Kindred (21 page)

I feel sick and dirty, but that’s not the worst. I might have been able to convince myself this was only fantasy, a harmless escape for a miserable boy. But the handwriting—that familiar print—is not Jason’s writing. It isn’t Jason’s plotline.

It’s Mo’s.

“W
E NEED TO TALK
.”

“Not tonight,” Mo says as he steps into the apartment, sounding like a weary husband confronted by a nagging wife.

I’ve been sitting at the kitchen table for five hours, waiting, waiting for him to come home, scared to leave and miss him, with my anger, terror and frustration simmering under pressure as the clock on the wall ticks. Betrayed, I keep thinking. I’ve been betrayed. It’s one, and the early morning hour lends this meeting an eerie sense of unreality.

“No,” I say, my voice shaking with rage. “Tonight. Now.”

I’m so angry that I’m not tired. But I should have remembered that any show of temper always sparks Mo’s.

“Back off, Miriam,” he snaps.

I rise from my seat, my back sore from sitting for so long,
my stomach sour and cramping, and pound my fist down on the table. Harder than I mean to—the blow sounds like a gunshot and causes my glass of water to wobble, then topple and roll off the table. It explodes as it hits the tile, sending shards of glass skittering across the floor.

We stand there for a moment, frozen by the sudden violence.

“Well done,” Mo finally says. But, stepping carefully between the pieces, he heads to where I keep the broom—something I’m surprised he knows.

I’m in my bare feet, so I stay put and watch as he carefully sweeps the glittering pieces into a small pile.

“I’ll need to mop the floor now,” I say, a bit petulantly. As if he’s the one who broke the glass, not me. “The broom’ll never get all the little pieces up.” I sit and pull my bare feet up to the chair, hugging my legs to keep out of the way.

Mo doesn’t answer, just keeps sweeping methodically, getting into corners, and eventually his pile is as much dust and crumbs as it is broken glass. I’m not much of a housekeeper.

He scoops it all up in a dustpan and pours it into the trash can. It tinkles as it drops.

“Now,” he sighs, like the parent of an unruly teenager. “What was so fucking important?”

I’m momentarily struck dumb. The combination of his unusual thoughtfulness with the broom and the profanity throws me. For a moment, I feel like I’m the one who’s done something wrong.

But the feeling doesn’t last.

I pull the notebook out of the bag I’ve slung on the back
of the chair and place it on the table. We both stare at it as if I’ve produced a live snake, which in a way I have.

Mo’s eyes shift from the notebook to me to the door.

“Don’t even think about it,” I say, my voice low and tight. “We’re talking about this now.”

I see him thinking, eyes flicking around, looking for the right way to spin this, but I shake my head to let him know there’s no point in denying his part in this. His shoulders relax a bit, and I know he’s chosen what to say. I’m pretty sure it isn’t the truth.

“Isn’t it a trip,” he says. “Don’t tell me you didn’t laugh.”

“Don’t do this,” I say.

“What? You didn’t take all this seriously, did you?” He fakes incredulity. “Miriam,” he says. “Come on, don’t be a moron. We were just playing around. We have another notebook going where we’re fighting space aliens who take over all the politicians in the country. Is that real too? Are you going to call NASA? The
National Enquirer
?”

“You’re lying.”

He puffs up with mock indignation. “I’m not.”

Hugging my legs tighter, feeling cold and sick, I keep pushing.

“The only thing I’m wondering about is whether this was all your idea or if Jason contributed anything besides drawing the pictures.”

His expression hardens into hostility.

“You think he likes going to that school? Let me guess. ‘It’s a great opportunity for someone like him,’ right?” His tone mocks every adult sentiment we’ve ever been subjected to.

“I didn’t say that,” I say defensively. “I just want to know how much he hates it. Enough to bring a gun to school? Enough to shoot the students?”

I see Mo trying to rein in his emotions. He tries for flippancy again. “Look, it’s better to just deal with how it feels to go to a fucked-up school like that. Better to get out how it really does suck to be surrounded by preppy freaks all day who think you’re not fit to shine their shoes when in reality you’re a hundred times better than they could ever be.”

