The theory of everything, p.11
The Theory of Everything, page 11
Emmett —> Emmett’s dead sister Jamie), I picture her playing roulette. She spins the wheel. Click click click goes the little ball, but instead of numbers, this wheel has words: pity, discomfort, panic, platitudes, awkward silence. Pity, discomfort, panic, platitudes, awkward silence. Around and around it goes. Where it stops, nobody knows!
“Oh…,” Rosemary says. “Jamie’s brother.”
“Yeah.” The wheel is slowing down. Where will it stop? My money’s on awkward silence. With a side bet on pity.
“That’s cool you and Emmett are friends. I didn’t realize.” She squints like she’s thinking. “Makes sense, though. You two probably miss Jamie the most out of everyone. I don’t know who was closer to her—I mean, twin or best friend? It’s practically the same thing, in some ways.”
Hold up. The ball just landed on Say one of the truest things Sarah’s heard, ever. My throat contracts; I can’t speak. So I nod.
Rosemary looks stricken again. “I’m sorry! I always say too much.” Then, without hesitation, she adds, “Does it make you sad, talking about Jamie? Should I not? My friends told me not to, but I—”
“No!” I snap. Rosemary looks confused. The girl is trying really, really hard. I start again, more quietly, “No. I don’t mind talking about her.” Actually, sometimes it’s all I want to do.
Rosemary slouches, maybe from relief, but she still looks worried.
I say, “Here’s the thing. Of course it’s sad.” I kind of laugh at myself, “Duh, right? But it’s nice, too.”
Rosemary nods like I should keep talking. Ruby has settled her weight onto me again, but we’re taking turns petting her.
“Hearing you talk about her is just”—what’s the right way to describe it?—“surprising? Because no one ever does. Want to talk about Jamie, I mean. Or even say her name. Like people will burst into flames if they do. It’s pretty impressive you didn’t spontaneously combust right then.” That alone elevates you from high Normal to low Ninja.
She nods more vigorously. “Probably because everyone’s worried they’ll say the wrong thing. Like me! But if I kept my mouth shut in order to not say the wrong thing, I’d never be able to talk at all, you know?”
Yeah, that sounds about right. Hey, look at me! Another snarky comment I managed to not say.
Rosemary continues, “It’s like, when my cat died, my parents wouldn’t mention him in front of me because they didn’t want to make me sad, but that just made it worse, you know? I kept thinking, didn’t they think Picky Picky was important enough to remember?”
“Picky Picky?”
“Yeah, it’s from—”
“Ramona. I loved those books.”
“Me, too! I was six when I named her.”
“I approve.” Although I can’t say I approve of the comparison of cat death to BFF death. Then again, I am slightly attached to the dog lying on me right now.
On the field, the soccer players take their positions for the second half. Emmett kind of jogs in place, waiting.
“I know it’s not the same,” Rosemary says after a while.
“What’s not?”
“A cat and a person. Picky Picky and Jamie.”
“Yeah.”
“But, then again,” she says. “Picky Picky was a good cat. More like a dog, really.”
Hm. Girl sitting next to me: funny, with an edge? Or clueless and airheaded? I’m on the fence, but hoping for the former. And when I notice she’s looking at me sideways, struggling not to grin, I take it as a good sign.
The referee blows his whistle and the field is swept into motion.
“He looks older,” Rosemary says. “Emmett. He got hotter.” She bumps my arm. “But don’t tell Ron I said that!”
“It’s in the vault.”
“The what?”
“The vault.”
“Oh, like a safe? In a bank?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
We watch the game, and I try to pay attention. But I’m wondering why Rosemary hasn’t gone back to sit with her crew. And I can’t stop thinking about Jamie. She would know what in the vault meant, even if I’d never said it before. No explanations necessary. And the joking thing. Even when she had everyone else fooled, I always knew when James was kidding. She was a diabolical genius. So. There’s that.
