I'd Give Anything(74)

“Most people shouldn’t wear white pants ever,” I said. “Most people look like the ice cream man in them.”

“Or like an Elvis impersonator,” said Kirsten, laughing.

“Or like they’re in the navy,” said Avery. “I think navy guys wear those, right? I can kind of picture them marching around in white pants.”

A thought struck me hard, and I put down my cake plate.

“They do,” said Kirsten. “Back in college, I dated a guy who went to the Naval Academy. An ensign, they call them. Eric Rogerson. He was swoony in those white pants. Remember Eric, Ginny?”

Inside my head, pieces were falling into place. Pieces I never wanted to find falling into places I never wanted them to go.

“Marching around in white pants,” I said to Kirsten. “Oh no.”

“What’s wrong?” she said. And then her blue eyes widened.

“Oh my God,” she said.



When CJ opened the door to his apartment to find Kirsten and me standing there, he was smiling his guileless fourth-grader smile.

“Hey, guys!” he said. “Welcome to my humble abode. Come on in.”

CJ’s apartment was in a building from the early twentieth century that had once housed an automobile showroom and then became the headquarters of a Philadelphia newspaper. It was lovely, seven stories of windows and terra-cotta, but something about CJ’s apartment made me sad. A big oak table serving as a desk took up half his living room, and bookshelves stood against every wall. On the mantelpiece over the gas fireplace there were framed photos of CJ in various famous places (the Grand Canyon, Paris, the steps of the New York Public Library) and one of CJ, Gray, and Kirsten sitting on a park bench in Rittenhouse Square. None of these elements was sad in and of itself, and it was a pretty enough apartment, but somehow, the place seemed overhung with loneliness.

Someone needs to give CJ a dog, I thought.

“I’m glad you guys called. Sundays can be pretty slow around here. What can I get you?” said CJ, waving his hands excitedly. “Wine? Cheese and crackers? I guess Gray is on his way?”

“CJ,” said Kirsten. She sounded like what she was: near tears.

The smile faded from his face.

“What’s up?” he said.

“Can we sit down?” I said.

“Uh, sure.”

CJ gathered up the sections of the Sunday New York Times that were scattered across his couch cushions and dropped them onto the coffee table. Kirsten and I sat, and CJ sat across from us, his fingers drumming on his knees, his eyes darting nervously between Kirsten’s face and mine. I wanted to hug him. CJ had always been so easy to love.

“I hate to have to ask this, CJ. But on the night of the fire, were you the person Daniel saw running out of the building in white pants?” I said.

CJ’s finger-thrumming accelerated until his hands were a blur.

“He said it was a girl,” said CJ.

“But he never saw the person’s face. I think,” I said, gently, “I think he assumed it was a girl because the person was small and slight, but mostly because they were wearing white pants, and boys don’t usually do that. Unless they’re in marching band.”

“They stole your jeans,” said Kirsten, in a choked voice. “They were always doing that.”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Hold on there. You think I set the fire?” said CJ. His voice cracked at the word fire.

“We don’t want to believe that,” said Kirsten. “But we’re afraid that you might have.”

“That’s ridiculous. You said yourselves that it was probably someone who hated school, and I loved school. You guys know that.”

“The other night, you were the one who said it was someone who hated school, who was failing or who got suspended a lot. I just agreed with you,” said Kirsten.

CJ tossed off a sharp laugh. “Well, yeah. You agreed because that’s the only explanation that makes sense.”

“You told the police about Daniel drinking near the groundskeeper’s shed,” said Kirsten.

“Hell, yes, I did! He was there! Other people saw him.”

“Yes,” I said. “But you were also the one—the only one—who said you’d seen someone who fit Daniel’s description running toward the back entrance of the school. And who’d overheard him making threats against the school earlier that night. But he never did either of those things.”

“You’re taking his word over mine?”

“You were late coming out of the building after halftime. We were well into the third quarter, and all the other marching band members had been out for a while,” said Kirsten. “I remember seeing some of them.”

“I had to stow my sax,” said CJ.

“You always stowed your sax after games, and it never took you that long,” said Kirsten.

CJ ran his hands through his hair.

“I can’t believe this,” he said.

“CJ,” I said. “Back then, you were afraid of everything. You’d say it yourself that you were a physical coward, remember?”

“I have a strong sense of self-preservation,” said CJ. “So what?”

“You ran into a burning building,” I said, softly. “I know you loved your sax, but that was so dangerous. Back then, I was reckless, always plunging in without thinking first, but even I wouldn’t have run into a burning building. It never made sense to me that you did.”