“Who are we talking about here?” I ask. “Jason or you?”

Mo’s lips whiten as he presses them tightly together. “He’s a really good illustrator,” he finally says. “We’re going to publish the story when we’re done.”

I’m at a loss for words. To think this has been going on for so long right in front of me. No wonder God is punishing me in His disgust. I cannot believe I’ve been so blind, and I cannot believe Mo has done this to me.

“Mo, did you make him do this? Is this your idea? All this time that you’ve been gone, you’ve been hanging out with Jason? You’ve been filling his head with all this …?” Words fail me.

“She wants him to be a freaking U.S. senator, if you can believe it. I mean, what the hell chance does Jason ever have of becoming a senator?” he snorts. “She won’t quit, though. Won’t see what he’s like, what’s possible for him. And that fucking school she’s sending him to …” Mo starts pacing around the kitchen, hands deep in his pockets, some nameless emotion shimmering off him. “You have any idea what it’s like there? The Alpine Club flies to Switzerland to go skiing in the
Alps over spring break. The Polo Club expects members to have their own horses. And Jason’s mom is bankrupting them just to pay for tuition. So what the fuck is he supposed to do? Everyone can tell from the minute they meet him that he doesn’t belong there, and those assholes never let him forget it. He doesn’t have a single friend in that entire school. This year’s almost over, which means he’s got two years left in that hellhole. Two years with his mother constantly asking him about his grades and why he isn’t hanging out with this person’s son or going out with that person’s daughter when he doesn’t even stand a chance. When no one will give him a chance.

“Worst part is, no one at school knows his mom’s a mailman, mailwoman, whatever. And her route is right through Belleair Bluffs—where, like, eighty-five percent of the student body lives. It’s, like, what’s worse? The fact that none of them ever noticed their mailperson, or waiting for them to finally make the connection?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a mailman,” I say quietly.

“Are you blind?” Mo snarls. “Their parents are producers and country music stars; they’re millionaires. A couple of big-name musicians send their kids to school in a chauffeured limo. There’s a senator who sometimes drops his kids off in a helicopter. So no, there’s nothing fucking wrong with being a mailman. But it’s a crime at Warfield.”

I take a deep breath, ready to get a word in, but Mo’s not finished with his rant and steamrolls right over me.

“You remember our freshman year at Breakman, don’t you?” he demands.

Breakman was the elite private high school in our town. A few years after the divorce, my parents got the brilliant idea that sending us to a small, “nurturing yet structured” school was the best thing for us. It was a complete disaster. Mo and I didn’t fit in; didn’t have the right clothes, the right look. Most of the students had been together since preschool, always attending expensive, exclusive schools. They knew each other, slept with each other, got high together, covered up for each other, and were absolutely not interested in two half-Jewish bourgeois teenagers in the middle of their “awkward” stage. For me it meant eating lunch alone, occasional giggles behind my back and either eye-rolling or a condescending excuse at my tentative attempts to make friends.

For Mo it meant serious hazing on the track team by the seniors.

Of course I remember Breakman.

Two months into the school year, Mo was left in the back of the school van after a track meet, hands and ankles duct-taped together, pants and underwear pulled down to his ankles. He was left there for three hours before the driver found him.

My parents, united in their insane fury, descended on the principal. I don’t know what went on behind closed doors, but several students “graduated early,” Mo received a four-year college tuition scholarship courtesy of the school board and the next week we were attending the local public high school.

We never talked about Breakman again.

For Mo to bring it up now means that he’s empathizing with Jason more than I ever imagined. Even if the plot of the
story was Jason’s idea in the first place, Mo, in the grip of some terrible flashback, is only adding fuel to the fire with his zealous approval.

I have time to think this in the quick moment before he looks me in the eye. I keep my face carefully blank. Who’s the driving force behind his sudden bitterness, the need for vengeance? Is he being played, manipulated by the master of the game? Is this free will?

“You know Jason’s taking this seriously,” I say. “It’s not a game to him. It’s dangerous to egg him on like that. He’s going to snap, and he’s going to kill a lot of innocent people.”

Instead of feeling chastened or concerned, Mo grows even more defensive.

