A Density of Souls (21 page)

After the symphony, Elise Charbonnet had a few drinks with Monica at the Blue Room of the Fairmont Hotel across the street from the Orpheum Theatre. They sat at the bar as a pianist played Broadway favorites; Elise was determined to keep the conversation light. She mentioned Jordan only to bemoan the fact that he insisted on washing the car clad in only a pair of skimpy gym shorts. When she recounted how she had told Jordan he might want to strike some muscle man poses on top of the car’s hood, Monica laughed too loud.

On the ride home, Elise chattered about the two of them buying season subscriptions to the Philharmonic, and Monica blandly agreed.

When they pulled up in front of the Charbonnet residence, Elise remarked shakily that Jordan’s car—an old Cadillac Seville that Roger had bequeathed him—was not in the driveway. “I’m sure he went out,” Monica reassured her.

“Call me,” Elise said, distracted, halfway out the door.

Roger was dozing in front of the television. She pondered waking him before she realized she had no desire to talk to him. When he had just awakened, Roger was usually completely incoherent, jerking his head around like a newborn bird. When he was thirty it had been cute, but now that he was approaching sixty Elise thought it was a harbinger of senility.

She mounted the stairs, paused at the top. A year earlier the wall had been filled with a painted rendering of Roger Charbonnet Senior’s dream of a country house, plantation style, nestled in swamp pine on the north shore of Lake Pontchartrain, an hour out of the city. The The Bell Tower

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house had never been completed. Roger had inherited the architect’s drawing as well as the parcel of land in Nanine’s will.

The thought of the parcel of land—isolated, scarred with the foundations of unfinished houses and the frame of a guest cottage—chilled Elise now. She had removed the print from the wall. She believed that someone was living there.

Monica rummaged in Stephen’s closet for Jordan Charbonnet’s picture. Stephen had called earlier that day. He was still staying with Jeff in Baton Rouge. He had been there for almost a week now. Monica believed her motive was simple: She wanted to see if Stephen would notice that the picture was missing, and if he did, she wanted to see what he would do about it.

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S
everal weeks after he had his sons cremated, Andrew Darby quit drinking and began smoking. He had quit cigarettes in his late twenties. For years, he had required glasses of Glenlivit to blot out the racket of his sons’ voices and his wife’s knack for entering any room he was in and moving things around. Now he relished each cigarette and the fact there was no one around to be bothered by the smoke.

Andrew Darby liked living alone.

Following Greg’s suicide, Andrew cashed out his son’s college fund.

He was hesitant to touch Alex’s, even though it had accumulated sig-nificantly less interest. He retired from his position as head of sales at Schaffer Construction. No one threw him a going-away party. Along with his pension, he drew in annuities from the money he and Angela had saved for a place in Miami Beach.

He was not a man who had nightmares. After he came back from Bayou Terrace Hospital to find two police officers at his front door to inform him that his other son had put a gun to his head, Andrew Darby lost faith in the usefullness of grief. While he was identifying Greg’s body, he came to believe that his sons had not died; they had simply slipped out of his reach, leaving him a solitude in which he could spend the day reading Tom Clancy novels and smoking.

The death of his family had given him a new life. The memory of Alex’s body arcing back to earth had faded quicker than he had anticipated, with no one around to remind him of it in words. When he visited Angela, he was the only one capable of speech. Every Thursday he would visit her and read her The Times-Picayune. It was the only time he left the house aside from a few runs to the grocery store.

One Thursday morning, near the end of June, with heat shimmer-ing outside of the room’s single window and Andrew’s voice fighting The Bell Tower

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with the drone of insects in the trees outside, Angela Darby spoke to him for the first time in five years.

“Baby,” she said.

Andrew glanced up from the paper, angry that a nurse had disobeyed Ernest Horne’s direct orders by bothering them.

“Baby,” Angela said again.

In disbelief, Andrew realized it was his wife who had spoken. The Times-Picayune fluttered to his lap. “Baby,” she whispered again.

“What?” Andrew said sharply.

“You . . . called . . . me . . . baby . . .” Angela said, without looking at him. Her voice was flat and throaty after five years of silence.

