Y Is for Yesterday

  He craved physical contact. He liked keeping an arm slung across her shoulders. The gesture was possessive and Sloan liked the public demonstration of his claim on her. He was forever kissing and nibbling her, smelling her hair, murmuring in her ear. As their romance progressed, so did his demands, which were always couched in coaxing and adoration. There were only so many ways she could evade the force of his neediness, which became suffocating as the relationship went on.

  Her stepfather was the one who finally took her aside and spelled out his concern. “Look, Sloan, I don’t mean to butt in. I can see Austin’s crazy about you, but there’s something about the kid that seems off to me.”

  “Off?”

  “He’s too intense. He’s all over you, everywhere.”

  Sloan laughed. “Well, he is. Sort of.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Not really. I mean, not all the time, but I can’t tell him that because I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  “His feelings aren’t your responsibility. I’m not saying you should end the relationship, but you might want to slow down. Take a break now and then; have some time apart. Otherwise, you’re going to paint yourself into a corner you can’t get out of.”

  “What am I supposed to say to him? You have no idea how sensitive he is. I don’t want him to think I’m rejecting him.”

  “Sensitive? Are you kidding? I’ve heard how he treats his so-called friends.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “You did before you first started dating him. He’s vicious and snide. He’s a bully. You said so yourself.”

  “Well, he’s not. That’s a show he puts on in public. With me, he couldn’t be sweeter.”

  “Because he’s getting what he wants. Just wait until you raise your hand and decline and you’ll see what he’s really like.”

  “You think so?”

  “If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be having this talk. Ask me, I’d say he’s an emotional cripple looking to you to hold him up.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Sorry. That last bit was out of line. Anyway, it’s your call. I just want you to know you have my support. Taking care of yourself doesn’t mean you don’t care for him.”

  He gave her a hug and that was the end of the discussion as far as she was concerned. It was odd, though, afterward, how his observations affected her. At the time, she dismissed his comments. He didn’t know Austin. He didn’t understand that under that tough exterior, he was insecure. She could see how the relationship must look to Paul, but it wasn’t like that. She didn’t disagree entirely. She just wasn’t sure what to do. Austin behaved like he was starved for love. Given the way he was treated at home, who wouldn’t be? She didn’t see how she could keep him at bay without injuring him. She adored him. She really did, and she didn’t want him to feel slighted. She was new at this and there wasn’t anyone she could talk to about how to handle the situation. There was a time she would have confided in Poppy, but those days were gone. Poppy was all about Iris now and Sloan was on her own.

  In some ways, she saw herself as stronger than Austin, so maybe it was up to her to set aside her feelings in deference to his. His own mother was hard as nails and she’d seen the way the woman treated him. In an argument—and every conversation in that family was an argument—she rode roughshod over him, belittled him, and scoffed. Sloan had to be careful that nothing she said could be misconstrued.

  The problem was his persistence, his pushing, his tendency to prevail in any contest of wills. She didn’t even like to think of it that way, but sometimes she felt any conflict between them acted on him like a stimulant. If they disagreed, he’d mount a campaign to prove his point of view was better, that his desires should take precedence. This was behavior he’d learned at home and he had no control over the impulses that drove him to be victorious. Over time, she could feel herself losing ground. Her natural ebullience had been tempered by his needs. In her desire to please him, she’d surrendered most of her preferences, acceding to his own.

  One afternoon, she was lying on her bed, propped against the pillows, putting pink polish on her toenails. The bed was unmade and the floor was littered with clothes. Sloan’s desk was barely visible under a layer of books, papers, and sports paraphernalia she’d tossed on top. The closet door stood open and the rod was jammed with hangers. Folded sweaters had toppled together in a pile, hanging over the edges of the shelves.

  Austin was circling the room, examining the various knickknacks she had on display. He picked up a small ceramic angel. “What’s this?”

  “An angel. What’s it look like? Poppy gave me that when we were in second grade.”

  “And this?” He was holding up a photograph.

  “My fake dad. I told you about him,” she said.

  “Tell me again.”

  “My mom cooked up this whole story about him. She claimed she met him at a fancy ski resort and they had a passionate affair. When she found out she was pregnant, he stood by her. He wouldn’t go so far as proposing marriage, but he promised financial support. Then he died in an avalanche and she ended up raising me on her own. All I ever had of him was a photograph and that was a laugh. Turned out to be some famous European skier she’d never even met. She cut the picture out of a magazine and put it in a frame. When I was ten, I came across the exact same photo in a ski magazine and I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought he was still alive. No such luck. She’d lied about everything.”

  “So who was your birth father?”

  “No clue. She told me later it was a one-night stand, but that’s probably a lie as well. I finally gave up. I mean, what difference does it make when my stepdad is such a good guy?”

  “You’re not tempted to investigate?”

  “Based on what? Whoever he is, he’s probably a jerk. Otherwise, he’d have taken responsibility.”

