House Broken (12 page)

GENEVA

J
uliana called Geneva on Sunday morning, the day after her dog attacked Jon, and asked her not to file a bite report. Geneva said her hands were tied. Aside from her professional and legal obligation, the doctor would be filing his own report.

“I expect you'll hear from Animal Control,” Geneva added, “as will I.”

“Why will they call you?”

“I'm a certified Animal Behaviorist. They've consulted me on several cases in the last few years. When they realize I was a witness, they'll want to talk to me.”

“So you're going to decide what happens with my dog?”

Geneva ignored her sister-in-law's indignant tone. “No. I'll just tell them what happened, and my professional opinion, if they ask.”

“Which is what?”

“I know you love your dog, and I'm sorry. But he's become vicious. Can you control him? Can you guarantee he won't attack someone again?”

Juliana exhaled loudly. “I thought that because we're family, Aldo and I would get special consideration.”

The subtext wasn't subtle: Are you a Novak or aren't you? “This isn't about allegiances—it's about safety.”

“You're the one who let him out of the garage!”

So that's how she'd spin the story. Geneva had created the problem, so she should fix it. Already she could feel the warm Novak cocoon splintering open. It didn't matter that Juliana should have let them know Aldo was in the garage, or that Geneva's actions were irrelevant because Aldo had it in for Jon and would have found another opportunity to rip him apart. If Jon and Juliana broke up over this incident—caused by Geneva—the Novaks, starting at the top with Granny, would lay the blame at her feet. She guessed how Tom's allegiances would fall, and was saddened.

“Juliana, what if it had been Tom who let Aldo loose? It wouldn't change what happened to Jon. How is he, anyway?”

“He won't answer my calls.”

“If you don't hear from his lawyer, think of it as special consideration.”

• • •

She had barely put the phone down when Florence called. They hadn't spoken since Helen moved in two weeks earlier, but neither had Geneva expected to hear from her sister. Typically, they didn't speak more than once a month.

Florence said, “I heard you were the hero with the hose.”

“Who told you that?”

“Mom. She called me from the party. Sounded tipsy.”

“She was. I shouldn't have allowed it.”

“She is a grown woman.”

“In what sense?”

“I've said this before, but I really think that if Mom got more exercise and drank more water, she'd feel better. And feeling better is the first step toward shaking off addiction.”

Geneva suppressed a laugh. Florence thought every problem could be alleviated by exercise and proper hydration. “Maybe, but her exercise options are a bit limited right now.”

“Okay, but I'll email you some things she can do with her walker. You'd be surprised.”

They spoke for a while about Florence and Renaldo's personal training business, and Florence dutifully asked about Charlie and Ella. Geneva cast about for an anecdote that might appeal to someone with no interest in children.

“The other day Ella returned Tom's truck with a massive scrape down the side.”

“Is she okay?”

“Oh, yes. It happened while she was parked.”

“Can I tell you again how wonderful it is not to have a car?”

Or children? She enjoyed Florence, but their lives overlapped in few places. “Be my guest. Luckily, Tom's ego isn't bound up with his vehicle. Ella was contrite and offered to help wash it off.”

Florence laughed. “Were we ever that naive?”

“Worse, I'm guessing.” She saw her opening. “Listen. I really think Paris ought to know what's going on with Mom. She can't keep her head in the sand forever.”

“I think she can if she chooses to. Anyway, I wouldn't know how to find her. Why does it matter that she knows?”

Geneva paused. She wasn't used to such a direct conversation with Florence. “She's my sister. Same as you.”

“Except—”

“Why is Paris an exception? Why can no one tell me why Paris is different?”

“She was always different. Always.” Despite Geneva's interruption, Florence's tone was even. The older-sister role. “Dad loved her best, of course.”

There was no rancor in her voice, but Geneva felt the sting. Perhaps she was a close second. Perhaps, if he had lived, her father would have come to appreciate the woman she had become. Was that why she wanted to find Paris, to evaluate the competition?

Florence went on. “And Mom was so jealous of Paris, she couldn't see straight.”

“Jealous?”

“You were little, but you've seen the photos. She was just like Mom, but prettier, if that was possible. Nothing else mattered.”

Geneva knew Florence was referring to the lack of attention her athletic ability had garnered from their parents, particularly their father. “So you were jealous of her, too?”

“I sure was. Until I figured out there was more to life than being the prettiest princess.”

She had heard her sister moving around while they spoke—as she always did—but now Florence was still. Tension filled the pause. “What is it?”

“One thing I never figured out is why Mom pushed me into sports so hard. Sure, I had ability, but she was the one who
insisted I play year-round. Didn't seem to matter to her what the sport was, as long as I was playing nonstop.”

