No Such Person

  “They are mortgaged to the hilt on both their houses. They have loans on both their cars. They have huge credit card debt. They have no savings. They have spent it all, my dear, on you. Your orthodontist, your riding lessons, your piano lessons, your clothes, your costly summer music camps in the Berkshires, your college, your ski weekends, your trips to Europe and now your medical school. But they don’t have to worry about that particular payment because you are not going there.”

  Her father often says, Kiddo, we can’t do that.  We don’t have a dime. Or, Maybe next year. Right now I just barely have my head above water.

  It has never occurred to Lander that he means it. She has always thought of these as just little sayings, tossed out to stop a conversation.

  Her parents have no money. Because of her.

  “Listen up, Lander. A lot of what I’m telling you I got from television, Twitter or Facebook. People have been very cooperative with the media and very free online. First of all, two crew members on that barge and one person with riverfront property believe that Jason Firenza intentionally dropped his friend Derry Romaine into the water in front of the barge.”

  The very thing Miranda had said. A thing so dreadful that Lander considered it unthinkable, so she didn’t think it. If only she had paid attention to her little sister. But does she ever pay attention to Rimmie?

  Yet another burden of guilt to carry. Her failure as a sister.

  And how, if Lander is confined behind bars, will they ever be close sisters?

  “If so, it was an intended homicide,” says the lawyer. “I’m not sure that killing via barge and water ski could be proved in a court, but it’s an interesting detail, because a minute later, Jason Firenza was at your dock, drinking your coffee. He did not participate in the search for his friend. Strangers saved the friend while Jason Firenza chatted with you. Think that doesn’t creep people out? And the café at Two Willows Marina reports that you and Jason were laughing and flirting only a few hours later. You posted pictures of yourself and Jason on Facebook. None of the photographs predate the barge day, but your captions imply long-term friendship. So the assumption is that Jason Firenza was no stranger to your family in spite of claims to the contrary, and that you are probably part of the first attempt on Derry Romaine’s life.”

  Lander tilts back in the chair, as if to avoid these terrible words. The wrist still chained to the chair catches painfully in the metal cuff.

  She probably took a hundred pictures of Jason, and just as many selfies of the two of them laughing into her cell phone camera. She loved tilting her head and body close to his, so that they fit in the frame. In her hopes, Jason would fit into the frame of their lives together.

  The frame of her life is now a jail cell.

  “Derry Romaine disappeared from the hospital bed,” says the lawyer. “He was not well enough to walk out on his own. A hospital desk clerk has identified Jason Firenza as a frequent visitor. It is likely that Jason Firenza got Derry Romaine out of the hospital, possibly with your assistance.”

  Lander never actually saw Derry Romaine. When he was rescued, emergency personnel made everybody leave the dock. By the time the stretcher was maneuvered up the cliff stairs, Lander was across the grass, listening to Jason answer the trooper’s questions.

  “Killing a colleague is not uncommon among drug dealers,” says the lawyer. “The media speculates that when drowning him in the river didn’t work, you two lured him down to that marsh, or carried him if he was that weak, and shot him in the back.”

  Lander’s body is nodding and jittering as if she is some ancient, pathetic creature with palsy. “No! Nothing like that happened.” But how else could Derry Romaine have arrived in that grim little woods except by Jason bringing him there?

  She imagines Jason sneaking Derry into those woods. But however Derry got there, it couldn’t have been Jason, because Jason was with her.

  In her imagination, she sees the gun in her hand. She sees the bullet leave the gun. She sees it hit Derry, puncture his flesh, explode in his chest. She sees the poor boy’s body as it contorts, convulses, collapses.

  It is so real that Lander wonders if she has seen this. If she knew at the time what she was doing. If she is a murderer.

  The lawyer says, “I’m quoting the media. That’s their story and a large amount is not fact. For example, one TV station claims that your fingerprints are the only ones on the murder weapon. But it’s the weekend. Labs don’t work that fast. The gun you held is not yet proven to be the murder weapon and neither has it been fingerprinted. Now tell me your story.”