And then there’s the teensy matter of betrayal. Is sitting here with Rosemary, is it like cheating on Jamie, trying to replace her? Because I would never. If James were still here, I would never. Even if Rosemary turns out to be awesome, I will never split a locket in half with her and put it on a necklace and wear it forever.
Or…therapy session time: Am I projecting? Because if I really think about it, there’s no way James would want me to mope around like a social pariah. She’d smack me and tell me to get a life.
A little later, Rosemary says, “It’s nice to get a chance to hang out.”
I nod.
“I’ve been wanting to, but…I don’t know. You’ve kind of gone off the radar. And my friends are like ‘Give her some space.’”
“Who said that?”
She shrugs. “Everyone. It’s not that people don’t like you, Sarah. It’s just that you make people kind of…uncomfortable.”
I snort. “Uncomfortable.” Wow. I don’t want to care, but this stings. Like onion in my eyes, stings.
“That came out wrong! I just mean, it’s a hard situation. No one knows how to handle it. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. That came out totally wrong.”
“It’s okay.” I will not cry. I will not cry.
“Anyway,” she gives Ruby a pat and then smacks her knees, stands up. “I should probably get back down there. Do you want to come?”
I shake my head. At least I’m managing not to cry. “It’s best if I stay up here. Because of Ruby. You know.” Plus, God forbid I should make anyone uncomfortable.
“Um, okay.” She takes a few steps down the bleachers before she turns back around. “Hey, you used to take dance lessons, right?”
I nod.
“Well, this might sound stupid, but I signed up for this Salsa-Thon? It’s one of Ms. Gliss’s stupid fund-raisers. But it’s for Breast Cancer Awareness, which you can’t really argue with. It starts Friday morning and goes all day Friday and Saturday. She’s giving extra credit for it, which I need, and no one else will go with me, and I was just wondering if maybe you want to do it?”
Oh, nice. So none of her other friends want to go, so I’m the last-ditch effort? Or the pity invite.
Then again, she didn’t have to ask at all.
Then again…it’s all day Friday and Saturday. The perfect alibi.
“Hey, Rosemary?”
“Hey, Sarah?”
“This might seem weird, but do you think you could help me out with something?”
She crosses her arms. “Depends. Are you going to do the Salsa-Thon?”
“Possibly. Eventually.”
She gives me a confused look. “Are you going to help me raise money for it?”
“Possibly. Eventually.”
“Wait. Is this something I’m going to get in trouble for?”
“Possibly,” I admit, “but not…”
“Ooh!” She claps her hands excitedly. “Is it shocking and outrageous?”
“No, it’s more…sneaky and rebellious.”
“Then yes. I could use some excitement in my life.”
After school the next day, Rubes and I walk over to the cemetery. To spend some time on Jamie’s bench, yes, but also for a bit of recon. I want to check out the area where Mr. Showalter was on the day Dad so rudely interrupted my truancy. I want to know more about him, this strange man who—bam!—appeared out of nowhere, and now keeps turning up. And holds my fate in his hands.
Google won’t help me much; all I can figure out is
1. There are a whole lot of Showalters, none listed in my town, and
2. That I can’t for the life of me remember what Dr. Folger had said his first name was. If he said it at all.
So, recon. Going back to where he was, I find two Showalter graves, right next to each other. One of them is a double grave, the kind with two overlapping hearts.
It says
Roy Showalter Donna Showalter
November 11, 1961– December 30, 1964–October 13, 2005
You were born together, and together
you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings
of death scatter your days.
Aye, you shall be together even in the
silent memory of God.
Holy crap. Is this possible? Was Donna Showalter his wife? And he has this grave reserved for himself? Talk about commitment. If he is Roy Showalter, he’s completely given up on ever remarrying, or even having a girlfriend again. I mean, who’s going to date a guy whose cemetery space is already waiting, right next to his dead wife?
And. If this is his wife, Mr. Showalter must have chosen the epitaph. Gruff Captain Possum picked out this crazy tender love poem. I imagine him reciting it to the engraver. Standing there with his possum and his dirty fingernails, having known this poem, having chosen it. It just doesn’t go with my image of him.