With his fist he gathered a ball of her hair. He yanked her head back, straining her neck tendons. Angela looked up at him wide-eyed.

“What?” Andrew bellowed.

Her eyelids shut, and after a moment it seemed as if she had said nothing at all. He released her hair and her head rolled forward. Several red strands had twined between his knuckles. He examined one of them; it was fine and soft.

When Andrew placed the strand of red hair on Dr. Ernest Horne’s desk, Ernest looked at his brother-in-law with annoyed puzzlement.

“Someone’s been brushing her hair,” Andrew explained, as if to a child. “Do the nurses do that? Do they brush her hair?”

“They bathe her daily. Sponge bath,” Ernest replied smoothly, his eyes moving back to a memo.

“I think someone’s been with her.”

“You’re with her every Thursday,” Ernest replied, disinterested.

“The nurses make the rounds. When they deliver her medication, they’re with her. Those are the only people that have been with your wife, Andrew.”

Fury flared inside of him. The day of Alex’s funeral Angela had plummeted into hysteria and Andrew had dragged her out of the service and back to their house. She had screamed, “They did it!” But when Angela said they she meant the Cannon varsity football team. If Greg had never been made second-string quarterback, Alex would not have rushed across the highway.

Angela’s fervor increased that evening as Andrew dragged her into the house. Now she was turning on her husband. “If you hadn’t been late . . .” was all that made it out of her mouth before Andrew slugged her and sent her slamming into the wall.

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He had left the room in a rage. When he returned fifteen minutes later, Angela was lying on the living room floor. He could not move her. She would not speak.

Andrew had called his sister Colleen’s cell phone and summoned Ernest from the service. He examined Angela, and tested her reflexes.

The deal had been Colleen’s idea. Ernest was fascinated by catatonics.

If Andrew was willing, Ernest could study her closely and with relative freedom. Andrew had taken no time to answer: Mourners would be visiting the house as soon as the service let out. Andrew wasn’t about to let them see Angela curled into a ball, a massive bruise on her jaw and cheek.

When the mourners arrived to pay their respects, Ernest and Colleen had already taken Angela away and Andrew’s story was prepared. Friends and family held Andrew’s hand as he told them how he had found a letter drafted to the mayor of Thibodaux. “Angela thinks it all has something to do with that pep rally skit,” he told them, letting them imagine the rest. The story was picked up by the channels of Garden District gossip and turned to myth overnight.

The deal had ended up benefiting Ernest more than Andrew. In lengthy sessions Ernest had tried to rouse Angela, jotting meticulous notes cataloging her reactions to pinpricks, pokes of a pen. Angela jerked, writhing entirely with her body, her face registering a faint smile at all times. He had told Andrew that Angela might have always had a “shadow syndrome” of autism but the theory never flew because she developed no ritualistic behaviors. Angela Darby had simply shut down.

After a year of fiddling with medications, Ernest set Angela’s regimen of Thorazine and Haldol at nearly the maximum levels. Andrew wanted it that way. He had assured Ernest that Angela had no living relatives except him, and only a few friends, most of whom Andrew hadn’t liked and had pretty much managed to drive off.

“If I find out that someone’s been with her. I swear . . .”

“Swear to whoever you want, but in case you’ve forgotten I’m the head of this hospital. I can continue the terms of our agreement or I can make things difficult for all of us!”

“This is about Angela!” Andrew countered.

Andrew saw a wry smile curl Ernest’s mouth before he turned his attention back to the file on his desk. “If you would like, I’ll submit a let-The Bell Tower

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ter to the board asking that they install security bars over the windows.

They might consider it a little odd, given that there’s a million-dollar renovation coming up and this is an area of the hospital that’s supposed to be used for storage.”

“Write it!” Andrew snapped before storming out of Ernest’s office.

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O
n the last Saturday in June, Jordan went out to dinner with his parents for the first time since he had been home. He ordered a gin and tonic as soon as they sat down; he knew he’d need at least one drink in him to do what he planned. Elise rolled her eyes. Roger spoke up in his defense. “If our federal government lets him have a drink at dinner, we should, too,” he said.

“Most of us wait until after dinner to order our drinks,” Elise mumbled and splayed her napkin across her lap.

