Twisted Fate(39)

Declan was sitting on his porch waiting for us. His house was an enormous rambling Victorian with stained-glass windows, a porch swing, and several comfortable wicker chairs scattered about the overgrown lawn, which was full of wildflowers. As usual he was sitting on the floor on the porch surrounded by a pile of books, looking like he didn’t even notice us until we were standing right in front of him. And at that point he said, “Greetings, earth women. According to your eight texts, a Facebook chat, and five voice mails, we are endeavoring to discover some information from a handsome arty dullard about a sweet little boy.”

Becky rolled her eyes and shook her head. But when Declan looked up he looked serious and worried.

“That’s correct,” I said.

“Sadly,” he went on, “I am preoccupied with some reading for my AP history class, which I have not attended in some weeks. So I don’t know that I’ll be all that much help.”

“Of course you will,” I said. “Ditch the studying for tonight. We’re just going to go over and see if Graham has any movies of Brian that might help us out and then maybe go around and do the fake ‘We’re lost’ thing so we can get more information.”

“The fake-lost thing might be a challenge,” he said. “But I’m up for screening the handsome Art Dullard’s movies. Let’s go.” He grabbed his jean jacket off the back of the chair, slipped his bare feet into his black Vans, brushed his long black hair out of his eyes.

“Can you guys not call him Art Dullard?” Becky asked.

“Why?” we said in unison. Then, “Jinx,” which we also said in unison.

“Because he’s cool as hell, that’s why. And he’s going to help us.”

“Fair enough,” said Declan. “I’ll let up on the nicknaming until we have further information about his character and intentions.”

We walked through the neighborhood and even though we had a purpose and Declan had been trying to keep things light with his usual joking around, things felt terribly heavy and sad. I could tell Becky was having a hard time not thinking about Brian. And I knew the three of us had probably pictured some awful thing happening to him.

When we got back to my driveway, we expected to see Graham on the other side tinkering around in the garage with the Austin. But he wasn’t there so we rang the doorbell.

A tall very handsome old guy—Graham’s dad, David—answered the door. And smiled.

“Is Graham home?” I asked.

“Oh, hey, Tate, sure, just a minute.” He took out his phone and texted something, then asked us to come into the house. Apparently yelling up the stairs wasn’t done around here—or maybe Graham just wouldn’t be able to hear him. We stood in the front hall and looked around. As usual the massive weird paintings by Graham’s stepmom, Kim, seemed to take up all the space around us.

“Would you guys like something to drink? Or a snack?” David asked. He had sweet kind worried-looking eyes.

I said, “No thanks,” thinking about all the junk food we’d eaten earlier.

But Becky said, “Yes please,” at the same time. Then his phone buzzed and he looked at it. “Graham will be right down. I’ll go get some refreshments.”

When David headed down the hall to the kitchen, Kim came around the corner holding a glass of wine. She was wearing khaki pants with paint all over them and a man’s button-down shirt. Her hair was up in a loose bun. She smiled when she saw us standing there. I remember thinking how smart she looked. Like she had a look on her face where she seemed to understand everything that was going on and to be deep in thought. Studying us as we stood there.

“Hi, Tate,” she said. And then she reached out to shake Becky’s hand. “I’m Kim,” she said. She nodded at Declan.

These people were very different from other people’s parents that I knew. They seemed somehow more there. They really looked at you and asked you questions. And they seemed to be very concerned, but they also treated you like an adult, didn’t ask a bunch of silly questions about school but just talked about regular stuff.

Graham’s dad came out of the kitchen with a plate that had fancy crackers and cheese on it and a bowl full of tiny black olives. He set it on the coffee table in the living room and then pulled three little bottles of San Pellegrino from the pocket of his sports jacket and handed them to us. We sat in a row on the couch under Kim’s massive painting of a jellyfish. The house was so immaculately clean and bright and smelled good. I remember thinking how weird it was that this place was right next door to my own house, which felt more cavernous and dark and dusty, like the hold of an antique ship. And except for the rooms where Mom entertained historical society people, it was always filled with one construction project or another. Pretty much the only thing that made my house feel like a home was the smell of the muffins Ally baked all the time.

We were not used to this kind of snack or this kind of hospitality from adults and it was like I could hear Becky’s voice in my head saying, “See? They are so cool,” but that’s probably because she said it about Graham once an hour.

David sat down across from us and Kim stood in front of the bookcase near their grand piano, still holding her wine. And then Graham came downstairs looking like he’d escaped from some completely other world. His hair messy, his expression slightly dazed, his clothes rumpled. He looked high.