A Density of Souls (18 page)

“I don’t think he heard me, dude. He was too busy swearing at everybody. One of his friends had . . . Well, he’d, like, broken a pool cue across his knee. He was holding one of the pieces to this other guy’s throat. It was bad. We almost called the cops.”

“Jesus.”

“Did Brandon mention it to you or something?”

Jordan shook his head no.

He had just returned from his coffee break in the employee lounge when he saw the host stand was empty. His co-host Leslie was seating a table at the far end of the main dining room. Rich’s arm swung out from behind the bar and hooked him firmly on the shoulder.

“Dude!”

“What?”

“Over there . . .”

Rich pointed to the table that Leslie was seating. A man and a considerably younger woman were taking their seats slowly. Another young woman, maybe twenty, was already seated, her back to them, a plume of black hair spilling down her strapless dress.

“Do you know who that is?” Rich asked.

“Who?”

“The girl. That’s Meredith Fuckin’ Ducote, man.”

“Meredith . . .” Jordan mumbled.

“Cannon homecoming queen nineteen ninety-seven. You didn’t hear about that?”

“I didn’t come home on holidays, Rich. You honestly think I kept up with homecomings?” Jordan responded. Meredith’s arm appeared as she lit a cigarette. The man and woman shared a glance as the first curl of smoke rose from Meredith’s head.

“She used to date that guy. What was his name? The one that popped himself in the bell tower—”

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“Greg Darby,” Jordan answered, his mouth dry.

“Right. So whatever. He died. She’s like the shit at Cannon. Miss Everything. Booster Club. Cheerleading. Whatever. Then her senior year she gets elected homecoming queen. Big popularity contest, so it’s not a surprise. Then the night of the homecoming game with the whole Mothers’ Club and the Court out there on the field during half-time, holding a fucking bouquet of roses and a crown for her, the bitch doesn’t even show up! Everyone said after that she didn’t talk to anybody. Stopped going out. She was like a ghost until graduation,”

Rich finished.

A stocky conventioneer leaned over the bar, clearing his throat at Rich before plucking a cigar from his suit pocket. Rich took the man’s order. Meredith was still a shock of black hair in a swath of cigarette smoke. Jordan had to find a way to get her to talk to him.

“I work mainly with sexual compulsives.”

Her name was Debbie. She was employed at Bayou Terrace Hospital, the city’s largest facility for the mentally ill.

“Sexual compulsives? Like people who can’t stop fu—”

“Meredith, please!” Ronald Ducote looked like he was in a cold sweat. Meredith sucked another drag off her cigarette.

Debbie gave a resilient, determined smile. “Actually the majority of them can’t stop masturbating, if you’re curious. Obviously I can’t go into any specifics.”

“Obviously,” Meredith responded too quickly.

Ronald was massaging the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “I also deal in passive-aggressive suicide attempts,” Debbie continued.

Meredith could feel her father tense up at the word suicide. “And what are those?” she asked.

Debbie seemed to realize her mistake. “Unsuccessful ones,” she responded softly.

“Oh, so it’s not, like, I’m going to kill myself if you don’t do the dishes.”

Debbie managed a laugh.

“Debbie’s very good at what she does. In fact, Masters and Johnson is considering her for a position as . . .”

“Mom quit smoking in the house, Dad,” Meredith interjected.

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Ronald lifted his eyes from his open menu and gave her a hard stare.

Debbie clasped her hands on the table in front of her. “I am aware of some of the things you’ve been through . . .”

Meredith’s smirk vanished.

“Your boyfriend and his . . . suicide . . .”

“Did you know he hit me?”

“Meredith!”

“He did. See this, Dad?” She tapped her chipped front tooth, leering at her father like a clown. “He did this to me sophomore year. I think you were with Sara at the time.”

“Meredith . . .” Debbie said, one hand raised to Ronald as if to hold him in place. “What I’m trying to say is that if you ever need anyone to talk to . . . Well, I would do so freely.”

A silence fell over the table. Meredith couldn’t tell whether Ronald was more furious with his daughter or his girlfriend. “Don’t you know better than to offer your potential stepdaughter counseling the first time you meet her?” Meredith said, surprised by her own candor.

