Bones and Roses (5 page)

“Have you told Arthur?” I feel a tightening in my belly at the mention of my brother.

“Not yet.” I draw back and cross the room to sink into the chintz armchair by the fireplace. “I'll tell him tomorrow when I see him.” I drop by my brother's every other day on my way home from work to make sure he's taking his meds, keeping his place clean, and not neglecting his personal hygiene. Often I cook him supper or we just hang out playing video games. Saturday mornings are for grocery shopping and errands.

“What if he finds out before then?” Trust Daniel to think of that.

“He won't.” Arthur rarely goes out in the evenings. He's usually at his computer working on some program.

“Well, you know best.”

“When it comes to my brother, yeah I do.” I grow prickly at the understated disapproval in his voice.

Daniel and I get along for the most part although we're polar opposites in most respects: He thinks like a scientist whereas I'm driven by emotions. He's slow to anger and I have a short fuse. He watches PBS documentaries for fun and my favorite TV show is
The Good Wife
. We only butt heads where Arthur is concerned. Daniel thinks he'd be better off in a group home and I know for a fact my brother would sooner be homeless. He's weird about sharing a bathroom and he'd hate having to follow a bunch of rules. Living independently, he can stay up all night, eat Cocoa Puffs for supper, or smoke indoors if he so chooses. No, it's not ideal, but the alternative would be worse; he'd be miserable. But whenever I point this out to Daniel, he argues—correctly—that the problem with schizophrenics is they often forget to take their meds, which wouldn't be the case with proper supervision. He'll quote stats about improved mental and physical health and increased life expectancy. I, in turn, point out that
I
make sure Arthur takes his meds, and who cares if he showers regularly as long as he's happy? At which Daniel will shrug and say, “Well, you know best,” in a tone that implies the opposite. This has led to some heated arguments.

Tonight Daniel ignores my snappishness to give me a patient look that says,
I know you're under a lot of stress so I'll try not to take it personally that you're being a bitch
. “Why don't I fix you something to eat?” he offers. “I could warm up some of the lobster bisque from last night.”

“Sounds good.” I suddenly realize I'm starving, having only picked at my sandwich at lunch.

He heads for the kitchen, leaving me to gaze out the window at the darkened landscape, the lights of the swimming pool glowing in the near distance. Arthur was only eight when Mom left, but he remembers details about her I'd forgotten—that's how his mind works. On any given day if you ask what he did that morning, he can't always tell you, but he remembers the mincemeat pie Mom baked for Thanksgiving one year. How will he react when I tell him she turned up dead? Lately he's been on an even keel, but this could send him veering off course. He could even capsize. I pray it won't come to that. Because there's no mayday like an Arthur-related mayday.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Arthur,” I say to my brother as he tosses another economy-size box of Honey Roasted Cheerios in the shopping cart he's pushing down the cereal aisle at Albertson's, “can you afford all this?”

It's Saturday morning and we're doing his weekly grocery shopping. The day before yesterday when I broke the news about our mom, I thought he handled it pretty well—he smoked three cigarettes in a row without saying a word. When he finally spoke, it was to ask, calmly, if I thought a memorial service would be appropriate—but now I'm not so sure. He's acting so squirrely I don't need his shrink to tell me he's verging on another one of his psychotic episodes. For one thing, he's loaded the cart with enough food to feed a family of ten and we're only on aisle two.

Arthur regards me as though I'm the one who's being unreasonable. “Tish,” he answers with exaggerated patience, “I
need
all this stuff. I have to keep up my energy.” He drops his voice to a confidential whisper. “
For the project I'm working on
.”

No doubt a top-secret government project aimed at averting global nuclear annihilation or some such. My heart sinks. Next he'll be phoning me in the middle of the night to tell me he's being “watched” and that “they” are after him. The most maddening thing about it is he's really good at what he does. He has a genius IQ and the programs he designs work when he's firing on all cylinders. Tech stuff that confounds me is for him effortless, and he writes code like I do shopping lists. I know who to call whenever my computer is acting up or I need to install a new program. When his meds—an anti-psychotic cocktail, with drugs to counteract the side effects that would dwarf the reputed contents of Michael Jackson's medicine chest—are working, there's nothing he can't handle. When he's off on one of his tangents, he's a loose cog spinning aimlessly.

Today is one of those days.

“Arthur.” I adopt a firmer tone, pulling the box of cereal from the shopping cart and returning it to the shelf. “You don't need
three
Honey Bunches of Oats, besides which you've already maxed out your budget. We talked about this, remember? You can't blow your entire allowance and then expect me to bail you out. You
do
realize I'm not made of money?”

He puts on his haughty professor's face. “I'm well aware of that. I don't need you to lecture me.” A lanky six-foot-two, he looks like an elongated exclamation mark in the black raincoat he's wearing (never mind it's sunny outside). His square, black-framed glasses are smudged and his brown mop more unruly than usual—he's overdue for the haircut that's next up. I want to sock him and hug him all at once. Instead I give him my sternest look, at which he caves. “I'm sorry, Tish. I promise I'll do better.” He hangs his head, looking up at me with puppy-dog eyes, then his long arm snakes past me to retrieve the box of cereal. “Starting next week.”