  Lander closes her eyes tight to squash the vision of Derry Romaine dying from her bullet. Could it have been some other gun that did it? But there is no other gun and nobody else was shooting.

  “Have you arranged bail yet?” she whispers. She is quoting television shows. People are always getting out on bail. There are entire companies whose sole purpose is to provide bail. Even if you’re broke—she has a hard time accepting that her family is broke—they figure out a way to fund bail for you.

  “You’re accused of homicide, Lander. A judge isn’t likely to give you bail.”

  “I can’t stay here!”

  “Pull yourself together, Lander. You are twenty-two years old. You are in trouble, and you aren’t going anywhere. The facts are grim. Talk to me.”

  You aren’t going anywhere.

  Lander’s entire life is about freedom. She has always gone anywhere. To the top of the class. To the mall. To Europe. To ski resorts.

  She tries not to be a crybaby, but the only thing she wants to do is fling herself facedown on her own bed and bawl, something she has not done since middle school. She swallows hard and finds her voice. “Can my parents be here while I talk to you?”

  The lawyer stares incredulously. “I’ve heard of helicopter parents, how they go to college interviews with their children. How they even show up at the kid’s job interviews. But they don’t share jail, Lander. You get a prison term, it’s your prison term.”

  STILL SATURDAY

  Her parents text Miranda on and off all day. The attorney recommended by several West Hartford people is already visiting the jail. Her father in his car has driven down to the shoreline to wait with her mother. They want to be together and are befuddled by having an extra car. They want to see their daughter and can’t.

  They do not use Lander’s name. They say “she” or “her.” They cannot attach that precious name to this nightmare.

  Miranda receives two casseroles and a basket of big red homegrown tomatoes. The neighbors time delivery to avoid Miranda’s parents. They scoot over fast and leave soon. “Miranda, darling. We know this misunderstanding will be cleared up.” “Miranda, honey, you tell your mom and dad to call if we can do anything.” “Are you all right, Rimmie? Do you want me to stay for a while?”

  Like her parents, the neighbors do not use the word “Lander.” The name has become taboo. The whole situation is taboo. Nobody actually refers to it.

  Miranda rearranges the entire refrigerator to get the casseroles in. Why do casseroles come in such huge, thick ceramic containers? Nobody will eat this stuff. The Allerdons are a family in love with food, but if they can swallow anything tonight, it won’t be somebody else’s tuna fish.

  The living room is in a state of squalor. Abandoned food, dirty plates, empty juice boxes, little boys’ socks, Barrel’s dog hair floating in the shafts of sunlight, pillows on the floor, afghan used for a tent.

  Miranda tells Henry and Hayden to go home, or she will have to lock them in Barrel’s run. They love this, and race out the front door and lock themselves in Barrel’s run, where they bark happily. Barrel will growl on demand, but he is not a barker, even in the wild excitement of company in his run.

  Miranda cleans like a tornado, spinning from room to room. She runs the electric broom, Swiffers the bare wood floors, Dustbusters the crumb-covered sofa.

  In the kitchen she wants to give up. The
dishwasher is full of clean dishes while the small counter and single sink are heaped with dirty ones. The task of emptying and refilling seems utterly beyond her ability.

  She takes out the plastic basket of clean silverware and is sobbing before the spoons are in their proper places.

  What does it matter if the cottage is tidy? Their lives are ruined. No one cares about dust.

  Somebody clears his throat.

  Miranda drops the silver and crashes painfully against the counter. There in the porch doorway is Stu, holding yet another casserole.

  Nobody’s dead yet, she thinks. Stop bringing these casseroles! Then she remembers that this is not true: Derry Romaine is dead.

  Stu is staring at her, bright-eyed as a squirrel. Miranda hates squirrels. One year, when Miranda accidentally left the open birdseed bag out on the porch, squirrels chewed right through the screens to get at the seed they smelled. The Allerdons came home to rodent-destroyed pillows and six windows that had to be repaired.