“It’s not counseling that I’m offering. It’s an ear. And maybe some advice,” Debbie responded firmly.

“Can I ask you a question?” Meredith said, lifting her head from where she had been studying the table.

“Sure,” Debbie said, eager to placate.

“Did you ever treat Angela Darby when she was in Bayou Terrace?”

Debbie looked as if someone had thrown a drink in her face. She glanced at Ronald, as if seeking help. He offered none.

“Meredith, Angela Darby is still in Bayou Terrace.”

When Meredith half-rose from the table and pushed back in her chair, Jordan saw her nearly knock it over backward. He jerked up from the host stand as if to rush forward. She was definitely the same girl as in the photograph.

As she walked across the restaurant, heads turned to take in her breasts swelling through her Betsy Johnson dress, and her delicate face wreathed in black hair. Meredith strode past the host stand and rounded the bar, passing Rich, who was gaping at her as he polished a martini glass. She disappeared down the corridor to the women’s room. Jordan abandoned the host stand and followed her.

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On the other side of the door, Jordan could hear the unmistakable sound of vomiting. He planned to give her a minute, then knock and ask her if everything was all right. Then he heard her gag and dry heave.

Jordan knocked twice, firmly. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine.” Meredith croaked. He heard the toilet flush and backed away from the door a few inches. Meredith opened the door and smoothed her dress. “I’m fine,” she said.

“Sounded pretty bad. I’m sorry to bother you, I just . . . Well, I’ll be honest, if your little problem in there had something to do with the food then I represent those parties responsible,” Jordan said, groping to hide his motives.

“I haven’t even ordered yet,” Meredith said, bracing the door frame.

Even sick, she was striking, poised and defensively belligerent. She didn’t seem impressed or awestruck by him. Jordan decided she was actually gauging his sincerity.

“Absolut, tonic, splash of seven, twist of lime. I’ll wait right here,”

Meredith said.

“All right,” Jordan almost stammered.

Leslie shot him a furious glance as he hurried to the bar. As Rich mixed the drink he asked, “Dude, you putting the make on her or what?”

“She said splash of seven. Not half vodka, half 7-UP,” Jordan told him.

As Jordan handed the drink to Meredith, he slid through the half open bathroom door and shut it gently behind him. Meredith took no notice. She was too busy guzzling the entire glass. When she finished, she wiped her mouth with the back of a hand.

“I knew your brother,” she said.

“I thought I recognized you,” Jordan said carefully.

She leaned against the far wall. Jordan stood next to the toilet, smiling sheepishly, as if his brother were nothing more than a source of minor embarrassment. Meredith burped and looked into the mirror.

She didn’t excuse herself. “How’s he doing?” she asked, flipping her hair over her shoulders, raking her fingernails through.

“I wouldn’t know,” he answered.

Her eyes suddenly caught his through the mirror. She turned on the faucet.

“Greg’s suicide affected him badly,” he said.

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“Tragedy brings out the worst in everybody,” Meredith said evenly.

She dried her hands with a paper towel before smoothing the front of her dress again, then surveying her reflection. “Although technically what happened wasn’t a tragedy, because a tragedy requires a hero.”

Jordan tensed, his shoulders rigid. “I never said it was a tragedy.”

“Others have,” Meredith answered curtly.

“I never said Greg was a hero either,” he said, his voice harder.

Meredith turned to face him. “And your brother?”

Jordan didn’t say anything.

“You want to ask me about him, don’t you?”

“My brother’s very ill.”

She laughed. “Well, I haven’t seen your brother since he went to that camp,” she muttered, turning back to the mirror. He inched to the side enough to see that she was dabbing the underside of her chin.

She caught him looking. “But you can ask me anyway,” Meredith said.

Jordan was too furious to move or speak.

“Well then . . . let me tell you one thing,” she said, a half-smile playing across her lips. “It could have been either of them in the bell tower that night.”

Meredith stared at him, her face a mask of triumph. She went for the door. “Thanks for the drink,” she said, opening the door as Jordan grabbed its edge and pushed it shut again.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he blurted out.

“Take your hand off the door,” Meredith said through clenched teeth.