I sigh. Arthur is hopeless with money. Put a dollar sign in front of a number and his mathematical brain utterly fails him. Which is why I'm his fiduciary in addition to the other hats I wear with him: big sister, chief handler, and health advocate. I pay the bills from his monthly SSDI check and give him a weekly allowance for groceries and incidentals. I try not to interfere with how he spends it because I want him to have as much independence as possible. He'll find out soon enough, when he comes up short at the cash register, how serious I was about not bailing him out.

“Listen, about Mom,” I broach, picking up the pace as he energetically steers the cart down the canned beverage aisle. This probably isn't the best time to bring up a delicate subject, but with my brother there's never a good time—you just have to jump in and hope for the best. “I've been thinking about what you said. About … you know.” My voice cracks. “A memorial service.”

“Uh huh,” he answers distractedly. “Sure, whatever.”

I blow out an exasperated breath. “Did you hear what I just said?”

“Yes, of course.” He cocks his head up at me as he's bending down to pull a case of Mountain Dew from the lower shelf. “It's just that I'm really busy right now. With this project. So it's kind of hard to focus on anything else.”

“Let me guess. It's a matter of national security.”

He nods gravely as he straightens. “Yes, and it's highly sensitive, so I would appreciate it if you didn't mention it to anyone, not even Doctor Sandefur.” Dr. Sandefur is his psychiatrist. “If it were to get back to the people I'm working for …” He trails off, shaking his head as if to say,
You don't want to know
.

My heart sinks further. “Arthur.” I grab his arm as he's turning away, forcing him to look at me. “You know there's no government agency, right? That it's all in your head?”

I see a flash of the old Arthur in that instant. It's hard to believe, looking at him now, but my brother was once normal. That was before he started hearing voices in his head and subliminal messages on the radio and TV. It began the year after he graduated Stanford University when he was working in research and development at Microsoft. I got him to a shrink—it wasn't easy, let me tell you; he can be really stubborn—and after a battery of tests, we had a diagnosis: paranoid schizophrenia. Eight years later, thanks to a regimen of meds and regular monitoring by Dr. Sandefur, he holds his own for the most part, if his hold is shaky at best.

Arthur stares at me, green eyes blinking rapidly behind his Clark Kent glasses. It's not that he's unfeeling, but stressful situations cause him to retreat into his fantasy world. “You think I'm making this up? I assure you I am not. Our lives would be in danger if you spoke to anyone about this. You MUST keep it confidential.”

I suppress a sigh. “Fine. But if I find out I'm being followed by some spook in a trench coat, I'll know who to blame.” I extract the case of Mountain Dew from the cart and replace it with a six-pack.

“Any theories?” he asks in a thoughtful voice as we're rounding the corner into the next aisle.

“About what?” I ask warily, not sure if he was referencing the “spooks” or yet another crackpot theory.

“Who killed Mom.”

I'm startled by his reply. Arthur's mind is like a Jack-in-the-box: You never know what's going to pop out. “Her boyfriend, who else?” I lower my voice. “He was probably the last person to see her alive.”

Arthur pauses, wearing a troubled look. “Detective Breedlove asked about Dad, too.”

I bristle at the mention of Spence. “Detective Breedlove can kiss my ass,” I say, tossing a roll of paper towels in the cart as Arthur watches distractedly. If it's not edible, he's not interested. “He's not even convinced it was foul play. Hello. Like a dead body ends up in a trunk by
accident.
”

“Sounds as if you don't like him very much,” he observes mildly.

I pluck a spray bottle of Windex from a shelf of cleaning supplies, throwing it in the cart with enough vigor to have its contents—the blue of Spence's artificially-enhanced eyes—foaming. “We went to school together. He was a jerk back then and he still is.”

“So it wasn't personal?”

“Oh, it was personal all right.”

“Why, what happened?”

“We hooked up at a party one time. Biggest mistake of my life.”

“Oh.” Thankfully Arthur doesn't press for details.

“It doesn't matter. It was a long time ago.” I'm betrayed by the bitterness in my voice. “Though tell
him
that. Spence Breedlove would love nothing more than an excuse to pin Mom's murder on me.” A gray-haired lady pushing her shopping cart shoots me an alarmed look before hurrying past us.

“Interesting. Most males find sexual encounters to be a pleasurable experience, so if he's angry at you, there must be another reason.” Arthur is logical to a fault when his mind isn't on one of its tangents.

I pause, lowering my voice. “You could say that. I torched his car.”

Arthur's eyes widen. “Why?”

“In retaliation. And because I was sixteen and sixteen-year-olds aren't known for doing the mature thing.”
I was also drunk at the time
. “Look, I'm not proud of it. I was lucky he didn't have me arrested then.”

“Did Dad know?”

