Ultimately, my time alone with Eleanor was tense, sad, painful, and hopeful. We didn’t talk about Lawrence. We got manicures and pedicures. She bought me a cashmere sweater. We ate lunch at the Neighborhood Café. I introduced her to Eddie and her first breakfast burrito. “These are good,” I told her. “But McDonald’s are sublime.”
“Well, I’ll definitely have to try one, then.”
This made us both laugh; as if.
Which is more or less how we acted: as if. As if she and I were a real mother and a real daughter. As if her younger son wasn’t a rapist. As if I hadn’t betrayed her. As if she hadn’t betrayed me. As if we could be a family once the trial was over. Eleanor lives her life as if; it’s why she’s so cool, so serene. But I don’t want to, not anymore. I need to call everything by its actual name. I need to hang on to known things, to the realness of words, to a world governed by facts, where truth is paramount. I can’t do it yet, but I’m trying. This may account for my panic attacks over the weekend—full-throttled assaults that wracked my body like seizures. As if the me that had agreed to bury our secrets was finally saying no.
In our own ways, Eleanor and I are beginning the long, hard process of making sense of the past. For her, this means accepting that her instincts were wrong; for me, it’s the opposite. We don’t get a happy ending. But it may be a promising start. I recognize that to let Eleanor off the hook is to forsake myself. But to not forgive her means forsaking myself in other ways; it means accepting a life polluted by bitterness and blame.
On Sunday evening, she and I drove from New Haven to the hotel, each in our own car. After a long couple of days filled with unnatural togetherness, I was glad to be alone. In the parking lot, I ran into DeFiore, who’d stopped by to help Billy prep. “Billy is guilty,” I blurted out. To which he replied, unfazed, “I’m optimistic, kiddo. We argued an excellent case.” I suspect DeFiore doesn’t care about my brother’s innocence. Rather, he prefers to win, but he’s lost before and will lose again.
“Thank you for appearing today,” DeFiore says to Billy now, stepping closer to the witness box. “I recognize this is not easy.”
No, it’s not, I think, trying to focus on Billy’s testimony. I’m torn between believing my brother should pay for what he’s done, and my kneejerk need to protect him and satisfy Eleanor. The same way I’m torn between telling the world the truth about Lawrence, and my need to protect him—and myself.
“Lawrence ruined all of you,” Haggerty said once. “Why protect him?”
“How do you figure?” I asked.
“Your childhood. Your ‘days of wonder.’ Three kids, golden beaches, a hidden cove. He destroyed that life. Not just for you. For your brothers too.”
“It’s complicated,” I said, but like in so many other significant ways, I hadn’t considered my brothers.
Lawrence did stop calling, though I admit I continued to check my phone and listen to his messages. He moved into a hotel in the West Village, and although he didn’t say so, he chose his new location with me in mind: the West Village is my favorite part of the city. Eleanor did shut down his bank accounts and credit cards. But Lawrence has money stashed away, which I know because his rainy-day fund was going to tide us over while we waited for my money to come in. Nate and I spoke several times over the weekend. Our calls weren’t long or deep, but they were honest. He was describing how his dad left the Valmont and only packed one bag. “One fucking bag!” Nate couldn’t believe it. “He honestly thinks he’s coming back.”
That’s Lawrence, I told him.
At the moment, we’re all here together. I’m seated between Nate and Eleanor. Occasionally, they’ll each take a hand. Partly for comfort, partly to show the court where their loyalties lie. Lawrence is two people away from me, on the other side of the Bowtie. Billy, the rapist, is on the stand. We’re the Quinns. Five strong. A united front.
*
An hour later, Billy is deep into his testimony. “Yes,” he says to DeFiore. “I fell hard for Diana. When we met, I felt like the luckiest guy in the world.”
My brother doesn’t possess the full spectrum of his father’s charisma, but he can perform on command. Today, he’s peak Billy, everybody’s All American. His gray suit is new and almost a perfect fit. Over the weekend, I heard him tell Eleanor he had no time for alterations. “First suit I ever bought by myself, Mom. I mean, without you. Deacon was with me.”
Eleanor’s voice twinkled like chimes. “Another milestone. I’m proud of you. And Deacon?”
“Two suits, shirts, sweaters—the whole deal. I used your house account.”
“Yes,” she said. “That’s exactly right.”
Tailored or not, the suit is a stunner. Billy always looks great, which is a gift or a curse. According to social scientists, handsome men are better liked, more highly valued, and perceived as morally superior to their unattractive peers. Handsome serial killers, for instance, are less likely to be seen as suspects. So, in the right setting, a guy like my brother, like Lawrence, could get away with murder.
Today, handsome as he is, Billy looks waxy. He used too much pomade, so his hair is stiff and shiny. Under the lights, he appears coated in plastic, like a mannequin.
Nate is thinking the same thing. “What’s wrong with his face?” he whispers.
“It’s not his face. It’s his hair.”
“He looks demented.”
“You’re demented,” I whisper, out of habit.
For the next two hours, Billy answers questions about Diana, Princeton, running, medical school, and porn. Meanwhile, Nate and I play Hangman. I solve his puzzle quickly: N A T E T H E G R E A T I S K I N G. But he takes longer to solve mine: B I L L Y Q U I N N D I D I T.
Watching his face, I expect him to cross out the letters. Instead, he lets them stand, and wads up the paper. “Thought you were a true believer,” I whisper.
“I was until I wasn’t.” Nate shrugs. “Still, I don’t want him to go to prison.”
“He might.” I glance at Anderson, who is champing at the bit, eager for DeFiore to wrap up so he can crucify Billy on cross.
“Yes,” Billy is saying. “Diana told me about Cassie and my father. But I didn’t want to believe it.”
“And now?” DeFiore asks.
“Now I have no choice; I have to accept the truth. Nate, Cassie, and I had an idyllic childhood. It was fun and lighthearted. But as we got older, it got darker. My dad was always attentive to Cassie. But when I was ten, he crossed the line from paternal affection to—I don’t know—something disturbing. Like a boy with a crush. He treated her like a g-g-g-girlfriend. Touched her c-c-c-constantly. Doted on her in this creepy way. When I think about it now, I’m sickened. But as a kid, I didn’t know how to describe what I was seeing. I kept doubting myself. If it was wrong, then why didn’t anyone stop it? Eventually, I decided my father must be normal, which made me the abnormal one. A p-p-p-pervert. Disgusting.”
“But Diana noticed it?”
“Immediately. She said it was nuts, like the room was on fire but we kept stepping around the flames.”