Jordan said nothing until the waitress brought his drink. He took a sip, swallowed, and inhaled deeply, which washed the gin’s sharp sting through his chest. He looked from his father to his mother, both of whom were studying menus. “I called Camp Davis today,” he announced.

Over the top of her menu Elise’s eyes met his with the force of a shotgun blast. Roger looked as if he had been punched.

“I spoke to a receptionist in the office,” Jordan continued, locking looks with his mother. “It seems they’re not really a military camp per se. They’re a training program. Which—let’s see, how did she put it—which attempts to instill discipline in young men with a blatant disregard for authority. I think it was a little bit more eloquent than that . . .”

Roger bowed his head. “Jordan, please . . .”

“I was more interested in the specifics of the program,” Jordan reported. “The normal stuff you’d expect. Regiment exercises. Training drill. Work projects. A program that is supposed to last three months.”

Jordan took a sip of his drink. He set it on the table. “Where is he?”

“Jordan, you have to understand . . .” Roger began miserably.

“Understand what?” Other diners snapped their heads at the shrill-The Bell Tower

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ness in his voice. “Neither of you have had any idea where Brandon has been for the last four years! How am I supposed to understand that?”

Elise rose from the table, holding her napkin, dropped it on the chair, and moved off into the restaurant. Roger watched her go.

The waitress arrived. Would they like to wait until their third diner returned?

“I think she just went to the bathroom,” Roger mumbled. The waitress smiled and moved off. “Jordan, we have tried so hard to get some kind of balance back here—” Roger started to say.

“Balance? Forgetting that Brandon was ever alive because he threw a chair? That’s balance?”

“He did much more than that and you know it,” Roger retorted.

Jordan stared with dumbfounded revulsion at Roger. Roger sank back into his seat, anger giving way to misery. He drew one hand to his forehead and held it there. He shook his head slightly. When he brought his hand away, Jordan saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do,” Roger said, voice quavering. “Is that good enough for you? I don’t know what a father’s supposed to do when his son turns into a monster.”

“You’re afraid of him?” Jordan asked.

Roger nodded emphatically.

Jordan sank back into his chair.

“And maybe you should be, too,” Roger said.

When Jordan and Roger returned home, their footfalls in the foyer echoed through an obviously empty house. After half an hour Elise had not returned to the table. They had finally ordered and eaten their meals in silence.

Jordan volunteered to see if she had gone to visit Monica.

The Conlin residence’s verdant front yard curtained the light emanating from the windows. He rang the bell three times before he saw a shadow through the door’s frosted panes. Monica seemed to hesitate for a long moment before her head appeared through a crack in the front door and the gate in front of him let out a harsh buzz.

Monica remained in the cracked door as he crossed the front yard and mounted the porch steps.

“Jordan?” she asked, sounding both excited and wary.

“Hi, Miss Monica. Is my mother with you by any chance?”

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Monica shook her head no and stood taut as a cat in the doorway.

“Do you mind if I come in?” Jordan asked.

She stepped back from the door and he opened it further before passing into the foyer. “Is sometmng wrong?” Monica asked.

“Nothing’s wrong as long as you don’t tell my mom that I came here tonight,” he said.

“Can I get you something?”

“Do you have gin?” Jordan asked.

“Several bottles.” Monica turned and headed toward the wet bar in the front parlor. Jordan scanned the surroundings. The house was more opulent than his own, all porcelain vases and dark velvety hues.

“Is Elise all right?” Monica called from the front parlor.

“No,” Jordan said.

He lingered in the front parlor doorway, observing Monica’s response She turned from the wet bar to face him, clutching a bottle of Bombay that she had not yet uncapped.

“What happened?”

“It’s my brother,” Jordan answered squarely.

Monica nodded and poured Jordan’s drink.

“Is Stephen home?” Jordan asked.

“No. He’s not.” She carried Jordan’s drink to him and put it in his hand without offering him a place to sit. “He went to a movie with a friend. Just left a few minutes ago, so he shouldn’t be back for about two hours.” Jordan took a sip of his gin and trailed one hand over Amelia Gonlin’s grand piano. Monica studied him as he prowled the room. “Why do you think my mother never told me about what Brandon did to your son’s car?” he asked.