The Lifeguards(45)

Roma, Whitney saw clearly, was her problem. Jules would never take action to help.

This burden was Whitney’s alone. But what could she possibly do?



* * *



—

THE TRIP WAS A write-off. Many of Whitney’s clients were interested in New Zealand—it was where they wanted to be when the upcoming apocalypse hit. The idea (and they all had the same idea) was to be as far as possible from the U.S., but also in a place that was just like the U.S. They wanted ski mountains and beaches, but none of the starving hordes. These people were…Whitney didn’t want to say cold and calculating, but honestly, they were cold and calculating. They could compartmentalize. Perhaps they were like Roma, truly.

Jules bought first-class tickets. They sat in a row: Jules, Whitney, Roma, and Xavier. They hadn’t been on the plane for ten minutes when Xavier cried out, “What the heck, Roma!”

Roma didn’t move. Her pearl-colored headphones covered her ears and her eyes were closed. Whitney had always admired her daughter’s eyelashes—they were long and lush, unlike Whitney’s. When Roma’s eyes were closed, Whitney could pretend things were different. It was like a drug, this lovely forgetting. She’d imagined so many futures for her girl, so many adventures for the two of them together.

As a little girl, Roma had slept next to Whitney every night, Jules banished to the guest room. Roma would fall asleep before Whitney, her two “stuffies” gathered close to her heart, her face flushed pink. Whitney would read for a while longer, then turn out the light and put her nose to Roma’s hair, inhaling. Roma smelled like ice cream melted in the sun: faintly buttery, sweet, a bit tangy. Whitney would cradle her head, touch her nose to Roma’s. Roma had once been hers.



* * *



—

THE AIR NEW ZEALAND flight attendant smiled at the Brownson family and continued down the aisle. The twins were twelve and looked angelic. As soon as she was out of earshot, Xavier, said, “Roma pinched me.”

“Honey,” said Whitney.

“Look!” he insisted, showing Whitney his thigh, where a purple welt bloomed. Whitney’s stomach went sour.

“Jules,” said Whitney. He was also pretending to be asleep.

“Hm?” said Jules, opening one eye.

“Roma pinched him.”

“Dad, look!” said Xavier. It was there—it was a fact. A painful-looking bruise on his fair skin.

Jules stared at his son’s leg. “Well,” he said, finally. “Roma’s asleep.”

“Dad…” said Xavier.

“I don’t know,” said Jules.

“Come on, Dad! You think I did this to myself?”

“Settle down, all of you.” Jules closed his eyes again. Xavier looked at Whitney.

“Sweetheart,” she said, her voice pleading.

“It hurts, Mom,” said Xavier. He swallowed. “She did this,” he said. The defiance in Xavier’s eyes faded slowly when Whitney didn’t answer, but it did fade.

“Would anyone like a drink?” said the stewardess, on her way back down the aisle. Xavier shook his head and turned away.

“I’ll take some champagne,” said Jules. His hand on Whitney’s knee was warm.





-11-


    Annette


ANNETTE AND LOUIS’S LAWYER was on speakerphone, the volume high. “OK,” said Louis, standing next to his statue of his childhood pony, Red, tugging at his too-tight jeans. “OK, listen. We’re just speaking to you as a precaution, Toby.”

“Robert didn’t do anything,” said Annette.

“Right! Right!” said Louis. “Toby, I just want you to know. This is a good boy we’re talking about.”

“I absolutely agree,” said their lawyer, who was Louis’s parents’ lawyer, currently en route from Midland to Austin. “But…Are you sitting down, Louis?”

“Yes, Toby,” said Louis, annoyed. He looked at Annette, daring her to disagree.

“OK, so here’s what’s happening,” said Toby. “I just got an email from the Austin Police Department. Louis, Annette, they’re asking for Robert’s DNA.”

“What?” cried Louis. “His DNA? Why?”

Toby sighed. “I honestly don’t know,” he said. “I’ll be there soon. All of you need to sit tight, OK? Especially Robert.”

“Of course,” said Louis. He turned to his wife. “Where is Robert, anyway?”

“He’s in his room,” said Annette.

“Oh, he won’t say a word to anyone,” said Louis. “How soon will you be here, Toby?”

“Two hours tops.”

“I’m having a drink. You want a drink?” said Louis, walking to their full bar, a replica of the historic mahogany bar at the Menger Hotel in San Antonio (complete with a framed photo of Theodore Roosevelt at the famous watering hole). Louis lifted a bottle of Herradura tequila.

“No.” Annette went to the sliding glass door that led to their outdoor patio. Louis did not follow, pacing back and forth across their tricolor patchwork cowhide rug. She walked toward the place where she had last seen the coyote. Where had it gone? Was it alive? Annette sat down at the edge of the yard, the grass damp on her bare legs. She closed her eyes.