Catching Genius (39 page)

“I'm leaving tomorrow. Paul's coming to pick me up,” I heard her say.

“Whatever for?” Mother asked. “I thought Connie was taking you home on Saturday.”

“Connie doesn't want to be anywhere near me, Mother, so I don't imagine that's a problem.”

“But, Estella, what about the books?”

“Burn them,” she said. Then I heard her race down the stairs; the beachside door slammed.

Mother arrived upstairs looking dazed, as if she couldn't understand how everything had gotten away from her so quickly. “What was that all about?” she asked me, as though it were my fault.

I shrugged. “She's a grown woman, Mother, you can't stop her.”

 
 
Estella and Gib swam, with me keeping a careful eye on them from the patio, while Vanessa did her tai chi and Mother sat in the sand. The house was finally empty, and I had little to do but wait for Gib to go on his camping trip and give the house a final cleaning.

By that afternoon the house looked very nearly ready to place on the market. I walked through the living room and leaned my shoulder against the slider casement, gazing out at the thunderheads that had started to roll in over the Gulf.

Everything was gray: the water, the sky, even the white sand looked dingy and used. I wanted to drag my weary self upstairs, crawl onto my mattress, and sleep for days while rain lashed against the windows. I closed my eyes and listened to the muffled sounds of the surf, allowing it to lull me. Had Carson not run up the stairs, thumping a bulging backpack behind him, I might have drifted off standing up like a horse.

“I want to go camping!” he yelled at me, having worked himself up to confront me. He was red-faced and breathless, clutching his backpack straps in one hand and already near tears.

I shook my head to clear the fuzziness. “Carson, lower your voice. I've already told you that you can't go. And besides, look, it's getting ready to storm. You're afraid of lightning and thunder.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“I am not! And if Gib gets to go then I do too—”

“No, that's not how it works. When you're older you can go, and I'm not arguing with you about this anymore. Now take your backpack upstairs and stay there until you can calm down.”

He stared up at me, his chin trembling. “I'm not staying with you anymore,” he said, stomping off, dragging his backpack behind him. He pushed it off the top stair and it hit the landing with a thud. He took off up the next flight of stairs. Soon his clothes and pillows were flying down. It was a good old-fashioned tantrum, and I decided to ignore it.

As he sullenly moved all his things downstairs, I began packing food for the campout. Mother watched Carson in amusement.

“Don't you dare laugh,” I murmured to her when Carson tripped over a stray tennis shoe.

“Why don't you just let him go?” she asked under her breath as he shot us a murderous glare and threw the shoe downstairs.

“I'd think you of all people would understand that children don't belong out in a storm.”

She looked stricken, and I was horrified at myself. Everything was coming apart now. We were leaving Big Dune less of a family than we'd come to it. I reached my hand out and touched her arm, but she pulled away from me and followed Carson down the stairs.

By the time Tate arrived, nobody in the house was speaking to me.

“You in exile up here?” he asked as he reached the top of the stairs, raising his eyebrows at me.

I shoved a bag of sandwiches and chips across the counter at him. “So what else is new? Somebody has to be the responsible one.”

He laughed, and I suddenly felt like crying. I turned away from him and dug in the refrigerator, pulling out a soda I didn't want and taking a long drink. Tate moved behind me and I fell against him as soon as his hand touched my back.

“Hey,” he said. “Hey, come on, Connie, it's okay.”

I shook my head and allowed him to hold me, fighting against tears. “No it's not,” I mumbled against his shirt, breathing in the scent of the Gulf.

“Are we going or what?”

I jumped away from Tate as soon as I heard Gib's voice, but it was too late, and in fact, that guilty move only made things worse. He stared at both of us in fury. Tate wasn't as easily cowed by my son, and he took his time leaving the kitchen.

“You all ready?” he asked.

“I'm ready,” Gib replied tightly, refusing to glance my way.

“Okay, here, thank your mom for making us sandwiches and take them downstairs. I'll be right there.”