  “If he’s alive, you might have grounds for a lawsuit. Assuming he promised financial support.”

  “Good luck with that idea,” she said. “Oh. Quick request while I’m thinking about it.”

  Smiling, he said, “What?”

  “I need a day to myself. My room’s a mess and my mom’s on my case.”

  He surveyed his surroundings. “Doesn’t look bad to me.”

  “Are you kidding? Place is a pigsty.”

  “So it’s a pigsty. I can help.”

  “Don’t think so, but thanks. It’s a one-person job. Usually I turn up the sound on my stereo, so conversation’s impossible anyway. She’ll want me to do a closet purge and take stuff to Goodwill.”

  “Fine. We’ll connect when you’re done and take Butch for a walk.”

  “Don’t you have things to do on your own?”

  “Nope. My time belongs to you.”

  “Sweet,” she said. “I, on the other hand, could use some breathing room. I have chores piled up you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Chores? You don’t do chores. Name one.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  She should have picked up the warning in his tone, but she was intent on painting her toenails. “Shit.” She reached down and deftly swiped a spot of polish from one toe. “Mostly what I need is downtime. Not a lot, but a little bit. This much.” She held her thumb and index finger a quarter of an inch apart.

  Austin’s tone had chilled. “Maybe I misunderstood. Are you telling me you need space?”

  “No, I don’t need space. All I’m talking about is one day.”

  “Are you tired of me?”

  “That’s not it at all. Don’t turn this into a federal case.”

  “You don’t have to be huffy. It’s a simple question.”

  “Which I answered.”

  “Because if you’re bored or irritated by my com
pany, I can take a hike. No problem. In fact, I can make it permanent. Give you all the time alone you want.”

  “I’m not irritated or bored.”

  “Well, that’s not what I’m hearing. You talk like you can’t wait to get away.”

  “Forget it. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

  “No, no. Don’t be sorry. Say anything you like.”

  “You’ll just take it wrong.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Austin, you’re turning this into World War Three when all I wanted was an afternoon to myself.”

  “Oh, I see. First it was a day and now you’re saying you want an ‘afternoon,’ so which is it?”

  “Get off it. You’re being a butt.”

  “So now suddenly it’s my fault? Something I’m doing to you?”

  Sloan murmured something darkly to herself, not looking at him.

  Exasperated, he said, “You know, I’ve heard this crap before and it’s just an excuse. I’d prefer it if you’d come right out and tell me the truth. Is there someone else?”

  “How could there be someone else when we spend every fucking minute together?”

  He seemed to stiffen before her eyes. “I didn’t realize my company was so offensive. I beg a thousand pardons for the imposition. I wish you’d spoken up sooner so I could have relieved you of the burden before it became so onerous.”

  When she looked up, she realized he’d left the room.

  She made a face to herself. Horse’s ass. What was that about?

  She was on the verge of jumping up and following him downstairs, but she heard the front door slam and decided she’d better give him time to cool off. She wasn’t sure where this little fit had come from, but it was clear he wasn’t in the mood to listen to reason.

  On Monday when she saw him at school, he cut her dead and he hadn’t spoken to her since. When the shunning came up, it was simply an extension of the big freeze. Until now.

  Sloan locked herself in her room and watched the tape she’d stolen from Fritz. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but it wasn’t this. She was acutely embarrassed at what she saw. All she could think about was Poppy, who was so crazy about Troy. She’d die if she saw this. There was Iris, stark naked and behaving like a slut; Fritz acting like a fool; Troy with a hard-on, greasing his dick with Crisco so he could stick it in her friend. Sloan looked on with disbelief, mortified by the sexual shenanigans unfolding before her eyes. It wasn’t until the cut-away to Austin that Sloan felt her attention shift. Austin was the director? The man in charge? What kind of scumbag was he? There was something so pathetic about Iris asking him for a kiss when he’d engineered this entire assault. Of course, Iris was an exhibitionist who’d do anything for attention. But there sat Austin, superior and above it all, smirking at the “boys,” who were practically wetting themselves with excitement while Iris was completely out of it. Sloan watched the tape a second time, rage sparking to life.

  Oh yes, the shunning would stop. The shunning would now most definitely come to a screeching halt.

  She intercepted Austin at his car in the Climp parking lot the following Monday afternoon. Students streamed out of the building, moving toward their vehicles. Some turned to look at the pair with curiosity, knowing the shunning was Austin’s doing, wondering if the encounter between the two was the prelude to a showdown. Sloan wasn’t sure Austin would even speak to her, but since in his view she’d rejected him, she reasoned that he’d be avid to hear what she had to say. He’d expect an apology. He’d imagine her groveling, hoping to get back in his good graces.

  “We need to talk,” she said.

  “By all means. Be my guest. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  “It’s about the shunning.”

  “What about it?”