The grave next to the double heart is also a Showalter.
David Leonard Showalter
June 28, 1990 – October 13, 2005
Oh, man. Fifteen years old. His son? With the same date of death as his wife. So his wife and son died on the same day? Must have been an accident. Something sudden. But what?
One thing’s for sure, it didn’t happen in Norwich. A tragedy like this, even if it was just a crazy fluke—actually, especially if it was a crazy fluke—everyone would know about it. Everyone. And these names are new to me.
Now that I have first names, and dates, I go home and Google it again. Ruby curls up on my feet while I tap out the search and scan the results. First hit is a news story from the Binghamton Press & Sun Bulletin. It’s kind of a long one, with a byline, instead of just a snippet-type accident report.
Reading it, I go numb and cold.
MOTHER AND SON DEAD IN APPARENT MURDER-SUICIDE
OCTOBER 14, 2005
BRISBEN, NEW YORK—Local painter Donna Showalter, 40, and son Leon Showalter, 15, were found dead yesterday in their home on Route 12. Police report that Leon Showalter shot his mother to death, using a handgun registered to his father, Roy Showalter. Roy Showalter reported hearing “four or five” gunshots as he returned from his job at Spence Green Architects in Johnson City. Mr. Showalter claims he found his wife dead and his son in a “manic state,” allegedly threatening to shoot his father. The elder Mr. Showalter tried to calm his son, but Leon Showalter turned the gun on himself. His cause of death is listed as a fatal self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
Police report that the gun was kept in a lockbox in the basement of the Showalter’s residence, and that the lock showed signs of tampering. A neighbor, who declined to be identified, said that Leon Showalter was known to have suffered from bipolar disorder. “He was a great kid, real smart, but you could tell he was always either really up or very depressed,” the neighbor said.
The county district attorney says no criminal charges have been filed.
Suddenly chilled, I hug myself.
“Are you done yet? Get off the computer.” Jeremy in the doorway. Impeccable timing, as usual.
“Go away.”
“You get five more minutes.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“Or what?”
“Or…there will be dire consequences.”
“Ha. You got nothing. No leverage.”
“I mean it. Get off the computer. I need it.”
I close the door and prop the chair under the doorknob.
Mr. Showalter had found his wife dead. Had seen the gun in his son’s hands. Knew his son had killed his wife. Then watched his son shoot himself.
It’s beyond awful. How can a person survive something like that?
Is there a comparison chart of horrible experiences? Losing your son and your wife—and knowing that your son murdered your wife and then committed suicide—isn’t that even worse than watching your best friend die?
It’s totally morbid to compare. But that’s what people do, isn’t it? Life is a constant comparison—yourself to others. You figure out who you are, how good or bad you have it, in relation to other people’s situations and experiences.
Like Stenn: he has it great. Never been through anything majorly bad, has a family who loves him, gobs of money, friends, private school. My brother’s got a pretty sweet deal, too: no major traumas, decent parents, friends, that stuff. To be honest, I had it pretty good, too, BJD. But the JD changed everything.
Did Roy have it good before his wife and son died? Or does he come from the school of hard knocks? Does that make it easier? If you had a crappy childhood that made you tough, maybe it’s easier to deal with a tragedy.
So what’s my theory here? Abused kids have it easier? Sure, that’s not problematic at all.
The newspaper said Mr. Showalter had worked in an architect’s office. As a janitor? Or something else? Did he used to be Captain Successful Architect until one day he went home and found his life completely shattered?
One thing’s for sure: Captain Possum has been through hell and back.
On Friday morning, seven o’clock plows into me even harder than usual. Brutal. It should be a sleep-in day. What else is a teacher workday good for? You can’t tell me teachers actually do anything on teacher workdays except stand around drinking bad decaf and complaining about the internet and Kids Today. It’s a day off for everyone except me. For me, it’s Don’t Get Caught Going To Your New Job day.