Gib grabbed the bag Tate held out, muttered something that sounded vaguely like a thank-you to me, and then whirled around and went downstairs.

“You know, it seems pretty natural that he'd be feeling protective of you right now,” Tate said.

I snorted. “He's more worried that I'll take you away from him.”

Tate cocked his head to one side, gave me a quizzical look. “I think you underestimate the kid, Connie.”

I had no answer for him, and I turned away, clutching my soda.

“We'll get going then,” he said lightly. “You want to walk down to the cut with us?”

I didn't, but Mother was at the stairs by then and she answered for both of us.

“That's a lovely idea,” she said. “We'll all go. I'll get Estella.”

After she forcibly wrangled everyone together, we trooped out of the house, a motley crew of teeming emotions. We spread ourselves out along the sand as though kept apart by magnetic fields. Mother threaded her way around each of us in turn, trying to herd us together before finally giving up and joining Tate, the only one unaffected by the collective sour mood of our family.

The storm had yet to break. Not a raindrop fell, but the air was heavy and the sand glowed in the strange, muted light that fought its way through the building thunderheads. I cast surreptitious glances up at the sky but marched on. If my son wanted to spend a wet, miserable night being munched on by no-see-ums on a scary, pirate ghost-filled island, well, let him.

I nearly relished the idea of him coming back in the morning trying to put a brave face on his bitterly fought-for camping trip. This was no posh Verona sleepover at a wealthy friend's house. He'd be dying to get back to his cushy life, I thought with satisfaction, and when I felt tears prick my eyes again I realized with dismay exactly how right Tate was.

I did underestimate Gib. Always, and with something that came close to hostility. A hostility that I should have been directing at Luke. The realization made me stop in my tracks. I froze and watched my family move away from me, silhouetted against the edge of the world. Only Estella looked back, then quickly turned forward again. I hurried to catch up, filling the widest empty space in my family.

“You have your cell phone?” I asked Gib, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, waiting for me to try to ruin something, change the deal.

“Well, call if you need anything,” I said.

“All right.”

“I still don't see why I—”

“Because your mother said so, Carson,” Mother said firmly, and I shot her a grateful look.

When we arrived at the cut, Tate and Gib dragged the large canoe out from the brush, with Carson getting in the way as much as helping, and we loaded their gear just as the first few raindrops fell. I gave Tate a worried glance, but he and Gib just grinned at each other and hauled the canoe to the water's edge. I held it steady while they boarded, and then helped push them off.

The rain came a little harder as they started to paddle, and lightning forked in the clouds over the Gulf, lighting them up from inside like a Japanese lantern. It was followed by low thunder, and Carson sidled a little closer to me, his eyes watching the canoe intently as it slid away from the shore and entered the cut through a silver veil of rain. My oldest son raised his oar, clutched in both hands, over his head and screamed a savage male greeting to the storm.

Carson gaped after Gib; his face changed from admiration to hero worship when Tate raised his oar to the clouds to bellow his own challenge. The next time the thunder rolled, he didn't move closer to me, but instead moved toward the water's edge, waving his arms as the warriors made their way across the cut.

 
 
Dinner was somber. Carson was no longer angry but was dejected instead, pushing his food around and watching the clouds build in the Gulf again. The afternoon storm had been just an advance squall, and my worry came back with a vengeance, all thoughts of enjoying a repentant Gib gone from my mind. As dark fell the rain began again; this time there were no periods of docility—it came in aggressive sideways gusts, hitting the sliders despite their protective overhang.

Estella retired early, claiming her usual headache, and Mother followed her.

“You want to come up with me?” I asked Carson lightly, trying to give him an easy out.

“I told you I'm not scared anymore,” he said, his face turning red.

“Okay, okay,” I retreated. “I'm going to go upstairs and read. If you change your mind, though—”

“I won't.”

I sighed. “All right, sweetie. Good night, then.” I climbed the stairs slowly, waiting for him to follow me when thunder shook the house. He didn't. I slid into bed and opened a book, but I didn't get past the first sentence before I drifted off.

