Wilde Lake(18)

“I’ll be okay,” I assured him.

He sighed and began his summation.

He had been told that Miss Gordon was frustrated by my hostility toward creative work. I lacked, yes, EH-MAH-GI-NAY-SHUN. Oh, I could do any task that was based on studying and having facts at hand. In the world of right answers, I was 100 percent. But asked to draw a picture or tell a story, I pestered Miss Gordon with endless questions about the “rules.” Did there have to be a person in the story? A tree? Must it have a happy ending? How many words? What do I need to get an A?

“Why is it so hard for you to imagine things, Lu? You read lots of stories.”

“I can imagine things fine,” I said. “But I want to make sure I get the best grades.”

“Why? I’ve never told you that I cared about your grades. All I ask is that you do your best.”

“Yes, being the best is important. Winning is important.”

“No, being a good person is important. Caring about others. Being warm and empathetic. Miss Gordon said you make fun of the kids who aren’t as smart as you.”

“That’s not true.” I wanted to cry at the unfairness of this accusation. “I try to help them. Some of them can barely print, and I’m the only one who can write cursive. And their rhymes are wrong. Danny put together ‘hard’ and ‘park’ and Miss Gordon said his poem was great, while I wrote ‘Once I saw a possum / Smelling a blossom,’ and she told me that possums don’t come out in the daytime, so why would they be smelling flowers. See—when I do have imagination, it doesn’t count, I’m making a mistake. But when Randy Nairn draws a dog with smoke coming out of its mouth, he’s told he’s wonderful.”

“Your classmates don’t want your help, Lu. That’s what Miss Gordon says. You finish your work early, then try to insert yourself in the work of others.”

I became frustrated, saw that I would never be able to explain the situation to my father. I was battling Miss Gordon for control of the classroom. Losing, but battling. She had rejected me, so I wanted the other kids to see I was as smart as she was. I was at war.

“I just want to win,” I said.

“Win what, Lu?”

I shook my head, out of words.

“You’re so competitive, Lu. If you make winning everything, you’ll never be happy.”

“You’re happy when you win. You were really happy when you won that case.”

“Because justice was done. Because a young woman whose body may never be found wasn’t forgotten. When I go to court, Lu, it’s never about winning.”

But that’s what competitive people always say. Have you noticed only another competitive person will ever call you competitive? Yes, I liked to win, but so did my father and my brother. And, oh Lord, how Gabe made everything a competition. Who’s playing the saxophone on this song? he would ask me when some jazz standard came on a restaurant’s sound system. Or, apropos of nothing, How many Triple Crown winners can you name? I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone who didn’t want to win, but I definitely didn’t know a Brant who didn’t love victory. We played chess, checkers, Botticelli, Geography, “Jimmy has a ball of string.” We played Stratego, Life, Operation (and only I could remove that funny bone). Dominoes, gin rummy, a card game called Up the River, Down the River. I was given slight advantages when I was very young, but I was never patronized. When I won, it was real, a true achievement. Winning was everything in my household.

The thing I had gotten wrong was showing how desperately I wanted to win. That was what I had to learn to conceal, what my father and AJ knew from birth: disguise your desire.





JANUARY 9


Lu watches through the one-way glass as Mike and his partner, Terry Childs, interrogate Rudy Drysdale. Lu expected someone more obviously homeless—matted beard and hair, dirty clothes—but this Drysdale character is fairly neat and well groomed, considering his lifestyle. If one didn’t know which was which, he might appear to be the attorney. He has a quiet poise, while the young female public defender is almost aquiver with nerves.

The detectives are pushing for a confession. Seems unlikely with a guy who invoked his right to an attorney so quickly, but Lu is happy to let them try.

To her delight, the inexperienced public defender is allowing her client to speak, almost encouraging him to do so. The whole point of lawyering-up is to shut up, but the public defender seems to believe that Drysdale has an alibi or other information that will lead to his release.

Rudy whispers to his public defender, who then presents his story to the detectives. Lu is reminded of how Penelope and Justin used to confide “secrets” to her in tandem, a hot, damp mouth pressed to each ear, words tumbling out. When had that stopped? They are growing up so quickly and she fears she is missing too much. But then, being twins, they always have each other. Maybe it’s natural that they become self-contained at a much younger age than other children.

“The apartment appeared to be empty,” says Rose Darling, a lovely name for a woman who is, well, not lovely. Splotchy complexion, overweight, dark frizzy hair. Lu amuses herself by coming up with various tricks to remember the woman’s name, which will be useful when they meet again. Public defenders vote, too, and everyone yearns to be remembered. My public defender is like a red, red rose. Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my darling defender Rose. Lu feels bad about the woman’s cheap suit. Public defenders make even less than state’s attorneys. Lu takes special care to make sure that her expensive clothes do not look expensive. Her inherited wealth is one of those ugly topics always just below the surface. During the campaign, Fred called her a dilettante, tried to suggest that she wanted his job so she wouldn’t be bored. Has anyone ever suggested that a rich man wanted to work simply because he had nothing else to do?