Even Ruby groans when my alarm goes off. Her tail is pretty much healed, but she’s too sleepy to wag it. I slump out of bed to take a shower; Ruby brings Artoo and falls back asleep on the bathmat.
I dress in multiple layers and stuff more warm clothes in my backpack.
On my way downstairs, I knock on Jeremy’s door. “Wake up,” I whisper. “You have to pick me up in half an hour.”
Muffled groan.
“If you’re late, the deal’s off,” I tell him.
In the kitchen, Mom sets my Zoloft next to my breakfast plate. “I still don’t know about this, Monkey.”
“Dad said it’s okay.” Ha! Take that, lady! Turned the tables and went to Dad first.
“Two whole days, though. It’s too much.” She hands me a bag lunch. “Can’t you just collect pledges and not do the entire Dance-A-Ma-Tron?”
“Salsa-Thon, Mom. You should be happy I’m being social. And philanthropic. It’s for a good cause.”
She makes a face. “This wasn’t exactly our agreement.”
“If you will recall, I got an A on my trig test this week. And all homework in on time, thank you very much.”
“And that’s the only reason I’m agreeing to this. If your grades slip at all after this…this Dancy-A-Jiggama, you are in back in the dog house.”
“Noted, Mom. Jeez. Most parents would be stoked their kid was going to get exercise and raise money for a good cause,” I take my Zoloft with orange juice and bite into whole wheat toast. “Plus, I made a new friend. Aren’t you proud? Dad is.”
“I’m going to ignore the manipulative attempt at triangulation of me and your father, and say that, yes, I am pleased you’ve reached out to someone.”
Rosemary did all the reaching, but let Mom think what she wants. A car horn beeps outside. “That’s her. I’ll be home around 4:30 or 5:00.”
“Love you, Monkey. I am pleased that you’re—”
“Bye.”
Ruby sits at the back door and wags her tail. She always wants to come with me, but this time it’s like she knows I’m going somewhere more exciting than usual. “Sorry, Rubes.” I nuzzle her. “No dogs allowed at dance-a-thons.” She looks at me with those big dark eyes. Ouch.
In the car, Rosemary’s mom is super chatty. Apparently the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. When she drops us off at the YMCA, site of the Salsa-Thon, she calls, “You girls have fun! I’ll pick you up at four.”
We walk slowly, Rosemary waving her mom off. When she finally pulls away, Rosemary giggles. “This is so excellent. Is your brother here yet?”
I scan the parking lot at the side of the building. “No. Wait, yes. Here he is.” I smile at Rosemary. “Thanks again for covering for me.”
“No problem whatsoever.” She gives me a huge, tight hug. Apparently she is pro-hug. At least she’s unambiguous about it: she spreads her arms so wide you can see from miles away that she’s coming in for a landing.
“Good luck,” she says. “Are you nervous? First day at a new job? Which you still haven’t told me about.”
“I will, I swear. I just want to get a few days under my belt.” And hell yes, I’m so nervous I could barf. “Yeah. Kind of nervous.”
She smiles, her eyes wide. “Text me, tell me how it’s going? And later we’ll go out to celebrate.”
“Sounds good. If I survive. And if my parents don’t find out and shoot me.” Oh man. Bad choice of words.
Jeremy is as thrilled as ever to be my chauffeur. I wonder what excuse he gave Mom and Dad about going out so early. Doesn’t matter; he has assumed the position of Jones Family Golden Child.
“Turn here!” He has the music so loud I have to scream directions. “Go up the hill!”
He shouts, “What? This is the way to the Pig Farm Party Shack!”
“I know! It’s on the same road!”
When we get to Mr. Showalter’s, the sun is just reaching the tops of the shorter pines. The place looks smaller in daylight. Jeremy swerves to a stop next to the beat-up truck, which is next to the white van.
Mr. Showalter materializes in the garage door, reaching overhead to pull it down behind him. The way he’s dressed, rugged and sturdy, he looks like a hunter hyphen construction worker. No possum.
When Jeremy sees Mr. Showalter, he frowns and turns down the music. “You sure about this?”
