dock, a sailboat behind us. I was little and—get this—skinny. I turned it over, no date, no description.

Where were we? Whose boat? Why was he wearing a captain’s hat? Who was responsible for that awful swimsuit I had on?

I got a roll of tape, went to my room, and taped the picture above the bed. If I looked at it long enough, maybe I could force the actual memory to the surface. Otherwise, I’d never know.

Not enough. Even if I found it and dragged it up, one memory wouldn’t be enough. I got all the pictures and began taping. First I did it without thinking, then I pulled down the ones I’d put up and started over. This time I began with the photos in the album. The ones with my parents I taped on the wall next to my bed until it was papered with pictures, I always checked the back for places and dates. Some were blank and some were detailed: “Arden’s first birthday, Ella’s Deli, Madison, Wisconsin.” Some inscriptions teased, like the one I found that showed Mom and Dad and Scott with a strange man. “With Harry, 30th birthday,” she’d written.

Whose thirtieth birthday? And who was Harry? Scott knew him, he was hugging him hard.

Scenes at the beach. What beach?

My father grinning and pointing to a brick building. What building?

A very young Scott leaning against a picket fence. What house? Where?

It was like that thing about a tree falling in the forest. If no one hears it fall, is there a sound?

If no one remembers, is any of it true?

CHAPTER 6

I table-hopped at lunch the next day, handing out flyers to anyone who offered to help. Sure, I knew that most of the posters would decorate the bottoms of lockers and be forgotten, but a few might end up on the wall of a gas station or restaurant. Every little bit, right?

Lunch periods overlapped, and a few seniors were still in the cafeteria. As I moved around the lunchroom, I noticed Jean and Kady sitting together, which was not usually the case. For as long as I could remember, the moment they arrived at school each day they’d split up. At the beginning of the year, if they’d been assigned adjacent lockers, one of them would always swap with a friend. School meant different things to each twin. Kady, who couldn’t stop herself from excelling at everything, loved it. Jean was like me: she did well at what she liked and muddled through the rest

But there they were, together. Or more likely, Kady had joined Jean after eating, because there was no sign of lunch mess where she was sitting.

“What have you been doing?” she said as I pulled out a chair.

“Passing these out.” I dropped the remaining flyers on the table. “Want some?”

Jean took the top one. “Pretty good picture. Good for this, at least. Kind of creepy to look at him, though.”

Kady wasn’t looking. She had her eyes fixed on me. “I think you need help,” she said at last

“Sure do. There are a lot of stores and gas stations in the area. And a zillion bars. If you’d—”

“I meant something else, Arden. I think you should see someone. A counselor.”

Jean whistled softly and stuffed empty wrappers into her lunch bag.

“I’m fine. Feeling better than I have in weeks. I’m getting lots of rest”

“You call pursuing some fantasy ‘fine’? He’s dead, Arden, dead. They found his sled, they found the rope, they found his wallet, and soon enough they’ll find him.”

“Then I’ll be wrong, won’t I?”

“You’re in some kind of denial. You’re wasting your time and money.”

“We’ll see. Do you want to help?”

She rose and turned to her sister. “You tell her.” Then she left.

“Tell me what?”

“Our grandma’s in the hospital. She fell last night and cracked a hip. We’re all going to Green Bay today after school. Mom wants you to come too, because she doesn’t want you to be alone. She told us to tell you so it wouldn’t seem like a command.”

“Is it a command?”

Jean wadded her bag up into a wrinkled ball. “Mom said yes, Dad said no. He wants you to come, but he’s not ready to make it an issue.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got plenty to do, what with studying and this stuff.” I tapped the stack of flyers.

“I think that’s why she wants you to come, to get away from things.”

“Things like my ‘fantasy’?”

She shrugged,

“Do
you
think that’s what it is, Jean?”

She tossed the bag from hand to hand as she looked at me. “Life got a lot easier for me when I just gave in and admitted that Kady’s always right.”

I angrily grabbed at the bag, but only tipped it away with my thumb. Jean’s hand immediately pulled it in and resumed tossing. Didn’t miss a beat.

“Tell your mom I’m staying home. I can handle a few nights without a watchdog. And I hope your grandma’s okay.”

Ms. Penny was packing up to go when I stopped in her classroom.

“You’ll be glad to know I finished two more assignments during study hall,” I said.

“I
am
glad to know that.”

“Yesterday you said you’d help.”

“Yes.”

“I have these.” I held out a dozen flyers.

“Of course. I’m on no fixed schedule this weekend, so I’ve got time to stop along the way.”

I fished in my book bag. “Here’s some tape.”

She took it from me absently as she studied the flyer. “The phone number could give you trouble. You might get some crank calls.”

“I didn’t dare put the sheriff’s number. They don’t want anything to do with the idea. I’ve got a machine, so I can screen calls.”

She opened a desk drawer and pulled out a fresh manila folder. She slipped the flyers inside. “He asked me out once.”