“Was that bad?”

“No. But neither of them ever came to watch me play. Do you remember coming to a basketball game or a race with them? And then when Dad died, all of a sudden Mom didn't give a damn whether I made the team or not. I guess I understand the shock of losing your husband, but she didn't even want to pay for uniforms or shoes or anything anymore. More than ever, I needed an outlet for my energy. And I needed my teammates.”

“I don't remember you stopping.”

“I didn't. I stole the money from Mom's purse sometimes just so I could stay on the teams.”

This was news to Geneva. “It doesn't make sense for Mom to do that.”

“No, it sure doesn't.” Florence let out a long breath. “But when you find something about her that does, you call me, okay?”

“Don't wait by the phone.” And they both laughed.

Geneva could tell Florence was ready to say good-bye, but she had one more question. “So, if Paris was so close to Dad—and that's what I remember, too—then why did she move to Columbia for the internship when she graduated? And why go to a college so far away?”

“Daddy got her that internship. It was a law office, after all, and Paris wanted to be just like him. But he was devastated when she left.”

“I remember.”

“Drowned his sorrows in bourbon. I wanted to kick him. No one except Paris mattered at all.”

Florence's candor surprised Geneva. “I suppose a lot of things went on I didn't know about. Were things between Paris and Mom that bad?”

“Geneva, you're the one with a teenage daughter. You tell me.”

After they hung up, she went to the bookshelf in the living room and retrieved an old photo album. She flipped through the pages, searching for the last pictures of Paris in Aliceville. She hadn't looked at the photos for several years. There was a rare one of Paris and Florence, sitting side by side on the bed in Paris's room—the narrow maid's quarters. Florence gazed at the photographer, presumably Eustace. The naked window was behind her, casting a shadow over her face, but Geneva could see her smile was tentative. Paris leaned back, her torso twisted toward the window. Light fell across her face, accentuating her cheekbones and the natural pout of her lips. Paris could not have been more than sixteen, yet she appeared more mature than their mother had in her wedding photos, or even in ones taken years after. Maybe it was the times; Paris grew up in the late sixties, after all. But then again, so did Florence.

She bent closer to study the room and noticed for the first time the top of Argus's head in the shadows next to Paris's legs. Geneva had trouble summoning details of her sister, but her memory of the dog's despondency after Paris left home was vivid. Everyone showered Argus with attention—except Eustace—but the dog stalked through Paris's room, up the stairs and down the halls, looking for her. At night he gently turned the knob on her door with his mouth and slept beside her empty bed. Florence offered to move in to give the dog company, but Helen wouldn't have it. Instead she stripped the bed, discarded the linens, and scrubbed the floors and walls with disinfectant so strong, humans couldn't
approach the room, much less a dog. Eventually Argus took to sleeping by the front door. Whether he was waiting for Paris or had taken up a more general policing role, Geneva wasn't sure.

She turned the page. Her father sat in a lounge chair under an umbrella at the club, drink in hand. He was dressed in white slacks and a pale blue button-down shirt, open at the collar. She remembered taking the photo. He had brought the camera to photograph Paris before a family supper on the eve of her departure for Columbia and the internship. The cocktails had conspired with the heat to tire him, and Geneva followed him to the shade. Beads of sweat ran from his hairline and the color was high in his cheeks. He lifted his drink and rolled the perspiring glass against his forehead.

“Can I take your picture, Daddy?”

“Not now, sugar. I'm hardly at my best.”

She rarely asked him for anything, and never twice. That day, she asked again. “Please?”

“Why do you want my picture?”

She shrugged. But she did know, even if she couldn't verbalize it. Initially she had assumed Paris's departure meant she would get more of her father's attention, and had anticipated it eagerly. She also thought the tension between her parents, which she intuited had to do with Paris, would ease. But now she wasn't sure. A week ago, she was staring at herself in the mirror and entertained, for the first time, the idea that there was something wrong with her. She was missing a key trait, and it made her boring or even unlovable. Maybe it was as simple as not being as pretty as Paris. She didn't even know if she was prettier than Florence. It was hard for her to compare eleven to fifteen and seventeen. But whether the reason was looks or personality or birth order or some other
ineffable quality, Geneva knew she would not have any more of her daddy than before.

He gave her a long look. “Go ahead then.” He drained his drink.

She held the camera steady and twisted the focus ring until she had it right. Holding her breath, she pushed the button. The photo came out a little blurry anyway, because during the instant before the shutter clicked, she shivered. Like the moment before the bear stepped out of the shadows and lumbered into the meadow in front of her, time did a tiny backflip, and she felt an infinitesimal shock wave. She was sad not to be Eustace's favorite, and jealous of Florence, whom she supposed would gain ascendancy. But the ripple that entered her when she took her father's photograph gave her a puzzling feeling of relief.