Wha? I gape at my brother. Was that actual concern in his voice? I guess dropping me off in the woods with a stranger is the hidden trigger to some latent sibling protection instinct.
“Oh…,” Rosemary says. “Jamie’s brother.”
“Yeah.” The wheel is slowing down. Where will it stop? My money’s on awkward silence. With a side bet on pity.
“That’s cool you and Emmett are friends. I didn’t realize.” She squints like she’s thinking. “Makes sense, though. You two probably miss Jamie the most out of everyone. I don’t know who was closer to her—I mean, twin or best friend? It’s practically the same thing, in some ways.”
Hold up. The ball just landed on Say one of the truest things Sarah’s heard, ever. My throat contracts; I can’t speak. So I nod.
Rosemary looks stricken again. “I’m sorry! I always say too much.” Then, without hesitation, she adds, “Does it make you sad, talking about Jamie? Should I not? My friends told me not to, but I—”
“No!” I snap. Rosemary looks confused. The girl is trying really, really hard. I start again, more quietly, “No. I don’t mind talking about her.” Actually, sometimes it’s all I want to do.
Rosemary slouches, maybe from relief, but she still looks worried.
I say, “Here’s the thing. Of course it’s sad.” I kind of laugh at myself, “Duh, right? But it’s nice, too.”
Rosemary nods like I should keep talking. Ruby has settled her weight onto me again, but we’re taking turns petting her.
“Hearing you talk about her is just”—what’s the right way to describe it?—“surprising? Because no one ever does. Want to talk about Jamie, I mean. Or even say her name. Like people will burst into flames if they do. It’s pretty impressive you didn’t spontaneously combust right then.” That alone elevates you from high Normal to low Ninja.
She nods more vigorously. “Probably because everyone’s worried they’ll say the wrong thing. Like me! But if I kept my mouth shut in order to not say the wrong thing, I’d never be able to talk at all, you know?”
Yeah, that sounds about right. Hey, look at me! Another snarky comment I managed to not say.
Rosemary continues, “It’s like, when my cat died, my parents wouldn’t mention him in front of me because they didn’t want to make me sad, but that just made it worse, you know? I kept thinking, didn’t they think Picky Picky was important enough to remember?”
“Picky Picky?”
“Yeah, it’s from—”
“Ramona. I loved those books.”
“Me, too! I was six when I named her.”
“I approve.” Although I can’t say I approve of the comparison of cat death to BFF death. Then again, I am slightly attached to the dog lying on me right now.
On the field, the soccer players take their positions for the second half. Emmett kind of jogs in place, waiting.
“I know it’s not the same,” Rosemary says after a while.
“What’s not?”
“A cat and a person. Picky Picky and Jamie.”
“Yeah.”
“But, then again,” she says. “Picky Picky was a good cat. More like a dog, really.”
Hm. Girl sitting next to me: funny, with an edge? Or clueless and airheaded? I’m on the fence, but hoping for the former. And when I notice she’s looking at me sideways, struggling not to grin, I take it as a good sign.
The referee blows his whistle and the field is swept into motion.
“He looks older,” Rosemary says. “Emmett. He got hotter.” She bumps my arm. “But don’t tell Ron I said that!”
“It’s in the vault.”
“The what?”
“The vault.”
“Oh, like a safe? In a bank?”
“Yes.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
We watch the game, and I try to pay attention. But I’m wondering why Rosemary hasn’t gone back to sit with her crew. And I can’t stop thinking about Jamie. She would know what in the vault meant, even if I’d never said it before. No explanations necessary. And the joking thing. Even when she had everyone else fooled, I always knew when James was kidding. She was a diabolical genius. So. There’s that.
And then there’s the teensy matter of betrayal. Is sitting here with Rosemary, is it like cheating on Jamie, trying to replace her? Because I would never. If James were still here, I would never. Even if Rosemary turns out to be awesome, I will never split a locket in half with her and put it on a necklace and wear it forever.
