Killer's Cousin

  “Sounds good,” I said. I wondered if Vic would want to watch football. My father would. I wanted to. It was something my father and I could do without needing to talk. “When’s …” My tongue stumbled a little but then I recovered. “When’s Dad getting up?”

  “In a couple hours, maybe. Yesterday’s drive tired him out.”

  Reprieved, I nodded. I finished my cereal and drank a second cup of coffee. Then I helped my mother tuck the turkey into the paper bag in the roasting pan. “Are you sure the bag won’t catch fire?” I teased, as I always had, and my mother shook her head at me indulgently.

  “It keeps the turkey moist,” she said, smiling. “Without basting.” She accompanied me downstairs and supervised the insertion of the bird into Julia’s oven. Julia and Vic were not up, but Lily was.

  Lily wore a faded pink flannel nightgown, and her feet were bare. She murmured a greeting in response to my mother’s, but sneered at me. I turned my back on her, and then, to look like I’d had a reason for turning away, I fingered the controls of the oven.

  “David! Don’t mess with the temperature,” said my mother, alarmed. She turned toward Lily. “Lily, dear, would you like to come upstairs with David and me and have some cereal? Or scrambled eggs? I make wonderful eggs.”

  “I don’t have any eggs in the fridge,” I said. I’d meant it only as a point of information, but my mother shot me a look, and so—with a secret smile beginning to curve her lips—did Lily.

  “That would be very nice, Aunt Eileen,” said Lily then, her tone almost chirpy. “I like scrambled eggs. And you could use some of my mother’s eggs. She gets them from a farm stand.”

  “Wonderful,” said my mother. Her back informed me that I was persona non grata. I trailed her, Lily, and a carton of eggs back upstairs.

  By halfway through the morning, I had a severe headache. Lily had spent a solid two hours with my mother, during which she’d explained in detail why ice-skater Tara Lipinski was her favorite. She’d eaten two scrambled eggs with cheese and asked, shyly, for a third. She’d described a skating exhibition Vic had taken her to the previous winter; who had skated, what costumes they’d worn and what music they’d used. She had not, in short, shut up.

  It was a Lily I’d never seen before: a normal, cheery eleven-year-old. Throughout, she called my mother Aunt Eileen just a little too often—“Aunt Eileen? She was wearing this dress, with, you know, Aunt Eileen, silver and pearl all around the neck. Really pretty, Aunt Eileen!” And, occasionally, she would cast a sidelong, triumphant glance at me as I slouched on the sofa pretending to read college catalogs. Somehow, between the Aunt Eileens and the sneaky looks, I got the idea that this performance was aimed at me.

  Beyond that, of course, I was waiting for my father to get up. Not looking at the bedroom door. But alert. Tense. Waiting.

  Finally, around ten o’clock, he came stumbling out of the bedroom in his robe. I felt a little shock: he didn’t look so formidable. He kissed my mother and looked at me, and I looked back. His hair had more gray in it than I had remembered. Or maybe you could just see the gray more easily when it was rumpled.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning,” I said. He had touched my shoulder briefly the night before, when they arrived. I could still feel it. He did nothing now. But we had never been a touchy-feely family.

  After a minute my father said, “I smell coffee,” and I relaxed. And, thankfully, Lily toned herself down. She regarded my father warily and, after a few minutes, retreated downstairs with my mother, who wanted to check her turkey.

  This left me alone with my father. We read the newspaper. I took a couple of aspirin. Then my mother called upstairs for us to join them.

  “Here goes nothing,” muttered my father. Startled, I looked at him. “It’s Julia,” he said. “She’s always scared me.” He half smiled, and shrugged toward my TV. “Can we sneak up here and catch the game later?”

  “Yeah,” I said cautiously.

  Downstairs the smell of the turkey had begun to fill the house. In the living room, my mother was talking to Julia and Vic. I couldn’t help noticing Julia’s and Vic’s relative positions, each isolated in chairs on opposite sides of the room. Lily sat near my mother on the sofa, her eyes unfocused, daydreaming. My father took a chair near Vic. I sat down on the other side of my mother and followed Lily’s example of silence. I wondered where Raina was spending her Thanksgiving. “… all settled in?”