“You can’t just say that . . . to someone. He’s my brother we’re talking about.”

“I’m not talking about anything with you anymore. Take your goddamn hand off the door!”

Jordan’s arm fell. Meredith’s hand gripped the handle.

“I found a picture in Brandon’s room. Four kids. You, my brother, Greg, and then another one. Only the fourth one is completely blacked out with a permanent marker. You can’t even tell who he is . . .”

Meredith halted, half-in and half-out the bathroom door.

“Who is it?” Jordan asked her.

“What does it matter?” she asked.

He detected a new tone in her voice. He straightened against the The Bell Tower

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tile wall, leveling his gaze on Meredith’s back. He had scared her. “It matters because I have to know why my brother would do something like that . . .”

“Your brother’s done worse things,” she said, before squeezing through the door and shutting it behind her, leaving Jordan in the women’s room by himself.

Meredith did not say a word for the rest of the meal. Debbie and Ronald chatted as if she were not even at the table. At the end of the meal Debbie handed Meredith her card. Meredith tucked it into her wallet.

Three hours after they dropped her off, Meredith called Debbie at her apartment.

“There is something you can do for me,” Meredith said.

“What?” Debbie asked tentatively.

“I want to see her,” Meredith answered.

“See who?”

“Angela Darby.”

7

“W
ho’s the fourth one?” Jordan asked Elise for the second time.

Elise studied the picture. “Where did you find this?” she asked.

“In his room,” Jordan answered flatly.

“Exactly what were you doing in his room?”

He whipped the picture out of his mother’s hands. “Well, let’s see.

I’ve been home a month and haven’t seen Brandon once—”

“I told you . . .” Elise began.

“I know. Camp Davis. Odd though, considering that Rich had to throw him out of Fat Harry’s just this past Christmas. Do the cadets take field trips to bars?”

Elise rose from her chair as if the seat were suddenly hot. She went for her purse on the kitchen counter.

“Considering everything, Mom, it’s a pretty simple question. Who’s the fourth kid in this picture?”

“I promised to meet Monica at two,” Elise said, her purse over one shoulder.

Jordan held up the picture. “This is our house in the background, isn’t it? You did take it?”

“You’re just like Roger,” Elise said as she moved toward the foyer.

Jordan followed at her heel. “This question is going to lead to another and then to another. And the real question is why your brother’s crazy, isn’t it?”

“So now he’s crazy! I thought he was just ‘sick’!” he yelled.

Elise pivoted. “It’s the same thing!”

Jordan backed up a few steps, turned, and slapped the picture on the kitchen counter. He took a deep breath. “Why am I the most ar-rogant person in the world for wanting to reach out to him—”

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“Reach out, Jordan?” Elise shrieked. “For five years we get nothing from you, and now this? You’re late. There’s nothing to reach out to.

Your brother is a shell. When Alex Darby was killed by a . . . by a garbage truck, and when Greg Darby did the stupidest, cruelest thing in the world, it took something from us, Jordan. It didn’t make us any wiser. And delving into all of it isn’t going to make you any wiser, either!” Elise inhaled deeply. “We all went to the same dark place. Only your brother never made it back. And no one can bring him back. So just shut up about it, already.”

Elise let her arms fall to her sides. She waited for Jordan to give some response, but he just picked the picture up off the counter and looked from it to his mother. Elise turned and made for the front door.

“It’s Stephen Conlin,” Elise shouted back at him. “Monica’s son!”

She slammed the door behind her.

Jordan was perusing the 1995 Cannon annual when the phone rang, making him jump. With color photographs on glossy pages, its inside and back covers scrawled with the generic signatures of high school classmates extolling his brother, the yearbook was the second item Jordan had taken from his brother’s room. As he reached for the phone, he noticed a good picture of Stephen Conlin.

“Hello.”

“Please speak English to me.”

“Melanie,” Jordan said as neutrally as he could manage.

“What time is it there? It’s late here,” she said, sounding slightly offended that he hadn’t laughed at her opening line.

Fifteen-year-old Stephen Conlin stared up at Jordan as he pressed the receiver to his ear. “It’s about three in the afternoon.”