Or…therapy session time: Am I projecting? Because if I really think about it, there’s no way James would want me to mope around like a social pariah. She’d smack me and tell me to get a life.
A little later, Rosemary says, “It’s nice to get a chance to hang out.”
I nod.
“I’ve been wanting to, but…I don’t know. You’ve kind of gone off the radar. And my friends are like ‘Give her some space.’”
“Who said that?”
She shrugs. “Everyone. It’s not that people don’t like you, Sarah. It’s just that you make people kind of…uncomfortable.”
I snort. “Uncomfortable.” Wow. I don’t want to care, but this stings. Like onion in my eyes, stings.
“That came out wrong! I just mean, it’s a hard situation. No one knows how to handle it. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. That came out totally wrong.”
“It’s okay.” I will not cry. I will not cry.
“Anyway,” she gives Ruby a pat and then smacks her knees, stands up. “I should probably get back down there. Do you want to come?”
I shake my head. At least I’m managing not to cry. “It’s best if I stay up here. Because of Ruby. You know.” Plus, God forbid I should make anyone uncomfortable.
“Um, okay.” She takes a few steps down the bleachers before she turns back around. “Hey, you used to take dance lessons, right?”
I nod.
“Well, this might sound stupid, but I signed up for this Salsa-Thon? It’s one of Ms. Gliss’s stupid fund-raisers. But it’s for Breast Cancer Awareness, which you can’t really argue with. It starts Friday morning and goes all day Friday and Saturday. She’s giving extra credit for it, which I need, and no one else will go with me, and I was just wondering if maybe you want to do it?”
Oh, nice. So none of her other friends want to go, so I’m the last-ditch effort? Or the pity invite.
Then again, she didn’t have to ask at all.
Then again…it’s all day Friday and Saturday. The perfect alibi.
“Hey, Rosemary?”
“Hey, Sarah?”
“This might seem weird, but do you think you could help me out with something?”
She crosses her arms. “Depends. Are you going to do the Salsa-Thon?”
“Possibly. Eventually.”
She gives me a confused look. “Are you going to help me raise money for it?”
“Possibly. Eventually.”
“Wait. Is this something I’m going to get in trouble for?”
“Possibly,” I admit, “but not…”
“Ooh!” She claps her hands excitedly. “Is it shocking and outrageous?”
“No, it’s more…sneaky and rebellious.”
“Then yes. I could use some excitement in my life.”
After school the next day, Rubes and I walk over to the cemetery. To spend some time on Jamie’s bench, yes, but also for a bit of recon. I want to check out the area where Mr. Showalter was on the day Dad so rudely interrupted my truancy. I want to know more about him, this strange man who—bam!—appeared out of nowhere, and now keeps turning up. And holds my fate in his hands.
Google won’t help me much; all I can figure out is
1. There are a whole lot of Showalters, none listed in my town, and
2. That I can’t for the life of me remember what Dr. Folger had said his first name was. If he said it at all.
So, recon. Going back to where he was, I find two Showalter graves, right next to each other. One of them is a double grave, the kind with two overlapping hearts.
It says
Roy Showalter Donna Showalter
November 11, 1961– December 30, 1964–October 13, 2005
You were born together, and together
you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings
of death scatter your days.
Aye, you shall be together even in the
silent memory of God.
Holy crap. Is this possible? Was Donna Showalter his wife? And he has this grave reserved for himself? Talk about commitment. If he is Roy Showalter, he’s completely given up on ever remarrying, or even having a girlfriend again. I mean, who’s going to date a guy whose cemetery space is already waiting, right next to his dead wife?
And. If this is his wife, Mr. Showalter must have chosen the epitaph. Gruff Captain Possum picked out this crazy tender love poem. I imagine him reciting it to the engraver. Standing there with his possum and his dirty fingernails, having known this poem, having chosen it. It just doesn’t go with my image of him.
The grave next to the double heart is also a Showalter.