  I became aware of expectant glances. In my head, I rewound the last few noises I’d heard and replayed them, searching for meaning. “Uh, yeah,” I ventured. “I guess so.”

  “At school, too?” It was Julia speaking, her head cocked to one side, her posture straight as a floor lamp, her tone polite but insistent.

  “Yeah,” I said. Julia still looked expectant, so I tried to think of something to add, but failed.

  “Vic and I,” said Julia to my mother, “have tried to make David as comfortable as possible here, but he hasn’t been very forthcoming about his life.”

  I suppressed a snort. Even if I had felt inclined to confide in Julia, I had seen her perhaps three times since she’d invited me to dinner back in September. And Julia’s coy “Vic and I”—well, even Lily would find that funny. But when I turned my head toward her to check, she was watching her mother with her fists clenched in her lap and her jaw tight.

  Okay, so maybe Julia wasn’t funny.

  Across the room from Julia, Vic fidgeted. He spoke also to my mother. “I’m sure David would tell us if something were wrong.”

  “I’m sure,” said my mother.

  “New schools take getting used to,” said my father, unexpectedly.

  “Very true,” said my mother.

  A silence—that special Shaughnessy silence—fell, and lasted. Vic huddled in his Barcalounger. Julia and my mother kept smiles pasted on their mouths. My father’s glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, indicating disengagement. Lily watched all of us, her head moving like a bird’s as her gaze darted from face to face.

  My mother commanded me with her eyes: Help! I shook my head, and she nodded hers as vehemently as possible given that she was trying to be discreet. I knew I ought to help with the conversation, but my mind was blank. This was even more difficult than I had imagined.

  Vic said something, but his voice was too low to hear.

  “Vic?” asked my mother. “Did you want to say—”

  Simultaneously, Julia’s voice cut across my mother’s. “Lily,” she said. “Tell your father to speak up so that we—” She stopped, but it was too late. Lily grinned. Triumphantly.

  “Mom says you should speak up, Dad,” said Lily to her father. “So that people can hear you.”

  Julia opened her mouth again, but nothing came out. Her throat moved as she swallowed, and, beneath my embarrassment and horror, I felt a sudden empathy for her; after all, this was her home, her life, and she hadn’t wanted any of us in it. Then, as if she’d had this thought too, Julia raised her chin, her face defiant, proud. Waiting for the in-laws she didn’t like to judge her and her marriage.

  Vic, meanwhile, had his eyes fixed on my mother’s face. “Eileen. Eileen, I … we—”

  “Dad,” Lily interrupted, “don’t worry. I’m sure Aunt Eileen can understand that I always talk to you for Mom, and to Mom for you. Right, Aunt Eileen?” She was feeling confident enough even to address my father, who, a minute before, had pushed his glasses up to sit squarely in front of his eyes and was regarding Lily steadily through them. “Uncle Stuart?”

  “Yes.” My mother swallowed. “Of course we understand.”

  “Good,” said Lily. She smiled at Vic, and then at Julia. “See, there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Vic looked sick.

  Julia’s lips pursed. She said nothing.

  I didn’t have to look at my mother to feel her desperation. “There’s a skinhead in one of my classes at St. Joan’s,” I said. “What do you think of that?”
I was immediately sorry, wishing I’d said something else—anything else. But it was too late. Everyone turned toward me, even Lily, and there was a relieved babble of curious voices. Julia’s won.

  “A skinhead?” she said. “I read something in the paper about that. At a public school, nearby. I forget where. Apparently there are lots of these neo-Nazi kids around. Well, there must be, if they’re at St. Joan’s.”

  “They do say these groups are growing,” said my mother. “Scary.” She frowned at me. “So, this boy—”

  “Uh, I’m not sure he’s that kind of skinhead,” I said, suddenly seeing Frank Delgado’s face in my mind and feeling guilty. “You know, a neo-Nazi. I think he just—”

  But Lily’s voice cut right across mine. “A neo-Nazi?” she said perkily. “I know about them.” She turned to me. “So, does this boy in your class want to kill you? Because you’re Jewish?”