  “I didn’t write that note. I didn’t contact the school. I didn’t tell anyone what Troy and Poppy did. I’d never do such a thing and you know it.”

  Austin studied her with mock concern. “That’s not the word on the street.”

  “What ‘word on the street’? You did this. You instigated the whole deal. Nobody talks to me. No one looks me in the eye.”

  “You credit me with too much power. I’m flattered, but I can’t force your friends to snub you. How would I do that?”

  “I don’t know how, but you did.”

  “I’m willing to believe you’re innocent, but how are you going to persuade everyone else?”

  “Austin, don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t do this to me. I know you’re mad. I know you’re hurt, but that wasn’t my intention. All I wanted was a little time for myself.”

  “And your wish was my command.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am. I mean that.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for. Hope you’ve enjoyed yourself.”

  Sloan stared at him. “I can see this is not going to get us anyplace.”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Then why don’t we talk about the tape? And please, don’t play dumb. You know what I’m referring to.” She could tell she’d caught him by surprise.

  “What is it you want to know?” A note of caution had crept into his voice.

  “Whose idea was it to make that movie, if that’s what you want to call it?”

  “You saw it?”

  “Of course I saw it.”

  “How’d you manage that? I gave it to Bayard for editing and he passed it on to Troy so he could have a look and then it went back to Fritz, who swore he wouldn’t let it out of his sight.”

  “Fritz is a moron. You trust him, you’re dumber than I thought.”

  “The point is, why come to me? You should be interrogating him.”

  “How so?”

  “The equipment is his. His parents gave it to him for his birthday.”

  “Why is that relevant?”

  “How do you know he didn’t come up with the idea himself?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Better yet, ask Iris. She said she’s always wanted to be a porno star. Well, I guess she got her wish.”

  “She was drunk.”

  “She was pretending to be drunk. It was a stunt. Iris was in on it from the get-go. No one ever laid a hand on her.”

  “Really? That isn’t what I saw. I saw Fritz and Troy shove foreign objects up her ass while she was sprawled on a pool table completely out of it.”

  “She was sober. Take my word for it.”

  “Bullshit. Early on, Fritz pours her a glass full of gin and she belts it down. Next thing you know, she’s slurring her words, begging you for a kiss.”

  “I thought I just told you, I never laid a hand on her.”

  “You said no one ever laid a hand on her.”

  “I didn’t touch her. Not once. I can’t answer for anyone else.”

  “But there you sat in a sport coat and tie, idly looking on while those guys assaulted her. Fritz got out a fucking can of Crisco for god’s sake, and there’s Troy, dick in hand, ready to grease it up so he can stick it to her. Iris is fourteen and you were egging them on. You were the director, the man in charge. Isn’t that what you said? Do you know the penalty for sexual abuse of a minor?”

  “What sexual abuse? You’ve got no proof.”

  “Oh, but I do. The tape is the proof.”

  Austin fixed his attention on her. “That’s bullshit.”

  “Uh, no. Not so. I have the tape and I stashed it somewhere safe. If the shunning doesn’t stop, I’ll take it to the police. And by the way, there goes law school for you. How do you think your family will feel about that?”

  “You’re nuts. I had nothing to do with it.”

  “Fine. Explain to the cops just how blameless you are.”

  “The tape is fake.”

  “Doesn’t
look like that. Now do you want to call off the shunning or not?”

  “This is laughable. You think you can push me around?”

  “To this extent, yes.”

  “Sorry to disabuse you of the notion, but no deal. The shunning goes on for as long as I say.”

  “Last chance,” she sang.

  “Last chance, my ass. Treat me like shit and that’s what you get back.”

  “No, Austin. That’s what you’ll get.”

  16

  Thursday, September 21, 1989

  Thursday morning, I stopped by the office to pick up messages and mail and found nothing of note. I set the alarm system, locked up, and then drove to the Horton Ravine address I’d found for Bayard Montgomery in the telephone book. Most of the ravine was swathed in coastal fog, but on the elevated acreage where Bayard lived, there was full sun. His house was built along contemporary lines, sleek and low, the exterior sheathed in broad expanses of glass and vertical redwood beams weathered to a silvery hue. The lawn had been replaced with a drought-tolerant ground cover and looked more like Arizona than the typical California landscape of palms and bougainvillea. The climate in this part of the state is considered Mediterranean, but the coastal lowlands are actually semi-arid, and when water is scarce, the region reverts to desert conditions.

  While the sex tape had provided graphic images of Fritz and Troy without their underpanties, I’d never seen a photograph of Bayard, so I was unprepared for the guy who answered the door. I figured Bayard, like his classmates, was in his mid- to late twenties, but he looked closer to forty, dark-haired, unshaven, and barefoot, wearing jeans and a form-fitting white T-shirt with the word “factotum” in lower-case black letters across the front. I assumed “factotum” was just another crappy rock band I’d never heard of.