The Forgotten Hours(28)
She massaged the stiff muscles in her neck, trying to relax. Mixed in with her tenderness toward Jack was a bubbling anger that she couldn’t quite place. Her fingertips were cold against the skin of her neck, and she dug them in as deeply as she could tolerate. Maybe she was infuriated with her father because of Jack’s letters, because he hadn’t let her see them or hadn’t stood up to Charlie. Either way, her parents had denied her something that was hers, that was private—something that would have been meaningful to her in ways they must have suspected. And Jack had written that he’d seen something; it was unnerving. Had her parents been afraid of what he might have seen? What had he seen?
Anger was more galvanizing than fear, so she typed in Jack Benson. Up came a Wikipedia entry for a poet from the sixties and an obituary for a journalist from Florida. She clicked on the images tab, and a series of pictures showed an old man named Jackson Benson with thinning orange hair; a boy with a soccer ball; a teen with a green mohawk. And then there he was among the imposters—Jack, with his disarming smile. Snapshots of Jack lounging on a settee, playing bass in a crowded bar, wearing a mask at some Mardi Gras festival. One picture showed him without a shirt on, unabashed in front of the camera. There was a large tattoo on his upper arm, a hummingbird in motion. Not the typical tattoo with crisp black lines, filled in, cartoonlike, but a bird flying, fluid and colorful. Blurred like a watercolor. Oh, she thought, that’s new. Instantly, she understood just how much must have happened in the ten years since they had last seen each other. There was so much about him that she couldn’t possibly know.
She tried finding him on Facebook, but no one matched Jack’s description. She clicked through to the Exeter Academy website and tried to find an alumni page but wasn’t allowed in without a username and password. LinkedIn offered her ten different Jack Bensons, and a quick scan revealed they were from Illinois and Mississippi, Virginia and Washington State. He could have moved, of course; he could be living anywhere in the world. One Jack Benson was a technology audit and risk strategist, another a high school teacher. The accompanying thumbnail sketches were tiny, and at first glance she didn’t see anyone she recognized.
Slow down, she thought. There’s no rush. She took a deep breath before scanning the images again. One looked as though it could possibly be him, and she clicked on it.
It was Jack. His hair was far darker, slicked back, and his forehead was wider than she remembered. Green eyes, a direct gaze. A small smile playing on his lips and two-day stubble. Next to his name it said “Realtor.” Jack had become a real estate agent? That seemed highly unlikely. Scrolling down, she checked his credentials and saw that, yes, this Jack Benson had attended Exeter Academy and then UVA.
A blue button offered: “Send a message.”
Her memories of him were suddenly so close, right within her grasp, and she wanted to reach out and grab them. But it was like jumping off a ledge into a tide pool when she wasn’t exactly sure how deep the water was.
The letters. She needed to know about what he had seen. What he had testified about in court. She clicked on the blue button and typed into the space: jack it’s katie gregory.
That was all. Quickly, before she changed her mind, she hit send.
13
Katie cannot smell fern without thinking instantly—like the burst of those old-fashioned camera flashes—of the dirt path that leads from the cabin through the woods to the lake. Ferns speckled with black dots like peppercorns, frilly and luminous in the summer light.
The colors of that night, the night she’s tried so hard not to think about, are black shot through with red. The red of Lulu’s lips. The red of the plastic cups they were drinking from. The deep, pulsing red of her own heart, hidden inside her but bursting with each stolen kiss.
The clubhouse is packed and steamy now, and the square dance is drawing to an end. Jack stands close to her as they scan the crowd. Mr. Herman is at the mic. He and Katie’s mother dated for a couple of summers when they were around Katie’s age; now they barely acknowledge each other. An off-center cowlick makes him look like an overgrown child. John and Charlie Gregory move their heads toward each other, and Charlie goes over to the bar area, waving to get Tommy’s attention.
“Laaaadies and gentlemen,” Mr. Herman cries out. “Step right up for the prizes! Prizes galore! Come on, people.”
The room hushes except for the banging of the screen doors on their loosened hinges. Where has Lulu disappeared to, with her righteous indignation? After she cursed at Katie, she ran off, and Katie hasn’t been able to track her down. She is nowhere to be seen in the crowded room. There is David, by the counter, almost ten years old and gawky, drinking a milkshake. Behind the counter Tommy and his girlfriend, Alexi, are running around, every move a balletic dance of fast food service.
Mr. Herman doles out prizes for best twirl, do-si-do, curtsy turn, pass-through, and pull-by. And there she is now, Lulu—just as he is finishing up, she enters through the back door. Her hair pulled off her face into a tower of curls. She has reapplied the red lipstick.
Jack squeezes Katie’s hand, and a surge of adrenaline shoots through her. When she looks across the room again, Lulu is staring in their direction. She doesn’t need to say anything for Katie to understand what she is thinking. Her eyes are flinty and unblinking. Rosy cheeks and those bright lips.
Lulu says something to Katie’s father, and he leans his body in toward her, trying to catch her words. The skin on his forehead gleams like chrome. He stares at her lips, moving silently, a slash of red on her face. Then he reaches out and wipes his thumb over the corner of her mouth. Once, twice, pulling her lips apart; there is a flash of white teeth.