  Stu’s not a squirrel, she tells herself. He’s perfectly decent-looking. Even Lander went out with him and she has very high standards.

  Of course, Lander refused to go out a second time, so maybe Stu is a squirrel.

  “Here. I’ll put it all away,” says Stu. “You sit on the stool and tell me what’s happening. You look awful, by the way.”

  Just how this should be a comfort is not clear.

  “How is Lander doing?” Stu asks.

  The neighborhood boys are the only people to use Lander’s name. What does this mean?

  Miranda sits on the stool. The kitchen is too small for two stools. There is a narrow knee hole so that one slim person can have one small meal on the short stretch of counter.

  Sell the cottage, she remembers. The mere thought makes her dizzy; makes it difficult to put her mind on anything else.

  Stu opens the refrigerator to slide his casserole in, and laughs. “You’ll have to eat ours first,” he says, “because there’s no room in here.”

  What is there to laugh about? Miranda is shaking with dislike. She wants to say “Please thank your mother for me,” but Mrs. Crowder hasn’t come herself. She has sent her son. Mrs. Crowder can mix canned soup with macaroni, but she can’t say “I know Lander is innocent.”

  Nobody is saying that Lander is innocent.

  Not even their own parents. Not Jack. Not Stu.

  Wait. Geoffrey is. Why is Geoffrey sure?  Why am I sure?

  What do the rest of them know about my sister that they think she really could kill somebody?

  Miranda’s body aches, as if her heart can’t take it anymore and is transferring the pain to her bones.

  Stu says, “The dinner plates?”

  Miranda feels as if she has a new specialty: gaping stupidly at people who ask meaningless questions.

  “I don’t know where they go,” explains Stu.

  Miranda pulls herself together and points to the right shelf. Stu stacks crockery. “Seriously,” he says, “how is Lander doing?” He deposits a frown on his forehead. The frown is a total fake.

  Miranda frowns back. “I don’t know. I suppose she’s doing awful.”

  “Are your folks visiting her?” Now he’s nodding, because he expects the answer to be yes.

  “They haven’t seen her yet. I think the police are still processing her.”

  “Processing,” echoes Stu. He takes his frown off. “There’s a word. What does it mean? Putting her through some kind of wringer?”

  “I suppose. Fingerprints, maybe? Jail uniform? I don’t know, Stu. I can’t even picture it because it’s Lander. How could it be Lander going through this?”

  “Even Lander may not be strong enough for this,” agrees Stu. Now the real Stu shows up on his face. He’s like the  TV anchors. He is fascinated. He yearns for details. Miranda hides behind the dish towel to keep from spitting on him.

  “Are you the one putting the photographs and videos out there?” he asks. “It’s pretty clever, using Lander’s Facebook page. And her Twitter.”

  What good does it do anybody to be clever? Lander is the cleverest person they’ve ever known, and look where she is. Jack and Tanner are clever, too, but clever isn’t going to rescue Lander.

  Her cell phone signals yet another message. The phone is full of unread messages. All her friends have texted and probably if she were to go to her own Facebook page, she would find a hundred posts. But Miranda’s heart and mind are limited. She can’t waste time on her own friends. It’s Lander’s friends and acquaintances she has to search.

  With the absolute last shred of poise that Miranda possesses, she says, “Thank you so much for your help, Stu.” She means “Get out of here,” but he’s too dim to understand.

  “Rimmie.” He leans toward her, too close. But it’s a tiny kitchen. Everybody is too close there. “Rimmie, I want a phone call the minute you’ve talked to Lander.”

  She nods. But she will not call him. She won’t call anybody. And if she texts somebody, Stu is maybe the millionth possibility. She gives his arm a tiny push and he reluctantly steps out onto the screened porch. “You sure you’re okay on your own?” he asks. The sun is in his eyes. He squints and now he looks like an ogre instead of a squirrel.

  “I’m fine,” she says, although she plans to bury her face in her pillow and sob because all the neighbors have turned out to be ogres.