David Leonard Showalter
June 28, 1990 – October 13, 2005
Oh, man. Fifteen years old. His son? With the same date of death as his wife. So his wife and son died on the same day? Must have been an accident. Something sudden. But what?
One thing’s for sure, it didn’t happen in Norwich. A tragedy like this, even if it was just a crazy fluke—actually, especially if it was a crazy fluke—everyone would know about it. Everyone. And these names are new to me.
Now that I have first names, and dates, I go home and Google it again. Ruby curls up on my feet while I tap out the search and scan the results. First hit is a news story from the Binghamton Press & Sun Bulletin. It’s kind of a long one, with a byline, instead of just a snippet-type accident report.
Reading it, I go numb and cold.
MOTHER AND SON DEAD IN APPARENT MURDER-SUICIDE
OCTOBER 14, 2005
BRISBEN, NEW YORK—Local painter Donna Showalter, 40, and son Leon Showalter, 15, were found dead yesterday in their home on Route 12. Police report that Leon Showalter shot his mother to death, using a handgun registered to his father, Roy Showalter. Roy Showalter reported hearing “four or five” gunshots as he returned from his job at Spence Green Architects in Johnson City. Mr. Showalter claims he found his wife dead and his son in a “manic state,” allegedly threatening to shoot his father. The elder Mr. Showalter tried to calm his son, but Leon Showalter turned the gun on himself. His cause of death is listed as a fatal self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head.
Police report that the gun was kept in a lockbox in the basement of the Showalter’s residence, and that the lock showed signs of tampering. A neighbor, who declined to be identified, said that Leon Showalter was known to have suffered from bipolar disorder. “He was a great kid, real smart, but you could tell he was always either really up or very depressed,” the neighbor said.
The county district attorney says no criminal charges have been filed.
Suddenly chilled, I hug myself.
“Are you done yet? Get off the computer.” Jeremy in the doorway. Impeccable timing, as usual.
“Go away.”
“You get five more minutes.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
“Or what?”
“Or…there will be dire consequences.”
“Ha. You got nothing. No leverage.”
“I mean it. Get off the computer. I need it.”
I close the door and prop the chair under the doorknob.
Mr. Showalter had found his wife dead. Had seen the gun in his son’s hands. Knew his son had killed his wife. Then watched his son shoot himself.
It’s beyond awful. How can a person survive something like that?
Is there a comparison chart of horrible experiences? Losing your son and your wife—and knowing that your son murdered your wife and then committed suicide—isn’t that even worse than watching your best friend die?
It’s totally morbid to compare. But that’s what people do, isn’t it? Life is a constant comparison—yourself to others. You figure out who you are, how good or bad you have it, in relation to other people’s situations and experiences.
Like Stenn: he has it great. Never been through anything majorly bad, has a family who loves him, gobs of money, friends, private school. My brother’s got a pretty sweet deal, too: no major traumas, decent parents, friends, that stuff. To be honest, I had it pretty good, too, BJD. But the JD changed everything.
Did Roy have it good before his wife and son died? Or does he come from the school of hard knocks? Does that make it easier? If you had a crappy childhood that made you tough, maybe it’s easier to deal with a tragedy.
So what’s my theory here? Abused kids have it easier? Sure, that’s not problematic at all.
The newspaper said Mr. Showalter had worked in an architect’s office. As a janitor? Or something else? Did he used to be Captain Successful Architect until one day he went home and found his life completely shattered?
One thing’s for sure: Captain Possum has been through hell and back.
On Friday morning, seven o’clock plows into me even harder than usual. Brutal. It should be a sleep-in day. What else is a teacher workday good for? You can’t tell me teachers actually do anything on teacher workdays except stand around drinking bad decaf and complaining about the internet and Kids Today. It’s a day off for everyone except me. For me, it’s Don’t Get Caught Going To Your New Job day.
Even Ruby groans when my alarm goes off. Her tail is pretty much healed, but she’s too sleepy to wag it. I slump out of bed to take a shower; Ruby brings Artoo and falls back asleep on the bathmat.
I dress in multiple layers and stuff more warm clothes in my backpack.