  For a moment, no one spoke. From behind his glasses, my father’s eyes caught mine, frowning, curious. I looked away. Then Vic and Julia and my mother all began talking at once, and this time, my mother’s voice overrode the others.

  “Come with me to the kitchen, Lily,” she said. “I want to check on the turkey.”

  “But I—”

  “We’ll talk in the kitchen.”

  They left. After a couple of seconds, my father said to me quietly, “Lily doesn’t like you, David.”

  I looked at him, forgetting—as he surely had—that Vic and Julia were in the room. For a second, we were back in the courthouse. He was screaming at me. He’d thought he could lawyer everything right.

  He was watching me now—judging—like he’d watched me then.

  It was more complicated than dislike. Lily wanted something from me; was purposely trying to goad me. And though I didn’t know what Lily wanted—didn’t know what was hidden beneath her intensity and her oddness—I also knew I didn’t want to know. I had my own problems.

  I thought of that portrait in Raina’s living room, of the woman with the abyss in her eyes, and I put on my best blank face. “I’m not sure—” I began.

  Julia saved me. “That’s a remarkable conclusion to draw, Stuart,” she said crisply. “Aren’t you being a little melodramatic?”

  “I agree with Julia,” said Vic. “Lily likes you perfectly well, David. She’s a little excited today, maybe, but for Stuart to leap to the conclusion that she doesn’t like you, well, that’s—”

  “Melodramatic, as Julia says,” said my father equably. “I apologize. Let’s forget it.” He nodded at Vic and Julia, but he didn’t look at me. Anyway, he was using his courtroom voice, his reasonable voice. He had not changed his mind.

  He’s acute, my father. Just not acute enough.

  Vic relaxed. “Lily was just interested,” he said. “Like Julia said, that kind of thing …” His voice faltered for a moment. “You know, skinheads and such, they’ve been in the local news.”

  “In Everett,” added Julia.

  “Uh-huh,” said my father.

  Vic was frowning. “I can’t remember exactly what it was about.”

  “A cemetery,” said Julia. “Three boys desecrated a cemetery.”

  “Yes,” said Vic. “That’s it. It even looked like a teacher was involved.”

  “They couldn’t prove that, Victor,” corrected Julia. “There was no evidence—” She stopped. She stared at her husband, and he stared back, both evidently realizing the same thing that I had just understood: They had been conversing directly. Without Lily.

  “There was no hard evidence that the teacher was involved,” finished Vic. He hesitated, and then looked directly at Julia. “You’re right about that,” he said. “Julia.”

  At first I thought Julia was not going to reply. She turned away from Vic and opened her mouth as if to speak to my father. Then, slowly, her head swiveled back. “Thank you,” she said. “Victor.”

  Involuntarily, I looked at my father. He shook his head incredulously. We watched as Victor and Julia looked at each other for a long time.

  Then, in the doorway, I noticed Lily. I could tell from her expression that she had witnessed what had just happened between her parents. But I would have needed to stand for hours before a painting of Lily by Raina Doumeng before I would have been able to see what she felt about it.

  Except—it was not joy.

  CHAPTER 16

  Over the Thanksgiving meal, Vic and Julia continued to speak to each other. Their comments, uttered with a certain self-consciousness, were entirely trivial: “Pass the salt, please, Victor,” and “Delicious rice pilaf, Julia.” But they came regularly, almost doggedly, and each one was accompanied by a name as if, like a letter without an address, it would otherwise go astray. Seeing and hearing their exchange was painful. I kept my eyes averted from their faces and ate. I ate a lot, to keep my mouth obviously occupied.

  As Julia complimented Vic on his turkey carving, I wondered if it was all a sham staged for my parents’ benefit. But Lily didn’t think so. She sat tensely at the table, her head lifting a fraction if one of her parents spoke. When Julia asked for the salt, Lily reached for it. And then she snatched her hand back as Julia pronounced her husband’s name.

  I’d have felt sympathy for Lily, but just then she elbowed the butter dish into my lap, and I’d swear it was deliberate.

