“Hey, hey, kiddo,” he says. “Slow it down.”
I order another, then a third. Marcus switches to whiskey. Soon, we’re drunk. Well, I am. We laugh uproariously at everything, funny or not. He touches my thighs, my face. I lean in too far and almost fall off my stool. When I catch myself, I look up.
I gasp. Anton is sitting across the bar. His son, Joey, is to his right.
Quickly, I grab Marcus. “We have to go.” My heart clangs in my chest. I look again. Anton is still there. But is it Anton? I can’t tell, it’s so dark.
In the cab, speeding downtown, Marcus soothes me. “Don’t think twice about it.” He’s not worried; or if he is, doesn’t show it. “You’re not sure it was him. Or if he saw us.” The other point he didn’t make, though I know he thought it: Anton Rivera is a doorman. Joey Rivera is his son. Neither of them is a person worth considering, if a person at all.
28
WOOZY, I STEP OUT OF THE ELEVATOR. THE HOUSE IS DARK except for a dim light in the celebration room. I head down the hall, and find Lawrence slumped in his chair, watching CNN with the sound off.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” I switch on the lamp.
“Wow, that’s bright.” He shields his eyes.
Lawrence is holding a wineglass; an empty bottle sits on the floor. Clearly, the stress is crushing him. His hair is matted, his cheeks are sunken. There’s a dusting of white stubble on his chin. He looks beaten down.
I shut off the light and sit down on the couch.
“Have a glass of wine,” he says.
“Nothing for me, thanks.” I don’t like to drink with Lawrence, but I’ll keep him company. I glance at the TV. “Any news about Billy?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet, but it’s coming. Just watch. By mid-September—boom. The whole thing will explode again.”
“You still think he should take a plea?” I look at the screen instead of at him.
“Well, Cass, here’s what will happen if he doesn’t. The press will ramp up their efforts. They will enter this house, take out their knives, and carve up the walls. They will expose every intimate detail they find, meaningful or not, and trump up a story to get readers. Clicks and eyeballs—that’s the news model. The public will hang Billy weeks before his trial even starts.”
“And Billy will go to prison forever.”
“And yes, your brother will go to prison. You know what else? The Stockton-Quinn foundation will lose any hope of funding. No one will offer Nate a job. My clients will dry up. Eleanor will be ostracized. God knows what will happen to you—or where any of us will live once we’re forced out of here.”
“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.”