The phone startled me awake and I grabbed for it with my eyes still closed, convinced it was Gib. The voice was not that of a panicked young man; it was that of a panicked young woman.

“Connie, Luke told me to call you. You have to do something,” she sobbed.

I held the phone away from my ear and blinked at it, certain I was dreaming. But the storm still raged outside, and when thunder cracked, making me jump, I knew I was fully awake. “Who is this?” I finally asked, though I already knew the answer.

“It's me, it's Deanna,” she said, her voice shaking.

“What's wrong?” I asked, her panic beginning to infect me.

“They—he—Luke's been arrested,” she said, her voice a mere squeak.

I was stunned into silence. Arrested? Could it have been something I'd done? Something I'd told Angie? The Escalade? Nothing made any sense, and the crying on the other end of the phone finally cut through my thoughts.

“Deanna, calm down and tell me what happened,” I said firmly, speaking to her as though she were a child.

“He didn't come home,” she started, and then at least had the grace to falter when she realized what she'd said.

“Yes,” I said impatiently. “What then?”

“I was so worried, and then his lawyer called me and I had to go down to the jail, and the lawyer told me that they arrested him on some sort of fraud charges. He can't even get him out until tomorrow, and he said Luke wanted me to call and tell you because he would need for you to free some account. The lawyer said to call him tomorrow and he could tell you more. What am I going to do?”

Deanna dissolved, and I heard the phone fall and her scramble to pick it up. “Hello, hello?” she said.

“I'm here,” I said quietly. “I don't know what to tell you, Deanna. Let his lawyer know I'll call tomorrow, if my lawyer thinks it's a good idea. There's not much more I can do.”

“But—” Deanna started.

I gently hung up on her. After searching for what I was feeling, I realized that it was relief. I had no questions left about what I was doing. Angie would guide me through the official paperwork, but emotionally, I was formally divorced.

A crack of thunder made the windows rattle, and I swung my legs off the mattress and headed down the stairs to check on Carson, wondering what I was going to tell him and Gib about their father. I pictured him huddled beneath his covers, shaking, but too proud—or too scared—to brave the staircases up to the library in the dark.

Mother and Estella's lights were out, and only a night-light glowed beneath the door to Gib and Carson's room. I gently pushed the door open.

“Carson, honey,” I whispered. “You okay?” The lump on his bed didn't move. I placed my hand on it, feeling nothing but blankets and sheets. I pushed harder.

The other bed was empty too, as were the closet and bathroom. I hurried to my mother's room and knocked frantically.

She opened her door, bleary eyed, squinting at the hall light. “What's wrong?”

“Is Carson in there with you?”

“No. He's not in bed?”

“No,” I called behind me, already down the hall at Estella's door. I rapped just as she opened it.

“What's wrong?” she asked. “Are you okay?”

I didn't stop to wonder that I was her first concern, but instead looked past her, noting that her bed was empty before I even asked my question.

“Is Carson with you?”

“No. Did you check the bathroom?”

“Not there,” I said and raced up the stairs. He wasn't in the bathroom off the living room, or curled up on the living room floor, and when I threw the sliders open to the storm, he wasn't on the patio. I ran back downstairs to find Estella and Mother in Carson's room, looking at each other with drawn faces, Carson's blankets clutched in Mother's hands.

“What?” I cried. Estella turned toward me.

“His backpack's gone,” she said. “I saw it at the door when we came in this afternoon. It's not there, it's not in here, and the door's unlocked.”

“Oh my God,” I said. It only took a second for me to figure it out, but by then Estella was already pushing past me, racing to her room. I headed for the back door; before I was halfway down the boardwalk, Estella was hard on my heels. We ran through the storm, stumbling and falling in the sand, down to the cut, where we gasped for breath as we scanned the shore. Lightning flashed like a klieg light, illuminating the beach, and Estella pointed toward the brush.