Burning September (21 page)

I may not have been the conversation queen, but I was apparently the awkward segue queen, and the last thing I wanted was to discuss parking lot issues all night.  “So I’ve never been to one of these things.”  I hitched my purse up higher on my shoulder.  “What are we supposed to be doing, exactly?”

Mingling, it turned out.  I shook many hands, heard many names which I promptly forgot, and declined many a cocktail as Jeff led me around the room. 

Smirnov, are you related Caroline?  Oh, I was so sorry to hear about her…
situation
, do let me know if there’s anything I can do. 
(Can you stop hugging me?)

Goodness, I don’t need Jeff to introduce you, I can tell who you are, you’re the spitting image of Caroline, she tutored my son, you know, I don’t think he remembered a thing she taught him, what a crush he had on her…
(I bet her husband did, too.)

Caroline used to paint portraits of my Yorkshire Terriers, had she ever mentioned them? 
(She called them loud mangy mutts, said you were insufferable.) 

I knew your sister well, won’t you tell her I said hello? 
(Watch your hands, Marvin James.)

After an hour of greetings and introductions, fake smiles and nice to meet you’s, the cloying stuffiness of the room had begun to make me fantasize about slitting someone’s lung open to suck out the oxygen. 

“I need air,” I told Jeff, fanning my flushed face, heading backward for the door.  “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll go with you.”

I didn’t need an escort, but I appreciated the offer anyway.  He fell into step beside me, the shuffles of his shoes out of sync with the metronome of my heels, and the air that
whooshed
over me as he held open the door was the most welcoming thing in the world.  It was followed very closely by the least welcoming thing in the world. 

“Oh my God.”  I stumbled, stepping on Jeff’s foot.  “What the hell are they doing here?”  I hadn’t invited this thorny patch of reporters, the dull roar off their unintelligible questions, their cameramen and news vans.  Flashbulbs exploded, lighting up the smog obliterating a black velvet sky, likely capturing innumerable unflattering photos of me with my jaw hanging down to my knees. 

“
Fuck
.”  I looked up at Jeff, who looked similarly mystified yet somehow still calm.  “Is it possible they’re here for someone other than me?”

Katya, are you studying art like your sister?

Ms. Smirnov, are you hoping to find a sponsor tonight?

Katya, did your sister kill Brian Calvert?

Katya, did you have any prior knowledge of that fire?

Katya, is this a date?

“I’m gonna go with no,” he said, squinting through the camera rays. 

There was no way out but through.  No back exit in the auditorium, no secret tunnel leading out to the parking lot.  So I did what I’d learned to do.  I waved at the reporters, a subdued wave, one that said no, this is not a date, you cannot rattle me with your inane questions, and I’ll just be going back in now, but thank you for your interest. 

Jeff followed me back inside, and once both doors had firmly sealed, and every eye in the auditorium had fastened onto me, I blew out a heavy sigh. 

“I won’t be able to wait them out, will I?” I said, to nobody in particular.  I wondered if this was what it felt like to be Caroline, drawing stares, curious glances, inciting whispered conversations everywhere she went.  Center stage was exhausting, being the PR face of this nightmare took every shred of strength I possessed, and I had none of Caroline’s stamina. 

“It’s looking doubtful.”  Jeff squeezed my bare shoulder, his face a giant question mark.  “It wouldn’t hurt to take some time to collect yourself, though.  I’ll walk you out, you don’t want to go through the gauntlet alone.”

I gave him a small smile, no teeth, silently wishing he was Kyle.  Kyle would have known what to do, what to say, he wouldn’t stand there at a loss, wearing an uneasy expression, he would have rolled his eyes, held up a hand to quell the questions, and told them all quite politely to go the fuck away. 

***

After waiting in vain and on tenterhooks for half an hour, the noise behind the door hadn’t died down.  If anything, it got louder, ballooning into a thunderous din, until suddenly, it stopped.  All but for what sounded like one voice, one furious and screeching female voice that I didn’t recognize. 

