What the Dead Want(6)

She’d given Gretchen two things that day. A leather-bound journal she’d found, written by a woman named Fidelia Moore, in script Gretchen could barely read, and a faded Kodak snapshot of herself as a child, pig-tailed in overalls in 1977 standing in front of a porch, holding the hand of a grim-looking man in a blue T-shirt and a green John Deere cap.

It would be years before Gretchen was interested in the journal, and then only as something she and Simon would read out loud from in funny dramatic voices, dressed up in vintage clothing. Some of it was about the Civil War, sewing, cooking, taking care of little kids. People back then took such a roundabout way of saying things, most of it was boring, illegible, or incomprehensible. But the picture Mona showed her that day was immediately fascinating.

“Look, Gretchen,” her mother said, pointing to the right of the front porch: “Can you see?”

Gretchen could see that there was the older man, and the little girl who must have been Mona. There was an enormous house behind them with a porch and cupolas and a weather vane. There were trees in the distance as far as the eye could see, and lace curtains in the window of an upstairs bedroom.

But then Gretchen saw something more:

In the place to which her mother had pointed—yes, there was something. A third subject to this photograph.

A little boy with a baseball hat wearing a plaid shirt, running too fast for the photograph to fully snatch him, but not so fast that a hazy impression hadn’t managed to be taken.

Gretchen put her finger to the place. “Is that a little boy?” she asked.

“Is that what it looks like to you?” Gretchen’s mother asked. “A little boy?”

“Who is it?” Gretchen asked.

“My brother.”

“What?” Gretchen was startled. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Until then, I didn’t know either. He died before I was born. He was six years old. My mother was pregnant with me when he accidentally hanged himself with a rope he was using to swing from a tree.”

Gretchen felt sick to her stomach and gave her mother a hug. She looked at the picture again and shivered, the hair on her arms rising.

“It’s okay. It’s nothing to be afraid of,” Mona told her. “It’s a mystery, the world is complex. He came back to have his picture taken that day, just before we moved out of the house.”

She put the photo aside and picked up another, of a woman dressed in white walking through a wall. “Now this,” she said, “is a beautiful fake. Pay attention, sweets. It’s important for every girl to know the difference between interesting mysteries and beautiful fakes.”





FOUR


THE DRIVER PUT HER BAGS ON THE PORCH AND SHE tipped him with some of the money Janine had given her. An enormous black bird landed on the overgrown lawn and stared at the two of them, pecking occasionally at something in the high grass.

The driver eyed the house again warily. “Lemme give you my number—just in case.” He handed her his card, then quickly got back in the car, pulling out and spewing dust and gravel behind him.

The bird did not fly off but looked after him, cocked its head, then went back to pecking. She stood with her bag on the weathered boards of the porch. She took out her cell and texted Simon: OMG you wouldn’t believe this. It’s like Grey Gardens times one million. But there was no reception. She experienced a momentary flash of panic. The driver was gone, she couldn’t call out, and how would she communicate with Simon?

She hadn’t gone more than a day without talking to him in years. She’d even been there when he finally came out to his parents. A moment so comically anticlimactic they decided to make up a more dramatic story to tell their friends at Gramercy Arts.

Simon had solemnly asked his parents to come into the living room because they needed to talk. He and Gretchen had stood together in front of them holding hands. Then Simon took a deep breath and . . . was not able to say anything. Gretchen squeezed his hand.

“Oh! Hey, champ,” his dad said, looking at the two of them. When Simon still didn’t say anything, his dad said, “Are you going to tell us you’re gay?”

His mother smiled and punched his dad playfully on the arm. “Would you let him do it himself? Honestly. Go ahead, sweetheart.”

Simon and Gretchen looked at each other. “Uh . . . I’m gay,” Simon said.

“Mmmhm,” his mom said. “Do you want us to say queer or gay?”

“Uncles Lou and Swaraj prefer we call them queer,” his dad said, explaining.

“Well, Simon is his own person,” his mother said. “And I’m asking him which he prefers, would you settle down?”

“But it’s exciting,” his dad said, grinning proudly.

Then he looked suddenly very grave. “Wait, there isn’t something wrong, is there? The way you guys came in all somber-looking . . . is there something serious you had to tell us? I’m sorry I interrupted you, champ, I just got carried away.”

“Well, I think it’s pretty serious that I want to sleep with boys!” Simon shouted dramatically.

This cracked his parents up. “If it’s serious instead of fun, you might be doing it wrong,” his dad said, and his mom snorted.

Simon rolled his eyes.

“Aw, c’mere, punkin’,” his mom said. She kissed him on the head and put her arms around him. Then she looked over at Simon’s dad. “Our guy is growing up,” she said, wiping a happy tear from her eye. Simon just groaned.