Spirit Level (12 page)

“He won’t always sit for me,” Alex says. “You clearly have the magic touch.”

“And the treats. Treats are key.”

We set out for the dog park, Churchill straining on the leash. Alex keeps trying to get him to heel, but Churchill keeps pulling.

“Let me try,” I say, taking the leash from Alex, who looks skeptical.

“He’s really strong,” he says.

“So am I.”

I make Churchill sit again, reward him with a treat and then, when we start walking, step in front of him every time he starts to pull. We make slow progress, but after a couple of blocks he’s pulling less and less.

“Where did you learn that?” Alex asks. “You’re like the Dog Whisperer.”

“Hardly,” I say. “Just experienced. I walk dogs in my neighborhood. Not all of them come to me well trained. So I learned a few tricks.”

“Very impressive,” Alex says. “A girl who does her research. I like that.”

“You have no idea. I put footnotes in my book reports in third grade. It was so obnoxious. That’s what being raised by an academic will do to you.”

And you wouldn’t like it if you knew what else I was researching, I think. We reach the park, and I let Churchill off the leash. As he bounds away, Alex says, “I’m sorry about yesterday. Things got…complicated. Meredith was really upset about something. She left work and asked me to meet her, but by the time I got there, she’d made plans with Lucy.”

“So you all went to
EMP
,” I say, trying to keep an accusatory tone out of my voice.

He nods. “I’m sorry. I messed up. I should have called you.”

“What was Meredith so upset about?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. Whatever it was, she got over it before I got there. She must have talked to Lucy or something.”

I watch Churchill for a few minutes. If you ever wanted a demonstration of the word
gamboling
, all you’d have to do is watch Churchill playing with his doggy friends. I envied him. The world could use more gamboling and less stressing. More treats and fewer commands. I take a deep breath and say, “Do you always do whatever Meredith wants?”

Silence.

Someone calls their dog—“Scout! Get over here! Scout!”—and a border collie streaks across the park.

When Alex finally replies, his voice is stiff and formal. “I said I was sorry. But Meredith is my best friend. You have no idea the stuff she’s done for me. Don’t you have a friend like that?”

He turns toward me and looks steadily into my eyes. He doesn’t look angry, just serious. I look away. I can’t tell him about Byron, my best friend turned boyfriend turned…nothing. Byron, who misses me. Byron, who would do whatever I wanted—except stay.

“Sort of,” I say. I turn and start walking back to the bus stop.

Alex says, “Don’t go, Harriet. Please. You haven’t taught me to whistle yet. And Churchill could always use some more leash training.”

“That’s true,” I say, and I know there is nothing I want more than to stay.

By the time I get home, it’s almost dark. Alex and I have spent almost eight hours together, first at the park with Churchill (who earned a lot of treats by learning to roll over) and then at a sushi bar Gwen and I go to a lot. I love sushi, so I was able to show off a bit, ordering stuff Alex had never had. Maybe Missoula doesn’t have a lot of sushi restaurants. Spicy squid salad, shumai, drunk clams. After that we got gelato at Gelatiamo (chocolate chili/ coconut for me, hazelnut/pistachio for Alex) and walked for ages, ending up at Myrtle Edwards Park, where we sat on a bench while the sun set. We talked a lot, but not about anything important. Sometimes we were silent, and it didn’t feel awkward at all. When we finally said goodbye at my bus stop, I was exhausted but wired. The combination of sunshine, sushi, sugar and happiness made me bolder than I usually am. The bus pulled up, and I kissed Alex on the mouth—really fast but hard, no tongue. I could taste the pistachios on his lips. Delicious. He looked startled, but he didn’t pull away or wipe his mouth afterward.
I laughed and said, “Thanks for the great day” and jumped onto the bus.

Now I can’t sleep, so I get up and continue researching the Leatherbys of Missoula, Montana.

THERE ARE A LOT
of Leatherbys in England, an ice-cream parlor called Leatherby’s in California, and the Leatherby Libraries are part of some university in California. And that’s just on the first page. Google can be overwhelming sometimes, so I decide to try my luck on Facebook. Lots of my friends’ parents have Facebook pages. My friends mock their moms’ posts or their dads’ profile shots and bitch about how their parents are tracking their every move. My mom doesn’t have a page, and I doubt she’s ever looked at mine. She says she doesn’t have time for Facebook, and she thinks selfies are evidence of the downfall of civilization. Now I’m hoping that Barbara Leatherby has embraced social media. Maybe she even has a Twitter handle.

I type her name into the Find Friends space and, lo and behold, there she is. Barbara Jean Leatherby of
Missoula, Montana. Blond, tanned, fiftyish. Sporty-looking—not like Meredith at all. Her cover picture is a rose, which makes sense. I can’t see much else without friending her, but I can see where she works (at the University of Montana), her relationship status (
It’s complicated
) and where she went to school (
UC
Berkeley).

