I checked my cell: almost 5 a.m. Meryl might be right; Mitch would want to know. I knew I would. But I decided to wait a little while longer. The idea of bundling up to stand in the frigid wind made me feel tired.
If you‘re wondering if I thought about what you‘d said, Bobby-o, you‘d be right.
Deep in my heart, I knew my mother had killed her bookstore. I could imagine her turning a slow circle, her eyes cutting across the silent spines of the books that she loved so much. I wasn‘t sure she meant to kill herself. She was drunk. So that might have been an accident.
Or not.
About what you‘d said about the fire at Grandpa‘s . . . Bobby, Bobby, you didn‘t really expect me to go on the record, did you? Mitch guessed. You‘re not as smart as he is, but you can read between the lines. Come to think of it, I probably should‘ve had you do my paper on Alexis; you seem to be pretty good at telling stories about crazy people. So, draw your own conclusions.
d
I rummaged in my knapsack and dragged out the Lasker book, the one Mitch had given me. Now was as good a time as any, I guessed, so I propped myself up on pillows and started in.
The book was a very fast read. Lasker reiterated a lot of what I already knew about Alexis. If you believed him, they‘d met at Stanford before Alexis hooked up with Wright, and it was lust at first sight. Lasker went into great detail about what Alexis was like in bed (a screamer who liked to use her nails and wasn‘t above a little blood); how often she wanted to get into his pants (every five seconds); how she made him feel: sore.... Okay, he really didn‘t say that. What Lasker wrote was sated, yet hungry for more of the drug that only Alexis infused in my veins, oh sweet happy death. Talk about hyperbole. Maybe it‘s me, but I imagined a bloated Bacchus, with wine dribbling onto his chest. Or a heroin addict.
The whole book was like that. I wasn‘t sure why Mitch thought it would be helpful, then considered that all I had for Alexis‘s frame of mind was what she said and what others, out to protect her legacy, wrote. Lasker was all me-me-me, and maybe there was something to that. If you believed him—and I kind of did—Alexis cheated on her husband all through their marriage. The Alexis in these pages was vain, self-absorbed, blind to everything but her own needs and passions, whether those passions were for whales and dolphins, or a lover.
But then I came to something Lasker wrote that made all this somehow noble and tragic, at the same time, and so good, Bob, I copied it word for word: There are those individuals who die for a cause, and we say they have made the ultimate sacrifice. We call them martyrs, and we never doubt their sincerity.
Yet many others search their entire lives for something—or someone—worth dying for and this is very different. These are the lonely and the desperate, fearful that their lives have no meaning. They yearn for the bullet, if only someone else will pull the trigger.
Knowing what I do now, Bob, I think that was what Mitch wanted me to see, whether he knew it or not.
e
After two hours, my eyes were gritty and sore. I closed the book and reached for my knapsack. Before I could grab it, the book slipped off my lap and thumped to the floor. My eyes shot to my mother, but she hadn‘t moved. I bent to retrieve the book which lay facedown, covers splayed like a broken bird. As I retrieved it, I noticed a slip of paper that must‘ve been tucked into the back of the book. The print was dim and the lettering tiny, so I had to hold it at an angle and squint.
Saul’s Rare Books, it read. There was a snail mail address, as well as a phone number and web site. There was the title of Lasker‘s book followed by a column of numbers and a final tally: $127.57.
A sales receipt. My eyes snagged on the date: October 3.
I knew that date because my mom‘s party was on October 6. So that meant the day Dewerman gave me Alexis‘s name was the same day Mitch had bought . . .
Don’t you have an English project?
No. No.
A week later, Mitch said he already had this book in his library. Hadn‘t he? I couldn‘t remember. I wasn‘t sure. But he knew all about Alexis.
All right, wait, wait.... My heart skipped a beat, then two. Wait, he hadn‘t lied, he did have the book, but . . .
I closed my eyes, replayed the moment I‘d turned around and seen Mitch and Dewerman chatting in the doorway. Then I remembered the handwritten slip I‘d stolen: J.
And lover.
A note to himself.
A reminder to buy the book?
―No,‖ I said aloud. ―No, it wasn‘t like that.‖
f
As I headed down to the cafeteria, I‘d decided that I must‘ve misunderstood. Either way, whether he had the book already or only thought he had it and then bought it because he cared about me, what did it matter? He‘d been thinking of me. That was all that counted.
A few people were already filing through with trays. I smelled greasy bacon and eggs, and as I spied a cafeteria lady flipping sausage patties, my stomach complained. I hadn‘t eaten since yesterday afternoon, but my stomach would have to wait. I chose a table in the corner and, holding my breath, called Mitch‘s cell.
One ring. Two. Then: ―Hello?‖
―Mitch, it‘s—‖ The words died in my mouth as I registered that the voice wasn‘t his. ―I‘m sorry. I was looking for Mr. Anderson. Who is this?‖
―This is Kathy,‖ she said. ―Mitch‘s wife.‖
47: a
The words were a punch in the gut. My knees went suddenly wobbly and weak. It was a good thing I was already sitting down.
―Who‘s this?‖ Mrs. Anderson said. ―Is this the police again? Mitch has already told you everything he knows. Do you know what time it is? Who is this?‖
What? Police? Why would they talk to Mitch about the fire? ―I . . . I‘m on Mi—Mr.
Anderson‘s track team, and I‘m his chem TA and—‖
―Oh, I remember him talking about you. You‘re another one of Mitch‘s girls, aren‘t you? Or . . . wait.‖ Her voice changed and she whispered, ―Is this Danielle?‖
I blinked. I actually pulled my cell away and looked at it. Then I pressed it to my ear again and said, ―No. My name‘s Jenna Lord. I‘m Mr. Anderson‘s TA? In chemistry? And I
. . . I need to talk to him. About Monday.‖
― Now? It‘s Friday.‖
Think fast, think fast. ―Uhm . . . it‘s an emergency. My mom‘s in the hospital and I probably won‘t make it to school on Monday. I‘m sorry, I guess I‘m just so worried and upset.‖
I think it helped that all this was true, because Mrs. Anderson said just a minute, that Mitch was in the other room and she‘d go wake him up and give him his cell. I listened to muffled footsteps and then what sounded like doors opening, closing, and voices.