Drawing Conclusions (4 page)

six

When we piled out
of the car, I headed straight for my studio with a gallon of water and a handful of pills prescribed to heal a nuclear meltdown of the stomach lining. Trina and Jonathan curled up on the couch in the living room, and Charlie made good on his promise to install a security system. I had peeked in on Becky managing a bolt of luminous pink fabric. I was not encouraged.

“Pink, huh?”

Becky had spit a straight pin out of her mouth onto the floor and smiled. “Trust me.”

I dipped my brush in a dollop of brown oil paint. I mixed in a smidge of black and added tone with a hint of red. I painted for three solid hours with odd intervals of rest just to make the doctors happy. By the end, I was left with five canvases of a male's head from the crown to the brow. The mop of hair appeared in various stages of styling, from a Caesar to a middle part, left part, right part, and finally swept back like a Wall Street fund manager. I didn't know where these images were taking me, and I was too tired to care. I stretched out on an old futon in the corner of the studio and prayed for a solid eight.

–––

The door to the attic studio was too old for a traditional doorknob, and the sound of the cast-iron latch was unmistakable even in my deep sleep. I struggled to draw my battered body from its well-deserved slumber. The creaking floorboards scratched my conscience. I sprung up like a jack-in-the-box. The motion was extreme given the condition of my abdomen, and I cried out in a jumble of pain and fear. I tumbled on to the floor and skittered on all fours toward my easel. The moon splashed just enough light ahead for me to locate my bucket of brushes soaking in turpentine. I stretched for the can and a defensive weapon, but not before a hand grabbed my wrist.

“Ce, it's me.” Charlie knelt down and pried my fingers from the can. “Man, you are one tough bitch.”

“I thought you wanted to kill me.”

“I came close at the hospital today.”

“And now?”

“Now that I've saved myself from permanent blindness?” Charlie pushed the can of turpentine safely under the easel. “Come on, let's sit.”

We sat shoulder to shoulder on the bed and before long I could feel Charlie's chest heaving in an uneven rhythm.

“You can't cry or I'll lose it. I swear, don't fucking do this to me,” I said.

He turned his head toward me, and I recognized the tilt as if it were the junior prom. He kissed me so hard I had to grab the back of the futon for support. I drew my thigh across his lap and straddled him before he could change his mind.

“This is a bad idea,” I gasped between heated breaths.

“I was hoping for bad,” Charlie responded, running his hands under my shirt.

“Is this going to piss off your girlfriends?”

“Becky's a fling.”

“Who else?”

“The red-headed barista from Starbucks.”

“How 'bout the bartender from Garvin's Pub?”

“She'll be livid.”

I gave in to Charlie as easily as sliding into a favorite pair of jeans. I couldn't count the years clearly in my condition, but I guessed our near-decade dry spell was about to end. I was pleasantly surprised we'd both learned a thing or two since our high school grope fests.

“Your boobs are bigger.” Charlie yanked my shirt over my head and tossed it across the bed.

“Your dick isn't.”

“I still love you, CeCe,” he said, breathing hard on my neck.

It wasn't sincere the first time I'd heard him say it, either.

seven

“It's today, Charlie.” I
rolled over and grabbed my shirt off the floor. The sun poured relentlessly through the dirty attic windows, and I caught myself wishing for rain to match my gloom. Charlie was a bit more upbeat.

“I've heard of make-up sex, but this funeral sex is seriously underrated,” he said, wiping sleep from his eyes.

“I'm only laughing because Teddy would have appreciated your black humor.” I reached for an errant sock and dug under the sheets for Charlie's boxers. “This isn't going to bring him back, you know.”

“It was worth a try,” he said as he rose and pulled his thrift-store Calvin's just up to the bottom rung on his six-pack.

“It might get him a nephew,” I laughed half-heartedly.

“Shit. Do some jumping jacks or something.” Charlie was just about to leave when he spotted the canvases drying along the wall. “Is it Teddy?” he asked.

“I'm not sure yet.”

Charlie nodded, then slipped through the attic door and hopefully found his way back to his room unnoticed. I gave myself a few more minutes of hiding in bed before I could muster the mental stamina to confront my brother's funeral. I took a quick shower and prepared for my fitting with Becky.

“Beck?” I knocked on her door at the end of the hall on the second floor of the house. “You ready for me yet?”

“Absolutely.” Becky kneeled at the base of a small platform Charlie and Jonathan had built to showcase her collection. “I'm just finishing the hem, but I'll stop here and make sure it's the right length for you.”

The dress hanging on the headless mannequin was undeniably stunning. The pink fabric I had feared was more of a soft peach with a faint undertone of yellow. “Becky, this is incredible. It looks like the color of my skin and hair all rolled into one.”

I stripped down to my underwear and pulled the dress carefully over my hips, letting Becky zip the last few inches. I glanced quickly in the full-length mirror, feeling a tinge of guilt as I admired my reflection. The layers played nicely on my straight frame and for a passing second I envisioned myself going on actual date as opposed to having noncommittal sex on a futon in the attic. Becky tossed me a pair of strappy sandals from a local thrift shop that pulled the whole ensemble together. I left the room knowing it would be the one and only time I'd wear this dress, but I'd carry it with the respect it deserved.

