The Lifeguards(10)

Annette’s expression must have shaken something in her grandmother, who put down her dust rag and sank to her knees. “Kneel down,” she commanded Annette. “Now pray to God to send an angel to guide that man’s soul to Heaven.”

Annette had prayed for that man for over thirty years.

Now, she knocked timidly at her son’s door, then turned the knob. “Honey?” she said. “Sweetheart?”

He was a giant mound in the bed. It was jarring to know that this almost-man was her son, the baby she’d nursed, the child she’d built endless pillow forts with, the youngster she’d walked to school two blocks away every day until he graduated sixth grade and started to ride the bus to middle school and then Austin High. He was intense, sure, but he did not have a dark side.

Annette touched him, wrapped her hand around the top of his shoulder. “Honey?” she said.

He stretched, made a sound like “Uuuugh.” He sat up. “Mom?” he said.

“Honey,” she said a third time.

Robert’s room was navy blue and gray. Annette had bought a loft bed from Pottery Barn, a giant piece of furniture that had come with two white men to put it together. As they’d worked, she’d brought them lemonade. “Hi,” she’d said, from the doorway.

They looked up, their faces flushed from carrying the mattress and hardwood frame.

“I brought you, um, lemonade,” said Annette.

“Thanks,” said one of the men.

Annette had placed the two glasses on the floor of Bobby’s room. The man who had said thanks nodded, then returned to Bobby’s furniture. (This had been called “white glove delivery”; Annette had checked the box easily, sort of assuming the furniture would be quickly installed in Bobby’s third-floor room but not really understanding that two sweaty men would spend over an hour in her home.)



* * *



—

“ROBERT,” SAID ANNETTE NOW. “We need to talk.”

He looked at her fully. His brown eyes were clear. His black hair fell over his forehead. Annette was relieved, and not for the first time, that her son was white. She had wanted him to be biologically hers, of course—a baby who looked like her beloved family, as blond as she and her siblings—but when she couldn’t conceive and the donor egg was white, the wistfulness was replaced with gratitude that she’d been able to carry him, to have him, her dark-haired, white-skinned son. He looked nothing like Annette and was hers absolutely.

It was not a fair system, and she knew this in ways her friends did not. They might have read about injustice in books, and Annette knew Liza had come from poverty, but, even in liberal Austin, even in Texas, where almost half the population was Hispanic, racial profiling was rampant. Annette understood the privilege that came with Robert’s name and skin color. Her son would benefit from a corrupt and ruinous system, and she was ashamed to be thankful for this fact.

“I didn’t do anything,” said Robert in a flat tone. He did this sometimes, retreated into a shell of himself, almost robotic. Once, when he was asking endless questions about a graphics card at Fry’s Electronics, the salesclerk said, “Brother, are you an Aspie, too?” Annette had heard of Asperger’s, had even considered having Robert evaluated. But she knew how Louis would react—badly—and she had learned to avoid poking the hornets’ nest. Familial serenity was her goal, even if it meant staying silent.

Responding to the clerk, who had been so friendly, Robert had just looked at his shoes and mumbled something incomprehensible.

“Sorry, man,” the clerk had said. “But it’s easier when you accept it. Just from personal experience.”



* * *



—

“I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING,” Robert repeated now.

“Did you know her?”

He sighed, broke his gaze from hers. “No,” he said, looking at his navy sheets.

Annette felt her breathing quicken. She knew when her son was lying. She opened her mouth to ask more, but then closed it. She swallowed, tasting the familiar pain that came with choosing peace over truth.





-5-


    Liza


CHARLIE AND I WALKED home from Whitney’s house after Jules called 911 from his second cellphone, which he said was untraceable. (None of us asked questions like why a realtor would have a second phone or why we felt the need to remain untraced.) Jules had been insistent that the call be anonymous and we all agreed by not arguing with him: it was only ethical to report the woman’s body, but there was no reason to have the boys’ names caught up in the mess. Were we suspicious of our own sons already? It’s possible this played a part in our decision. I knew Charlie couldn’t have hurt anyone, but didn’t every mother believe her son was only good, and completely known to her? Charlie was loyal to a fault, which worried me. But the way I had survived was by swallowing uncomfortable thoughts whole. Mysteries like where is my sister now? Is my mother still alive? Is Patrick? What if he finds us?

These questions made my stomach burn and my head spin, but I had antacids and sedatives.

Though my best friends and I were united in our plan of action, each of us had different reasons: Annette was always sure Bobcat was at a disadvantage due to her lack of citizenship (and though I saw no evidence of this, I also knew it was impossible for me to fully understand her experience); Whitney and Jules were terrified of besmirching their real estate empire; and I…well, I didn’t want to be found.