“Do you hear what she’s saying?”  Jeff mimicked me, pressing his ear against the steel door.  “I thought I heard Caroline’s name.”  And it didn’t seem like a staunch supporter of my sister, whoever spat her name like venom two feet away, unaware I was listening through a thick steel door. 

“What are you doing?”  Jeff asked as I grasped the handle.  “You can’t go out there by yourself.”

“Says who?”  Cold air instantly raised gooseflesh on every bit of my exposed skin as I planted one heel out the door and stepped outside.  An older woman with graying dark hair and a heaving chest stood there trembling, shouting, flailing her arms.  She looked like a P.E teacher, gray sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, gray skin and hair. She whirled around as she sensed my presence, having been tipped off by another raucous round of reporter questions, and aimed a glare and a fat finger at my face. 

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”  It looked like she wanted to slice me open, feast on my blood.  “You
and
your sister.  You’re as guilty as she is.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, taking a step toward her, but for every one I took, she moved two steps back.  “I don’t…I’m not sure who you are.”

Her body didn’t look capable of containing the hot sobs and anger roiling within her.  “Your sister—that whore—killed my son.”

Where she got off calling my sister, whom she’d never met, a whore, I couldn’t say.  Brian hadn’t been killed by Caroline’s murderous vagina, after all. 

I opened my mouth.  Changed my mind, bit my bottom lip back instead.  Looked at the ground, found nothing of interest there, looked back up at Brian’s mother.  Back to my role of scared, utterly innocent, flustered sister of a wrongly accused woman.  Brian’s mother could scream, threaten, cry, rage, and none of it would have much effect on her public image—they’d label it grief.  I couldn’t reciprocate without looking horrible, and Caroline by association.  Telling her where to go shove those angry words in front of an army of newscasters would be as bad as kicking a puppy on camera, and I’d never hear the end of it from Kyle.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Calvert.  I can’t pretend I know how you feel, but I’m sorry he’s gone.  But Caroline—”

“But Caroline
nothing
.” Spittle collected in the corners of her puckered mouth.  “She’s the reason, and you can save your apologies.  Here you are at a
party
for God’s sake, playing dress up like a princess while my son—”

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to call security unless you leave,” Jeff piped up.  It surprised me how loud his voice was, how it rose so easily over her shouts.  I never thought him capable of it, not this soft-spoken nerd too shy to admit he was in love with my sister. 

“Go ahead and try.”

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, showed it to her.  “I can.  I’ll do it right now, but I don’t want to cause any trouble for you.”

“
She’s
caused enough for the both of us.”  And with one last parting glare which contained the venom of a thousand angry cobras, she pushed her way through the crowd of reporters, throwing elbows and shaking off questions. 

“Kat?”  Jeff grabbed my elbow, his hand as hot on my cold skin as an open flame.  “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

He made no move to tow me back inside, gazing out at that ocean of cameras and flapping trench coats, countless mouths moving rapidly, spouting endless questions that got swept up into the whistling wind. 

Katya, you’ve never met Mrs. Calvert before?

Katya, is it true, did you have something to do with Brian Calvert’s death?

Ms. Smirnov, do you feel even partially responsible for Mrs. Calvert’s pain?

They rounded on me, just like I knew they would, so I descended a few concrete steps, wrapping my arms around myself to ward off the chill which made the fine mist of hair on the back of my neck stand at attention.

Katya, are you angry with Mrs. Calvert for publicly accusing—

I held out my hand for the microphone, and the woman gladly surrendered it. 

“Of course I’m not angry with Mrs. Calvert,” I said, trying my best to make eye contact with as many cameras as possible.  “I could never be angry with a mother who’s lost her son.  I won’t pretend I know what she’s feeling, or that I can empathize in any real way.  She loved her son, just like I love my sister.  There’s loss on both sides, but hers will always be greater than mine.”  I sucked in a long breath, let it out slowly.  “Regardless of how I felt about her son, I’m still so terribly sorry for her, and I don’t wish her anything but peace.”  