“How do you know they’re ‘innocent people’?” he demands. After catching the look of horror and disgust on my face, he softens his tone somewhat. “Look, Miriam, even if Jason had the guts to do something, which he doesn’t, the worst that will happen is that he’ll sneak a gun to school and not feel like a jerk for one day.”

“This isn’t you,” I say, desperate to believe it, to convince him. “This wasn’t your idea. You’ve been given a mission.” I’m guessing this, but as I say it, I believe it.

“Maybe I was,” he says. “But this isn’t evil. This is helping Jason become a stronger person, someone who matters. You’re not helping; with all your stupid errands and assignments, you’re like another teacher, except you’re only three years older than he is. Where do you get off telling him what to do?”

And now I know why I haven’t made any headway with my new assistant.

“You’ve sabotaged me! You knew I was trying to help!”

“Miriam,” Mo says, dripping with condescension. “You can’t help.”

Then he grabs his keys and walks out, slamming the door behind him.

That night, I’m sick again. I’ve also started running a low-grade fever, which makes me achy and clammy, alternating between shivers and sweats. The twisting pain in my belly keeps me up for what’s left of the night. Once again, I’m struck by how much I hate this disease. How it strips me of any dignity. This is the worst part, the ugliest part, of a human body to break down. The contrast between my writhing, sweaty form and the perfect and cold celestial beauty of the angels couldn’t be greater or clearer.

I am nothing but mud.

A
FTER A LONG, SLEEPLESS NIGHT
, I know I’m ruined for work. I call Frank and tell him I’m sick.

“Again?” he asks, concern and annoyance warring in his voice. “I hear you saw Dr. Messa. I hope everything’s all right.”

My skin flushes hot and cold at the thought that what I’m going through is becoming common knowledge.

“It’s not that,” I say stiffly. “Just a bug, pretty contagious. I don’t want to get anyone else sick. I’ll do some work at home on my laptop.” I used to be a bad liar, but I’m improving.

“Fine, fine.” He is irked at being rebuffed, at not getting an inside scoop, even though it’s nothing salacious, or even interesting. “See that you get well, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I hang up and then review my options. It’s no use going to Jason; he’s picked his confidant, and I’m not it. Anything I say
will make things worse. In fact, I call Frank back and ask him to tell Jason not to come to the newsroom today. I don’t want him there until I can slip the notebook back into the drawer. He can’t know I found it.

I go to the kitchen and stare at the notebook again. It looks so innocuous. I don’t open it.

I call Dr. Messa’s office and leave a message with the nurse to tell him the medicine isn’t working.

An hour later, as I head toward Emmett’s shop, my cell phone rings.

“Ms. Abbot-Levy?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Dr. Messa. I received your message.”

“Hi,” I say, surprised. “Thank you for calling.”

“I’m concerned about your situation,” he says, his soft voice serious. “I want you to come in tomorrow. I’ve told Megan to fit you in. We need to discuss our options.”

I sit down on a bench by an antiques store until my heart settles down and I don’t feel nauseous.

“Okay,” I say weakly. “Thanks.”

I know there are prayers for healing. But I have a feeling that God already knows what I’m going through. Mercy and pity are not on today’s agenda.

I hang on while I’m transferred to Megan, who finds a slot for me. I’m to come in first thing in the morning.

I’m running out of time. My disease is worsening, and the school year is almost over. If Jason’s going to do anything, it will be soon, while he’s got Mo there cheering him on.

There’s no point in going to the police—not with the
notebook as my only evidence. It would only serve to let Jason know I’ve been snooping, to make him cover his tracks that much more. I need to prevent that courtroom scene, I need to save Jason, and calling the cops wouldn’t really do that.

As I continue walking toward Emmett’s, I notice I’m sweating, my legs quivering from what should have been a leisurely stroll. My strength is fading. From reading other people’s posts online, I know I don’t have much time before I’m hospitalized.

I make it to Emmett’s shop, push open the door and sag into the cool darkness.

Someone is getting a tattoo, the tattoo gun buzzing like a busy bee. After a sharp glance up at me, Emmett goes back to his work. I settle on a nearby chair and watch him.