“No.” If our dad had been paying attention at all, he might have noticed I had a problem, and not just with Spence. A problem involving the fake I.D. I used to carry in my purse along with Visine and the breath mints I was always sucking on. “The only one who knows besides you is Ivy. And Spence.” What amazes me is that he never told. Maybe he has a shred of decency after all, or he felt it evened the score. “You won't tell anyone, will you?”

“I might be persuaded to remain silent if you could slide me a little extra for groceries this week.” He breaks into a sly grin.

“You're incorrigible.” I shake my head and sigh. “Fine. But it's not a bribe, only because I'm a good sister.”

As we head for the checkout stand I wonder if insanity runs in our family. I know one thing: I'm not sitting on my ass waiting for Spence Breedlove to find out who murdered my mom. I'm going to do some investigating of my own. Starting with the prime suspect, Stan Cruikshank.

“Hi. I'm Tish B. and I'm an alcoholic …”

Thursday night of the following week and I'm at my weekly AA meeting at St. Anthony's church. It's a speaker meeting and I'm tonight's speaker. I look out at the sea of faces before me. Some I know, others are new to me. I spot old-timer Henry W. looking natty in a plaid vest and bowtie; the aptly named “Big Mike” in his biker leathers and signature red bandana; nerdy, balding Steve B., who runs an insurance agency; soccer mom Nicole B. with her wash-and-wear bob and microfiber track suit. Seated to the right of Nicole is the formerly homeless woman known only to us as “Mustang Sally,” wearing one of her colorful getups: a flounced ankle-length print skirt and pink turtleneck with a black see-through blouse over it, heaped with so many beaded necklaces she looks like she just came from a Mardi Gras. We make eye contact and she flashes me a grin that showcases her remaining teeth, all half dozen of them.

I used to feel self-conscious sharing at meetings, but it's gotten easier over time. Plus, after some of the stories I've heard in this room, mine doesn't seem so awful. I'm your average garden-variety alcoholic, as in luckier than most. No felony arrests or permanent injuries from driving under the influence. I'm not on a waiting list for an organ transplant and, in addition to two functioning kidneys and a liver, I still have a roof over my head. Drinking may have cost me my career as a realtor, but I found one that suited me better. In AA we have a term: terminally unique. That was me. I thought I was special, and not in a good way, until I found out I wasn't so special after all.

I was twelve years old when I got drunk for the first time. I'd been spending the night at my friend Sarah's house where her parents were throwing a party. After the guests had departed and Sarah's parents had gone to bed, she and I had drained the dregs from the wineglasses. Sarah had become so sick, she'd sworn she would never touch another drop. For me it had been akin to a spiritual awakening: Jesus in a bottle. Parties in high school had been little more than an excuse to get hammered. In college I'd regularly hosted all-nighters just so I wouldn't have to drink alone. By the time I was in my mid-twenties I was a full-blown alcoholic, consuming a case of wine each week and hitting the bars on weekends. Naturally I was in denial. I was a successful career woman; I had money in the bank; I owned my own home. How could I be a drunk?

I ignored the growing evidence to the contrary: Ivy's frequently expressed concern and my brother's increasing agitation at having his big sister, who was supposed to be the responsible party, out in the Big Blue along with him; the boyfriends who broke up with me because they couldn't handle my drinking; the prospective buyers who went from hot to cold overnight (I was deluded enough to believe Tic-Tacs masked the booze on my breath.) My “bottom” was an incident so shameful, I can only speak of it in meetings. What happened was this: I went off on a client, a single mom named Elena Marquette, after she'd informed me by email she was pulling her listing due to what she called my “erratic behavior.” That night I'd driven over to her house, shit-faced, and had torn into her in an expletive-laced rant that had culminated in my hurling the keys to her house and remote control device to the gated community it was in, into her koi pond. Only then had I noticed Elena's five-year-old daughter standing in the doorway. I'll never forget the look of horror on her face: like she'd just seen Santa Claus come down the chimney and get popped with a .22.

I went to my first AA meeting the very next day and I've been going regularly ever since. That was almost four years ago. I won't say it's been easy, but I've stayed the course, by the grace of my higher power and my own stubborn determination. With sobriety came the realization that I didn't enjoy being a broker. So I went into business for myself, ditching my skirts and pantyhose for jeans and sneakers and trading the demands and quirks of sellers and prospective buyers with whom I'd been forced into close contact, often for days and weeks on end, for mostly absentee homeowners I only have to talk to over the phone. I can't say all of my problems were solved by AA, but at least I no longer hate myself, nor do I hate going to work in the mornings.

Tonight as I tell my story I spot a familiar face that gives me a jolt. Tom McGee, manager of the White Oaks self-storage facility. Recalling the odor of stale beer that had wafted from him when we'd first met, I wonder if he's here for the same reason that I've been having trouble sleeping nights lately. The hideous sight of my mother's remains was perhaps a wakeup call for him; whereas for me it was why I stood up tonight in front of all these people—to gain strength from sharing about my downfall. Whatever, I'm not happy to see him. I don't need any reminders.