I handed the microphone back and looked over my shoulder at Jeff, who stood where I’d left him with his mouth hanging slack. 

“Thanks,” I called, with what I hoped was an apologetic half-smile.  “Thanks for inviting me.  But I think I’m gonna go.” I didn’t wait for an answer, and kept my gaze on Caroline’s borrowed heels as I made my way slowly out of the heart of the throng and back where I’d parked the Challenger, with the distinct thought that Cinderella’s exit had nothing on mine clanging between my ears. 

***

Brittle light filtered through the dusty bulb above my front porch, and the person sitting there cast long, ghostly shadows on the cracked cement walkway.  He stiffened, hearing my approach, but was otherwise statue still.

“I tried calling,” I said, slowly clicking my way closer. “Right afterward, on my way home.”

“My phone was on silent.”

I sunk beside Kyle, awkward in the hand-me-down formal clothes, feeling as naked with my shoulders exposed as I would have felt going topless.  Caroline used to roll her eyes, try to get me into bikinis, would tell me I forgot my wimple when I wore a one-piece.  “You could have called back.”  When he said nothing, I added, “I mean, you didn’t need to go out of your way and make the drive.”

He stared straight ahead, elbows on his knees, one eyebrow dipping low.  “Who called the media?  You looked surprised to see them on the news.”

“I
was
surprised.” I kicked off my heels.  “And I don’t know who called them.  On the way home I wondered if they could have shown up because of the New Artist event, and finding me was just the icing on the cake.”

“Every news station in the area wouldn’t show up for something like that.”

I leaned back on my hands, stretching my legs out, rotating one ankle.  The scalloped hemline of Caroline’s dress rode up to mid-thigh, and I tugged it back down.  “Then I don’t know.”

“You handled yourself well.”

“Guess I don’t need my hand held anymore, huh?”

“I guess not.”

“You want to go inside?”

“Yeah.”  He got to his feet and held out a hand.  “Don’t forget your heels, Cinderella.  I already checked the MacGyver paper.  You’re all set.”

He followed me inside, squinting as I flicked on the switch by the door and bathed him in a yellow glow.  Watched me hang the strap of my purse on the banister, shake the persistent pins needling my scalp from my hair.  “Brian’s mother gave you a piece of her mind, didn’t she?”

“I’m just surprised she didn’t start talking to the media sooner, if she was that upset.  Caroline said he wasn’t close to his family.” 

“Grief does strange things to people.  Maybe she didn’t have the strength until now.” 

I unwound a stubborn strand of hair from its pin.  “Do you think she’s the one who could have done the collar thing?”

“I can’t see some grief-stricken old woman running around after a cat, but I suppose it’s possible.  I’ve never seen your hair curled.”

“It’s from the pins holding it all in place.  Took forever.”

“Then why put it up at all?”

“Hair up with low necklines.”  I shrugged one shoulder, leaning my weight into the knob on the banister.  “Caroline’s fashion advice really stuck.”

He laughed a little, looked away.  “Well that’s definitely a low neckline.”

I made one of those indignant female noises, something between a scoff and a grunt, conveniently forgetting how spectacularly uncomfortable I felt in the dress earlier, thinking the exact same thing.  “Screw you.”

“I’m not saying it looks bad.  Just that I’m not sure where it’s appropriate to look.”

I raised a stiff middle finger.  “Right here’s good.” 

I littered hairpins on my way to the kitchen, and Kyle followed them like breadcrumbs.  “Anyway.  It’s important we find out who called the reporters.  It turned out fine this time, you conducted yourself well, but we can’t have them turning up left and right.  It’s going to trip you up eventually; you might say something you shouldn’t.  They need to show up on our terms, not when some jackass with insider information pipes up.  Someone called them, someone who knew you were going.  I need names.  The reporters were there long enough for Brian’s mother to catch wind—who had time to tip them off?”