Next I search for Mark Leatherby. He is about Barbara’s age, maybe a bit older. Clearly not Meredith’s brother. I click on his profile. He’s dark-haired and thin-faced, with a goatee and wire-framed glasses. His cover picture is a photo of two dogs—one looks like an overgrown fox, the other is some kind of terrier. Mark also works at the university and has a complicated relationship. Who doesn’t? And, like Barbara’s, his privacy settings don’t allow me to see his friends or his posts.

I wonder if Alex has a Facebook profile, but since I still don’t know his last name, it’s impossible to search for him. I make a mental note to work it naturally into the conversation the next time I see him. My mind wanders a bit, replaying our day together, especially the kiss, wondering if he’s as wide awake as I am. When I look for Meredith Leatherby on Facebook, all I find is her “looking for daddy” page, so I move on to the
Missoulian
newspaper, type the name Leatherby into the Search field and hope for the best.

When the screen fills with citations, I’m excited—until I realize there’s a local tack shop named Leatherby’s in Missoula. Apparently it has the best selection of
cowboy boots in Montana. I’ve always wanted cowboy boots. Red ones. Another reason to go to Missoula. Finally I come across a Barbara Leatherby, manager of the bookstore at the university. She’s excited about a famous Montana author who’s going to do an event at the store. Interesting, but not much help. Barbara pops up again in an article about a pottery show at a local community center. There’s a picture of her smiling and holding up a beautiful vase. She is quoted as saying that “making pottery is a meditation for me, an opportunity to be with my own thoughts.”

Barbara shows up a few more times, but there’s no sign of Mark until I find an obituary from 1999 that lists him as the son of the dearly departed Jack Leatherby, a retired dentist. Next to Mark’s name is Barbara’s, in parentheses, which means they are (or were) husband and wife. Holy shit! I get up and pace my room. In 1999, Meredith would have been what? Two or three? I read the entire obituary. Mark is the only child of Jack and his deceased wife, Rose. Jack’s beloved grandchildren are listed as Jackson, Elizabeth and Meredith. I find the birth announcements for all three kids—Jackson and Elizabeth are twins, three years older than Meredith. Parents: Mark and Barbara Leatherby.

I shut down the computer, get back into bed and try to force my tired brain to make sense of what I’ve discovered. Meredith has two siblings (possibly not biological). Her parents are separated or maybe divorced.
Her grandfather was a dentist. I fall asleep wondering whether Alex has secrets too.

The next day I work in the salon, finish my transcription of Jessica’s interview (I still don’t like her) and clean the house, which Mom pays me to do once a week. I don’t hear from Alex, but I assume he’s working, although I still don’t know where. Verna comes over for dinner, and afterward she beats us both at Scrabble, since she seems to have memorized the latest edition of the
Official Scrabble Dictionary
. She plays
chillax
and
bromance
and
qajaq
, which she puts on a triple word score; Mom and I don’t stand a chance. When the game is over, I say goodnight and go upstairs to check out the
Missoula Independent
.

The
Independent
is a community newspaper, full of stories about local people and events. Almost right away, I find an article about Elizabeth Leatherby’s move to Denver to dance in the company that Meredith told us she belonged to. The accompanying photograph shows a small, lithe blond girl in mid-leap. My heart starts to race; this is the first evidence I have found that confirms my suspicions about Meredith. Then I find a picture of some volunteers at an organic farm. Second from the left, leaning on a fence, grinning, is Jackson Leatherby. He looks like his father—dark-haired and wiry, with glasses and a scruffy beard. Next to him, a beautiful girl with
long, wildly curly hair is gazing up at him adoringly. No wonder he looks so happy. Organic veggies and love are a potent combo.

Jackson and Elizabeth show up in older articles as well. When they graduated from Big Sky High, they were co-valedictorians. They formed a hiking group in high school called the Jumbotrons, named after nearby Mount Jumbo, their favorite place to hike. How cool is it to live near a mountain named after a Disney elephant? They also took part in the annual community weed-pulls on Mount Jumbo. I bet their parents were proud.

There’s no mention of Meredith at all until I come across a short article about her Little League team, which played in the Little League World Series when Meredith was twelve. She was the star shortstop. And there she is in the team photo. Front and center, smirking, lips tight. Behind her, a tall girl with curly blond hair smiles broadly at the camera. I scan the names under the picture: the tall girl’s name is Danielle Larson, and she looks exactly like Alex.

Alex must have a twin sister. Weird that he hasn’t mentioned her. Mind you, he hasn’t told me anything about his family. And I haven’t asked.

I wake up with a brutal headache and call Verna to tell her I can’t help in the salon today. Then I text Mom that
I’m sick and going back to sleep. No way I can face the Sunday ladies today. I stay in bed until I hear the front door shut and the car start. When I go downstairs, a note on the kitchen table says,
Feel better, Harry. Call if you need anything.
I take an Advil, make some toast and stare out the window as I eat it.

My phone pings as I’m putting my dishes in the dishwasher.

The text from Lucy says,
Wanna hang out 2day?

I text back,
Can’t. Sick. Sorry.

Bummer.

Yeah. Going back to sleep. Call you later
.