On my way downstairs, I knock on Jeremy’s door. “Wake up,” I whisper. “You have to pick me up in half an hour.”
Muffled groan.
“If you’re late, the deal’s off,” I tell him.
In the kitchen, Mom sets my Zoloft next to my breakfast plate. “I still don’t know about this, Monkey.”
“Dad said it’s okay.” Ha! Take that, lady! Turned the tables and went to Dad first.
“Two whole days, though. It’s too much.” She hands me a bag lunch. “Can’t you just collect pledges and not do the entire Dance-A-Ma-Tron?”
“Salsa-Thon, Mom. You should be happy I’m being social. And philanthropic. It’s for a good cause.”
She makes a face. “This wasn’t exactly our agreement.”
“If you will recall, I got an A on my trig test this week. And all homework in on time, thank you very much.”
“And that’s the only reason I’m agreeing to this. If your grades slip at all after this…this Dancy-A-Jiggama, you are in back in the dog house.”
“Noted, Mom. Jeez. Most parents would be stoked their kid was going to get exercise and raise money for a good cause,” I take my Zoloft with orange juice and bite into whole wheat toast. “Plus, I made a new friend. Aren’t you proud? Dad is.”
“I’m going to ignore the manipulative attempt at triangulation of me and your father, and say that, yes, I am pleased you’ve reached out to someone.”
Rosemary did all the reaching, but let Mom think what she wants. A car horn beeps outside. “That’s her. I’ll be home around 4:30 or 5:00.”
“Love you, Monkey. I am pleased that you’re—”
“Bye.”
Ruby sits at the back door and wags her tail. She always wants to come with me, but this time it’s like she knows I’m going somewhere more exciting than usual. “Sorry, Rubes.” I nuzzle her. “No dogs allowed at dance-a-thons.” She looks at me with those big dark eyes. Ouch.
In the car, Rosemary’s mom is super chatty. Apparently the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. When she drops us off at the YMCA, site of the Salsa-Thon, she calls, “You girls have fun! I’ll pick you up at four.”
We walk slowly, Rosemary waving her mom off. When she finally pulls away, Rosemary giggles. “This is so excellent. Is your brother here yet?”
I scan the parking lot at the side of the building. “No. Wait, yes. Here he is.” I smile at Rosemary. “Thanks again for covering for me.”
“No problem whatsoever.” She gives me a huge, tight hug. Apparently she is pro-hug. At least she’s unambiguous about it: she spreads her arms so wide you can see from miles away that she’s coming in for a landing.
“Good luck,” she says. “Are you nervous? First day at a new job? Which you still haven’t told me about.”
“I will, I swear. I just want to get a few days under my belt.” And hell yes, I’m so nervous I could barf. “Yeah. Kind of nervous.”
She smiles, her eyes wide. “Text me, tell me how it’s going? And later we’ll go out to celebrate.”
“Sounds good. If I survive. And if my parents don’t find out and shoot me.” Oh man. Bad choice of words.
Jeremy is as thrilled as ever to be my chauffeur. I wonder what excuse he gave Mom and Dad about going out so early. Doesn’t matter; he has assumed the position of Jones Family Golden Child.
“Turn here!” He has the music so loud I have to scream directions. “Go up the hill!”
He shouts, “What? This is the way to the Pig Farm Party Shack!”
“I know! It’s on the same road!”
When we get to Mr. Showalter’s, the sun is just reaching the tops of the shorter pines. The place looks smaller in daylight. Jeremy swerves to a stop next to the beat-up truck, which is next to the white van.
Mr. Showalter materializes in the garage door, reaching overhead to pull it down behind him. The way he’s dressed, rugged and sturdy, he looks like a hunter hyphen construction worker. No possum.
When Jeremy sees Mr. Showalter, he frowns and turns down the music. “You sure about this?”
Wha? I gape at my brother. Was that actual concern in his voice? I guess dropping me off in the woods with a stranger is the hidden trigger to some latent sibling protection instinct.