  “I could help you with the online stuff. It’s my gig, you know. Computers.”

  She attaches a polite negative smile to her face, shakes her head and closes the door on Stu.

  When she is absolutely sure Stu is gone, she goes out onto the screened porch and latches both its side doors. She reenters the cottage and not only latches the kitchen and living room doors to the porch, but also bolts the inner solid-wood doors. In her bedroom, she lowers the window that opens onto the porch and is crucial for cross-ventilation, and locks it.

  She bolts the front door.

  It was suffocatingly hot in the cottage already. Now it’s even hotter. For the first time in her life, Miranda hates the cottage. She goes into the tiny bathroom she and Lander share—the bathroom with no trace of either sister. Whichever neighborhood boy used it last made a mess. She hates whoever it is. She hates all of them. She hates everything.

  In the only room with no windows, the only place that feels protected, Miranda breaks down. Sobs rise from her chest like howls from a wolf.

  —

  It is dark by the time her parents get home. Miranda is desperately glad to see them. The cottage is no longer vacant and shadowy. It is warm with family. “How is Lander doing?” she cries. “Could you give her a hug?  What did she tell you?”

  It turns out that visiting a person charged with homicide is not a right. A parent can’t just walk into the jail and see her daughter. The police think that tomorrow, Sunday, the Allerdons can see Lander.

  Miranda’s parents put their arms around her, but their grip is flaccid. They are utterly without strength.

  Miranda gets her father a Coke and her mother a Sprite. They drink deeply, as if they haven’t had liquid in days.

  They describe their efforts. All day, on their cell phones, they swallowed their pride and called relatives, begging for money. An adult cousin actually laughed, thinking the murder story was a sick, off-the-wall joke. Lander? Come on.

  The cousin offered a hundred dollars, a sum that is meaningless in the face of what the attorney charges, but Miranda’s parents were forced to say Thank you, you are so kind.

  Finally, Miranda’s grandmother, her father’s mother, pledged her house. Grandma has an open line of credit she has never used. She will write a check for whatever her son and daughter-in-law need.

  Miranda’s grandmother is elderly and in poor health. An aide does housework and drives her on errands, because Grandma can no longer see well enough to drive. She depends on friends and church family to take her everywhere once the aide leaves. The aide is paid through medical insurance. Gran
dma lives very frugally in order to stay in the house she’s loved for fifty years.

  Grandma has absolutely no way to repay a loan.

  Miranda’s parents are sick with gratitude that money has been found and sicker with fear. How will they repay Grandma? If they don’t pay her back, she’ll lose the house.

  Miranda tries not to think of her own future, when Lander’s is so bleak. But she can’t help it. Her parents have spent all they have and more; they are in debt for Lander’s college, which is over, and for the first year of medical school—a bill they have had to pay even though medical school hasn’t started.

  There isn’t money for Miranda to go to college.

  There never was, even without attorneys’ bills.

  Either her parents tell themselves that somehow they’ll make it work for daughter number two, or they shrug about daughter number two. In every way, Lander is always daughter number one.

  Now they are arguing about whether to call the medical school Monday morning and ask to have the tuition returned. This would be a lot of cash, but it means telling the admissions department why Lander will not be attending.

  “No,” says Miranda’s mother. “She’ll still go to medical school. This will work out somehow. We can’t crush her future by exploding this—this thing—so early.”

  Lander’s future is already crushed.

  It is crushed by her poor judgment, dating Jason Firenza, even though she witnessed his callous stupidity.

  It is crushed by her poor judgment, choosing to play with guns.

  And perhaps crushed by her decision—the only explanation Miranda can think of—to protect Jason. Surely it was Jason who put a bullet in Derry Romaine. And then Lander wiped the gun, removed Jason’s prints and put her own there.

  Miranda cannot get within miles of such an insane decision. Particularly such an insane decision on the part of the smartest person she knows.

  Miranda and her parents migrate to the porch and sit staring at the river. In the dark it is sleek and mysterious. Water pats the riverbank like the footsteps of strangers approaching.