ELLA

A
t Grandpa Novak's party, there had been so much excitement over Adolf's attack she'd forgotten to tell her parents about the ding on the truck. Okay, maybe it was less like forgetting and more like postponing. It didn't matter anyway because when they left the party and walked out to the cars, the damage was pretty hard to miss from thirty yards away, even though it was getting dark. For a split second she considered claiming total ignorance, but then she remembered the Prince knew all about it.

Her dad inhaled sharply. “What happened here?”

“I forgot to tell you.”

“I guess you did.”

Ella's mom stood there looking like she just got sideswiped. Of course the Prince was grinning like a moron.

“It happened while I was in the class. People are so irresponsible. Aren't you supposed to leave a note?”

“Yes, that's the rule—and the right thing to do,” said her mom.

Her dad ran his hand along the damaged part. “Do you remember the car parked next to you?”

This was the kind of question that convinced Ella adults were a different species. “No.”

“Appears to be white paint.”

“It's in a weird place,” her mom, the forensic expert, said. Then she sighed and pulled out her keys. “I'll see you guys at home. Anyone want to ride with me?”

• • •

That marked the beginning of Ella's weeklong guilt trip, including a stop at the Cathedral of Expedient Lies, where she paid her respects at the Tomb of the Unknown Hit-and-Run Driver. All week she hit the prep books hard and more than made up for the class she ditched the Saturday before. After school on Friday—a day when no one worked—she finished two more practice sections, then closed the books and stacked them neatly on the floor. She would have preferred to burn them in the backyard and dance around the fire, but she'd been a little too close to other flames recently. She celebrated with a visit to the bear dispensary—her first all week.

The next morning her phone alarm woke her at a criminal hour. But she was as ready for the SAT as she was ever going to be, and eager to get it over with, so she got up and dressed, remembering to put on her lucky gray sweatshirt. By the time she was ready to go, her stomach was in a sour knot. Her mom tried to get
her to eat this enormous breakfast she'd made—eggs, toast, juice—but just the thought of it made her want to puke.

Her mom headed for the door. “I've got to go or else we'll be late for the game. Charlie and Dad are waiting outside. Promise me you'll at least take a piece of toast with you?”

“Okay, Mom. Don't stress out.”

Her mom stood with her hand on the doorjamb. Ella could tell she wanted to say something profound, or hug her, or get in some last-minute vocabulary review. Instead, she backed out the door. “Good luck. And don't
you
stress out.”

“I'm good.”

She took a bite of toast, then realized she was dying of thirst. She opened the fridge, hoping for a Coke—Breakfast of Champions!—but there wasn't any. She moved things around for a while, then spied two iced teas in the back. Caffeine. She twisted them around so she could read the labels. Peach and pomegranate. She remembered vaguely that pomegranate was good for you—anti-inflammatory or antioxidizing or whatever—and took it. Then she saw she was late and flew out the door.

Crossing the driveway, she unscrewed the top from the bottle and paused to swig down half the contents. Super cold from being at the back of the fridge—her throat went numb—and super disgusting. Maybe her toothpaste made it taste like cough medicine. Whatever it was, it was vile. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve, put the top on, climbed into the truck and headed to school.

By the time she got her room assignment and sat down, she felt dizzy. Was that a normal part of being nervous? She couldn't seem to focus on the question. Scanning the room, she tried to see whether the other kids looked like she felt, and decided they seemed pretty normal, considering it was early and they had a
five-hour test ahead of them. Ella remembered she needed stuff from her bag under her chair. When she bent down, her brain sloshed, and she nearly fell. Somehow she managed to get her pencils and lucky eraser onto her desk.

The proctor handed out the packets and told them not to open them until he said so. He paced back and forth while he went over the instructions. Why did he have to move? It made what he said so vague, like he was inside a giant block of ice. He was blabbering about the different sections, but Ella was way past listening. She held on to the sides of her desk and watched the room sway. Maybe she was allergic to pomegranate? Maybe the anti-whatevers had anti-ed too many whatevers, and now she was on her way to permanent brain damage. So much for acing the SAT.

A girl next to her said, “Are you okay?”

Ella swiveled her head toward the sound. The movement sent the room into a tailspin. She gripped the desk harder but her foot lifted off the ground, shifting her weight, and the whole blurry space that was either the room or just the inside of her head jerked away and she slipped out of her chair and landed on the cold tile floor.