Then the five of us gathered on the front porch of Harbor House. There were lots of hugs and kisses, and Becky started to choke up, causing an avalanche of contagious tears. We looked out across the bay in the direction of the Sound View labs campus and waved our final goodbye in the direction of Teddy's office.

“I don't think we'll all fit in the Gremlin.” I fished my keys out of my bag.

“It appears your dad sent some transportation,” Jonathan said as he walked me around to the side of the house to find a stretch limo idling in the driveway. “You take Charlie in the gas guzzler and we'll follow in the Gremlin. If you need to leave early, I can always take you home.”

“You're a good man, Jonathan,” I said. “Are you sure you don't want a ride?”

“I already called shotgun,” Charlie said, holding the door open for me as we stepped into the limo.

“So I guess I'm not good enough to ride in the
family
limo,” I said, settling myself into the soft leather seats.

“Come on, CeCe. Cut your dad some slack. At least he sent the car,” Charlie said in support of my father. I decided not to tell him my dad couldn't even remember his name the other night.

I flipped up the refrigerated compartment next to the seat to reveal a split of champagne. “There must have been a mix-up at the garage. This is a party boat not a funeral limo,” I strained to make my voice heard over the driver's pounding music.

“So maybe this would be the wrong time to tell you how hot you look in that dress?” Charlie placed a hand on my knee.

I promptly removed it. “You think?” I leaned forward, banging on the retractable glass separating the passengers from the driver. Up to this point, our driver had been content to ignore us, garbling a few heavily accented words upon our departure. I had caught his name, Igor, and suspected he was Russian, but I was no expert. “Hey, Igor,” I said. “I hate to be a pest, but can you turn your godawful music down?”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Charlie said.

“I kissed you last night and I don't remember hearing any complaints.” I opened another drawer built into the leather seating to find a stack of girly magazines. “Obviously, my father did not tell the limo service the purpose of the excursion today. Do you think this driver knows we're headed to a church and not a nightclub?”

The limo had backed out of our narrow drive and drove west on 25A. A snaking line of cars filled the tiny parking lot at St. John's Episcopal Church. The lot at the fish hatchery next door was already packed to the gills as well, and a brigade of police officers were guiding mourners into the lots at the Sound View labs just a short walk from the church. In the thick of the crowds, I was able to pick out a handful of people I recognized.

“You better duck. Mr. Merrit, our seventh-grade science teacher is here. You may have been his worst student on record.”

“Yeah, but he loved Teddy. I would have failed if Teddy wasn't my lab partner.”

I was about to bang on the window again and demand door-to-door service when the limo driver made an unexpected turn around the corner.

“He must be as frustrated as we are,” I said.

“Hey, there's the Gremlin.” Charlie tried to open the window to wave, but the button was stuck. We ended up passing the Gremlin going in the opposite direction. I could see a look of confusion on my roommates' faces. As soon as the crowds broke, the limo picked up speed, barreling down Harbor Road in the direction of Lloyd Neck.

“Is there a back entrance to the church?” I asked.

“Got me.”

“Charlie, this is not cool,” I said. “We're headed in the opposite direction of the church.”

Charlie released his seatbelt and scrambled around the limo trying the doors and windows, but we were locked in. I slammed the glass partition with the heel of my shoe, but it bounced back like a super ball. We passed a few cars, but the tinted windows only allowed for viewing out, not in.

“He's headed toward the Marshall Field Estate,” Charlie said.

The path to the estate was curved like a Slinky and shrouded in trees. The original home of the Marshall Field family, a retail tycoon, had been converted to a state park over fifty years ago, and depending upon funding, the ground maintenance waffled between poor and absolute neglect. We sped past the unmanned ticket booth and down a pitted road toward the main house. The limo veered around the back of the mansion and up onto the stone esplanade. Off the patio, an expansive hill covering at least an acre rolled down to a freshwater pond that let out into the Long Island Sound. In any other circumstance, the setting would have been breathtaking, but with the nose of the limo pointed straight down the hill and the back tires balancing on the edge of the terrace, the landscape did not interest me.

“What the hell's going on?” I said, “Don't tell me he's lost. I swear I am not missing my brother's funeral.”

The driver's side door opened. Igor pulled his stocky frame out and trudged toward the back of the car, lifting the trunk lid.

“Okay, maybe it's just a flat tire and he's using the patio as a jack,” Charlie said, loosening the only necktie he owned. He signaled through the back window to catch Igor's attention before yelling, “Hey, open the door and I'll help with the tire.”

Charlie and I waited a second for Igor to release the lock.

Nothing.

“Screw this,” Charlie said. He grabbed a set of keys from his pocket and yanked off the thin wire ring. “Can you see Igor?”

