When We Were Bright and Beautiful(49)
“What are you talking about?”
“Billy will get out of prison eventually. When he does, there’s no way these hypocritical Valmont fucks will allow a registered sex offender to live in the building.”
Stupidly, I hadn’t considered this.
“We can make a deal,” Lawrence says. “Yes, Billy will plead guilty, that’s awful. But Peter got Anderson down to five years and said they might fold on the registry.”
“You’re dreaming if you think Anderson will give up the sex registry. I’m sorry, Lawrence, but Eleanor is right. Billy should go to trial. I’m sticking with Eleanor on this one.” Eleanor, Eleanor, Eleanor. I repeat her name to piss him off. His willingness to forsake his son disgusts me. Grow a pair, I want to snap. Don’t be such a coward.
“If we do, we will forever be known as Lawrence Quinn, father of convicted rapist William Quinn; Eleanor Quinn, mother of convicted rapist; Nathaniel Quinn, brother of convicted rapist; Cassandra—”
“My name is Forrester. I’m not a Quinn, remember? You just let me use that name so I can pretend I’m a part of this family. It’s not real.”
Lawrence’s eyes water as if I smacked him. “You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” His tone is nasty.
Haggerty said the same thing. Speaking of Haggerty, I haven’t heard from him in weeks. His texts are intrusive and possibly unethical, but I’ve started to miss them. “I’m tired, Lawrence.”
“You know what, Cass? I’m tired too. And no one is helping me, no one is on my side. Not even you. Out of everyone, I thought I could count on you.”
“I’m not on your side. I’m not on Eleanor’s side either. I’m on Billy’s side.”
“But I was the one who—”
“Who what? Took me in? Fed me? You’re using my being orphaned as a bargaining chip?”
“That’s not what I’m saying—” He stops. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter. I’m just disappointed. I thought you’d be more loyal. More forgiving.”
Forgiving? “Christ, Lawrence. You and Eleanor both—you’re relentless.”
“No, Cass.” Lawrence bows his head. “Billy’s our son. We’re desperate.”
29
PEOPLE WITH MONEY DO CRAZY THINGS. OR MAYBE MONEY makes people go crazy. Once, two brothers, lifelong bachelors, moved into a primitive shack with no indoor plumbing or electricity. They looked like hoboes, lived like hoarders, rarely bathed, and refused to open any mail that could be from the government. This went on until their nineties. After their death, their land sold for almost six million dollars. Turned out they were loaded. So maybe money just makes crazy people even crazier.
*
Billy is broody and distant. I understand his unhappiness, and sympathize, but being around him is depressing. It’s like when he went off to boarding school. He hated Groton, and called every day, begging to come home. He was shy and self-conscious. He didn’t fit in and had a hard time making friends. His stutter returned, only to be made worse by Powell Porter’s taunts.
Lawrence encouraged Billy to stay. “You’ll get used to it,” he promised. “It’s brutal, I know. But I survived, and you’re ten times stronger and smarter than me. You’ll survive too.” He believed Groton would teach Billy important life skills. Billy felt like he was being punished for no reason. Eleanor, surprisingly, didn’t interfere. “Fathers and sons always struggle,” she said. “They’ll work it out.”
Groton marked a before and after in my brother’s life. He left for school a dreamy, gentle adolescent, my twin and soulmate, and returned a confident, if sullen, young man, one I barely recognized. He was still committed to medicine, though his new goal was pediatrics, partly because of his stutter, partly for reasons I’ll never comprehend. I am Billy’s sister. I know his habits, his favorite foods, and his preferences in music, books, and movies. I can tell you he wants to be a doctor and loves to run, but I can’t tell you why. Once Billy graduated from high school, I had no insight into his interior life. My not-knowing implies a lack of curiosity or caring, which isn’t true. I am curious. I care deeply. But I don’t know how to recapture our old relationship. I realize he’s a man, I can see that he’s different. And yet, at the same time, I can’t believe the small boy I grew up with, the tender kid who loved Sesame Street, has been accused of rape.
The next morning, I seek him out. I’m here, I should make an effort. So I put on gym shorts and sneakers, and stand in the door to his room. “Hey, Elmo. Let’s go for a run.”
He’s lying on his side, staring at the wall. “It’s too hot.”
“Then we’ll walk. We can carry parasols.”
He doesn’t respond, so I move to his bed and lie down. It’s a queen-sized bed, so there’s more than enough room—or there would be if not for the books, papers, half-eaten sandwiches, and loose bags of chips.
Eleanor must be exhausted. She’d never allow this much clutter otherwise. After Billy’s arraignment, Lawrence and Nate cleaned out his dorm room and gym locker, and brought home a carload of suitcases, boxes, and bags. Billy dumped the entire haul on his floor and hasn’t touched it since. Clothes are strewn over his desk and chair, dresser drawers hang open, and sneakers are scattered across the carpet like stepping-stones. His plastic dinosaurs, baseball cards, and rock samples are hidden behind stacks of textbooks, water pipes, and a bong.