  Before this, I’d dreaded spending time alone with my father. But after a couple of hours with the Shaughnessys I was relieved when the meal ended. My mother stayed downstairs talking with Lily, but my father and I went upstairs and watched football in almost complete silence. And it was okay.

  After the game, we went back downstairs, and my mother suggested a stroll outside. I thought at first she meant only my father, but she turned to me and said, “Coming, David?” She even made a little face, jerking her chin marginally toward Vic and Julia, who were seated stiffly together on the sofa.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Lily?” said my mother. “Will you show us around the neighborhood?”

  “No,” said Lily flatly.

  “But we really would love you to come,” said my mother.

  “I want to stay here,” said Lily. She did not look at her parents.

  “But—” said my mother.

  “Eileen,” said my father quietly. “It’s Lily’s decision.”

  My mother sighed. “Well, Lily. Feel free to come and catch up with us if you change your mind.” But before she was half through with her sentence, Lily had turned her back and gone to sit on the sofa. Between her parents.

  “Let’s go,” said my father. We started downstairs.

  “Stuart,” said my mother softly.

  “Not here, Eileen.”

  I feared I would be asked about Lily. I dreaded it. I prayed suddenly, intensely, for a distraction, and I got one. Raina Doumeng was on the porch.

  “Well, hello,” she said. She had a huge, soft-looking black shawl wrapped around her, a portfolio under her arm, and an uncertain smile on her face. She looked at my parents curiously.

  “Hey, Raina,” I said, a little nervously. “Meet my parents.” I performed introductions. I even remembered to say “Museum school” about Raina.

  “How impressive! The Museum of Fine Arts program doesn’t take many undergraduates,” said my mother, who knows everything. “And how long have you been living here?” She gestured at the front door of Raina’s apartment.

  “A little over a year,” said Raina, shifting on the heels of her boots. Failing to notice that my mother had begun another polite comment, she said, “David. I have something for you.” She began fumbling with the ties of her portfolio; her shawl slipped unnoticed down her shoulders to hang in the crooks of her elbows.

  “Maybe later,” I said. My mother was watching Raina with what I felt was undue interest.

  Raina didn’t look up. “Later I might have lost it.” She had the portfolio open, and was sorting quickly through the contents. She located a newspaper clipping, and held it out to m
e.

  I took the clipping. It was a review of an art exhibit at M.I.T. “Anxious Salon: The Naked and the Dread,” read the headline.

  “Thanks,” I said. Raina looked expectant, so I began scanning the text.

  “No, no,” said Raina impatiently. She stepped next to me and leaned in, pointing. She seemed to have completely forgotten that my parents were there. “Look at the picture.”

  It was a detail from a painting, showing a nude, muscled young man in an ass-head mask. Around his neck was a necklace of thorns, with a swastika hanging from it. His head was completely bald.

  I thought, I shouldn’t have talked to her about Frank Delgado either. Everyone’s overreacting. But I hadn’t had much I could talk about. Frank had seemed a safe enough topic.

  Raina’s voice was surprisingly loud as she spoke to my parents. “David was telling me about the kid in his class with the shaved head, and then this exhibit pops up. There’s quite a movement going on with this stuff in the art world …” She chattered on, responding to my mother’s questions, my father’s eyebrow. She didn’t appear to notice my silence. I was furious at myself. Why had I mentioned Frank Delgado to Raina, in one of those silent pauses over tea? I did not want to make a big deal over him. He wasn’t a neo-Nazi. He just had a shaved head. He was just a weird kid with a shaved head.

  “The article’s reproduction is pretty bad,” Raina was saying to my parents. “Apparently the artist is getting to be well known … Yes, absolutely controversial … painted in Berlin … No, just because he paints this stuff doesn’t mean he himself approves of it. But then again—well, I’d have to see the whole exhibit, read some critics … Yes, there’s certainly something sexual, Mapplethorpeish about this one … Oh, yes, I’m sure David will want to see the exhibit—”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t.”

  They all looked at me. “Well, fine,” said Raina. “Then don’t.” I knew she was offended.