I scooted around the limo looking for our driver, but the open trunk lid blocked my view. Through the side window, I was able to see down the sloping hill to Long Island Sound. It was still the greatest sledding site in town, with a hair-raising drop-off just before the edge of the pond. When the pond was frozen over, a rider could skid another 100 yards across the surface. The only catch was stopping the sled before you plummeted into the sound. In fact, just mounting a sled safely without tumbling down the treacherous hill was half the thrill.

“You remember sledding here?” I asked Charlie. “Didn't you chip a tooth?”

He nodded, but his eyes were fixated on the key chain. I watched as he straightened the circular wire by flattening it between two keys. He examined the tip and then bent it in a 45-degree angle.

I caught a glimpse of Igor holding a hefty tree branch. I pressed my face against the window to see Igor wedging the branch under one of the rear tires. I was pretty sure this wasn't how you fixed a flat. I felt the car lift a few inches off the ground.

I thought about the Gremlin. The first week I owned it, the brakes had given out while it was parked outside Harbor House. A loose marble would have rolled a few feet down our driveway's gentle grade; a 2,000-pound car was another story. Once the Gremlin picked up speed, it accelerated across the street and landed in a ditch.

I didn't need a foot of snow underneath me to understand what would happen if the limo took this particular hill at top speed.

“Oh my god. It's not a flat. He's trying to push the car down the hill,” I heard my voice rise in panic. “Do something, Charlie.”

Charlie was busy snaking the wire into a keyhole next to the glass partition.

“Come on, dammit, catch,” Charlie muttered.

“Faster,” I screamed.

The back tires released, and the car began to inch forward. A memory of the Gremlin's shattered front window and mangled bumper came into my mind.

“We're moving,” I yelled. I heard the trunk shut and watched as Igor heaved himself into the bumper.

“Charlie?”

“Don't talk to me.” Charlie had one eye shut and the other was focused on the key hole.

I prepared myself to be submerged under water. Wasn't there something about opening the windows a crack to let water in slowly? Too bad we couldn't open the windows.

“Here we go,” Charlie said as the tinted partition separating the compartments of the limo moved three quarters of the way back into its sleeve. The car picked up speed. Charlie clamped down on my hand as I slipped off the seat.

It felt like a hayride gone awry as we bounced and toppled down the hill. “Quick, I won't fit,” Charlie said as he took hold of my hips and forced my torso through the window to the front seat. “Grab the emergency brake.”

I looked down at the empty space under the radio. “Where the hell is it?”

Charlie shoved my rear end forward and yanked my legs toward the right like a boat rutter. “It's not the fucking Gremlin. Look on the floor next to the door.”

I located the brake and jammed the heel of my hand down as the car continued its forward plunge at an increasing speed. Charlie wedged my right leg through the opening and, using my thigh muscles and the seat for
leverage, I pushed my hand on the brake again and felt it engage.

The tilt of the hill and the downward motion of the car forced the rear end of the vehicle to upend to a vertical position. In a near perfect pirouette, the car twisted around. We were left facing uphill but sliding backward.

“We're not stopping,” I screeched. My entire body was now fully in the front seat. I threw the car in park and slammed my foot on the brake. The car kept rolling, but the pace had slowed down to a point where I was no longer praying for my life.

“We're still gonna hit the water, Ce. Turn the wheel left and aim the back bumper for that elm tree.” With its last burst of energy, the limo plowed into the gracious tree, forcing me backward and then forward into the steering wheel. My head ricocheted, and I could feel a stab of pain rush down my spine. If it hadn't been for Charlie's arm wrapped across my shoulders like a seatbelt, the damage would have been much worse.

“Where's Igor?” I asked.

“I saw him running for the woods when the car spun around,” Charlie answered.

The sound of sirens racing across the estate slowed my breathing. Trina or Jonathan must have realized something was off when they saw the limo headed away from the church. A row of police cars filed in and parked with military precision along the crest of the hill. Sure enough, I spotted the Gremlin in the distance. The front door of the limo opened easily. I exited the car and signaled to the officers. I spotted Detective DeRosa instantly and gave him a thumbs-up.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of light that bounced off the hood of the limo. If I had to re-create the scene, I couldn't say whether I saw the spark first or heard the ping. Regardless, the combination led me to believe I was being shot at. My initial reaction was to suspect the police, and I raised my hands in protest. I'd come out of the driver's door, but I wasn't responsible for this!

Detective DeRosa swung his arms in a downward motion like a referee at a football game, but his shouts were drowned out by the distance. The band of officers shifted toward the woods and let loose a torrent of bullets in the direction Igor had apparently run. Whether it was poor planning or unbridled fear, the police force seemed to have forgotten the miles of trails snaking around the estate, which were frequented by day hikers and horseback riders.

As if on cue, two startled horses emerged from the woods galloping for dear life, their riders apparently tossed into midair. I dove back into the limo and ducked under the dashboard.

“Igor's trying to take DeRosa out,” Charlie yelled from the rear. I could see he had his back against the side door. In the midst of the activity, Charlie had somehow grabbed the GPS off the dashboard and was tinkering with the back panel. “There's got to be a data card in the back that stores the location requests. I bet I can figure out Igor's starting point.”