I nearly peed in my pants. “What?”

“Your shock isn’t flattering, Arden. I’m not that ancient, probably only a few years older than Scott was.”

Scott
is.
I didn’t correct her.

“How old was he?”

Is he. “Twenty-nine.”

“Seven years, then. We met three years ago at the library book club.”

“I never knew he was in a book club. I wonder where I was.”

“Swimming lessons, if I remember correctly. Scott sat in on a few meetings. We were doing Jane Austen that winter. He came for a while each week, but he always had to leave early to get you.” Story of his life.

“One night he called me up, I said no, end of story. I was just bouncing off my divorce and wasn’t ready to date.”

“I never knew.”

She slipped the manila folder into her briefcase. “Well, why would he tell you?”

Scott had tried to date Ms. Penny. What else hadn’t he told me? What hadn’t I shared with him?

First kiss, first period, monthly bad cramps, crush on my student teacher in sixth grade, the twenty-dollar loan to a kid at camp I never got back, the snotty unsigned notes I used to leave in Jennifer’s backpack in seventh grade, the beers I drank at Leesa’s unsupervised seventeenth-birthday party. Hey, we all have secrets.

*

“Get this,” I said to Kady and Jean when I met them at my car. “You’ll never believe who my brother once hit on.”

Jean swatted her hands together and breathed on them. “You really should give us a key, then we can wait in the car.”

“Ms. Penny. Isn’t that weird? She just told me. Geez, he must have a thing for older women. I wonder who else he dated, or tried to date. I should ask around.”

“Leave the dead alone,” said Kady.

*

I was shoveling snow when the Drummonds left for Green Bay. I raised my hand to wave, lifting the shovel, and snow fell on my head. They laughed, apparently thinking I’d done it on purpose. As soon as their car disappeared, I tossed the shovel aside and went in. With their house vacated, my own seemed empty. I closed the blinds and turned on lots of lights. Knowing that the Drummonds weren’t watching made it easy to think someone else might be.

*

Ms. Penny’s confession had piqued my interest in my brother’s secrets. What else was there?

Scott’s room was stuffy, but the outside temp was about ten above so I didn’t open windows. I eyed the bed. Had he ever brought someone here, maybe on a night when I was sleeping at a friend’s? How much did I really want to know?

His desk had been our parents’, one of the few things he’d kept for himself. I opened the top center drawer. Was this where he kept his secrets? Stamps, pencils, a few more photos of the ’Cuda. The guy was obsessed, all right. I pictured the car in the garage, under the tarp, and thought about how he’d worked on it night after night in the summers, the garage door wide open, light spilling onto the driveway, radio blaring.

“But would he leave the car?” John had asked.

The other drawers were just as dull. Receipts, memos from work, sketches of cars. I’d forgotten he liked to draw. He’d taken some classes long ago. Why had he stopped?

The dresser drawers were breathtaking: everything organized by function and color. I hesitated when I opened his underwear drawer, then pushed around the stacks of briefs and boxers. Surely this is where a man would hide something from his sister. The drawers were full of neatly folded clean clothes. He’d done his laundry that weekend. If you were planning to go, why? To throw me off track, of course. Everything had to look normal.

The nightstand had one drawer. Cough drops, a watch with a broken band, two books, John Grisham and Jane Austen. What a combination. No letters, no journals, no pornography, no condoms, no secrets. Absolutely zero evidence of a private life. Nothing. I ask you, how many people could die suddenly and not leave even one embarrassing thing behind?

Had he swept it all away, knowing he was leaving, or had his life really been so bare?

Everything in his room was so neat and tidy. Was it all that simple for him—just get things in order and go? Had he ever hesitated, changed his mind, changed it back?

And now—what was he thinking, doing, feeling? Did he wonder about me, wonder what I was thinking, doing, feeling?

I turned slowly around, scowling at the neatness. All was in order. The only mess he’d left behind: my life.

CHAPTER 7

Okay, so life was not exactly idyllic. Still, there was one huge advantage to my situation.

Music. I could play what I wanted, when I wanted, as loudly as I wanted, all over the house. No more headphones in the bedroom because big brother can’t be disturbed during
X-Files.
For ten years my parents’ first-class sound system in the living room had gone underutilized simply because Scott and I were considerate of each other.

There was another advantage, come to think of it: indecent exposure. From the moment years before when I realized I had breasts, I had never left my bedroom without at least a bathrobe on. Scott, too. Did either one of us ever sit in the kitchen wearing just a T-shirt and underwear? Never. I couldn’t even recall him working in the garage on a summer night without a shirt.

Wherever he was just then, I bet he was half naked and blasting music. Like me.

I had the Cranberries cranked up on the CD player, and no clothing on but an old Bob Dylan T-shirt and navy paisley boxers. Both were Scott’s. He’d robbed my memories, but I’d raided his drawers.