The Scattering Page 18

  “Which leaves you to go back for the girls.”

  I nod. “There’s a chance Kelsey is already out. That’s what I’m hoping, I guess. Or if she isn’t, that Leo will get us to Kelsey’s sister and maybe she’ll have some better ideas about how to get everyone out.” And I do hope that—no matter how unlikely.

  Jasper looks down like he’s considering. “Okay,” he says finally. Like he’s come to a conclusion. “If that’s how you feel, that’s good enough for me.” He motions to the computer. “Let’s go.”

  But when I try to turn on the computer, nothing happens.

  “Shit, the battery is dead,” I say. “There’s got to be a cord around here somewhere.”

  I push off the stool and open a narrow drawer to my right. Nothing. The huge kitchen is filled with drawers and more drawers. But I need to find that cord even if it means I have to go through every inch of the house.

  “I’ll help,” Jasper offers and the two of us start opening one mostly empty drawer after the next. “She barely has anything in here. How does she even live?”

  I shrug. “Takeout.”

  There are only two drawers left to look in on my side, one—thin and wide—probably holds silverware. And a smaller one that is our last reasonable shot. When I jerk it open a manila envelope slides hard forward and bumps against the front of the drawer. I freeze, staring down at it. At the words written on the front: David Rosenfeld, January 12. Unmistakably in my mother’s handwriting. Dated this year, too, right before she died. I blink once, then again. I even shake my head.

  All I can think to do is close my eyes again. Hope that when I open them it will be gone. “Do you see that? In the drawer?” I manage finally.

  “Um.” Jasper seems more confused than anything. “You mean this?”

  When I look, he has the envelope in his hand like it is nothing. No. Big. Deal. And it wouldn’t be maybe if my mom and Rachel had been in touch anytime in the past five years.

  “Will you check what’s in it?” I ask.

  “Sure,” Jasper says, but more hesitantly now. He pulls something out of the envelope and squints down at it. “They’re photographs: a building, a few people. Do you want to see them?”

  “Those are my mom’s,” I say, my voice trembling. “Rachel shouldn’t have them.”

  Breathe, I tell myself as I stare down. But my lungs feel encased in cement. I grip the counter hard to steady myself.

  “Is it possible your dad gave them to her?” Jasper offers.

  “No,” I say.

  Because I do not believe for one second that’s actually what happened. Finally, I get myself to take the envelope from Jasper, but still I do not look inside.

  Instead, I move quickly out of the kitchen, opening every drawer I pass—the ones in the living room bookcase and then the foyer. Furniture, built-ins. Anything with a knob I can tug on.

  “What are you looking for?” Jasper asks, following behind me. I can tell that he wants to know only so that he can help.

  “For something else she shouldn’t have,” I say.

  Like maybe something in a box shoved at the way bottom of her T-shirt drawer. I turn for the stairs.

  “Where are you going?” Jasper shouts as I race up.

  “She has this weird box in her drawer,” I call back when Jasper finally catches up to me in Rachel’s bedroom. I yank open her bureau and feel around underneath her clothes.

  My hands tremble as I pull the box out. Even more so when I lift the lid.

  Inside is a ring. A plain silver band like so many others. But when I peer closer, I can see words etched inside, part of a longer Yeats poem about love that I recognize. Because the whole poem is a piece of history. My history. My parents’ history. The first half—I would ride with you upon the wind—is engraved in my father’s wedding ring. The second half—And dance upon the mountains like a flame—is in my mother’s ring.

  And that’s the ring sitting here now in Rachel’s drawer.

  20

  IT TAKES US A WHILE TO GET TO HARVARD’S SPRAWLING CAMPUS, AND EVEN longer to find the information center. It is a little past eight p.m. when we finally get inside. We luck out on the woman behind the desk, a friendly grandmotherly type who seems not the least bit concerned that two random people want to know where any crew team members might hang out on campus during summer. Instead, she points us in the direction of the MAC, the Malkin Athletic Center, where some of the crew team apparently sometimes works out, even during the off-season. (The woman behind the desk does not approve of such a strenuous, year-round schedule—that much is clear.) We just have to hope that Leo is one of those summer holdovers.

  We walk in silence across the dark, quiet campus, headed—at least we hope—in the direction of the MAC. Twice I stop to ask where it is, and both times we discover that we have gotten off course. Not terribly, but enough that it feels like a bad sign. Like maybe we will walk on and on in circles and never actually get anywhere.

  Jasper doesn’t point out how unlikely it is that this little excursion to the Harvard student gym will result in us finding Leo. Never mind the even slimmer chance that Leo will lead to Kelsey’s sister. Or that Kelsey’s sister will lead us to Kelsey. Or that all of us together will get the girls out of the hospital.

  Jasper hasn’t said one negative or discouraging word since we left Rachel’s house. But I can feel how much he is thinking them. There is a part of me that wonders if he might even be right. The bigger part of me—the part of me that feels—knows, though, that we are headed in the exact right direction. That we have to be.

  The endless walking does give me an unfortunate amount of time to think about my dead mother’s ring somehow ending up in her ex–best friend’s drawer, though. I’m glad I took it with me, that I am wearing it now on the chain Teresa gave me. And the photographs, too, stuffed into the tote bag on my shoulder. There is some comfort, at least, in having them close to me. Like I’ve just rescued some small part of my mom.

  But rescued her from what? What could the ring and the photographs have been doing there in Rachel’s house? When my mind drifts toward explanations, they are all too awful to let myself linger. The only thing I know for sure is that Rachel is hiding something.

  The MAC is finally in sight when the burner phone rings again. It’s Rachel, of course. She’s the only one who knows that phone number. Without a voice mail, the phone rings forever. A moment after it finally stops, a text comes instead.

  Where are you? it reads. I just got home.

  I take a breath and think about tossing the phone. But what if she’s found out something about my dad? Whether or not she’ll answer me truthfully, I have no idea. I don’t know what Rachel’s motives are for anything anymore. But I have to at least try.

  Did you find my dad?

  Not yet. You should be here Wylie. Where r u?

  I think about sending her a nasty note back, telling her that I found the ring and the pictures. That I know she’s lying about something. A lot probably. Telling her off would just feel good in the moment, though. I’m better off not revealing what I know.

  Had to do something, I type, and it’s slow going on that phone. Be back soon. Sorry.

  No. Not safe. Come back.

  “Rachel?” Jasper asks when I turn off the phone and jam it awkwardly into my pocket. “Do you honestly think she’s involved in all this somehow?”

  Is that what I think? No, not exactly. Something bad and deceitful, but not exactly that.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But something is not right.”

  THE HUGE, GLEAMING Malkin Athletic Center is buzzing with life when we finally get there. At the main desk inside is a heavyset, round-faced kid with hair hanging in his face, eyes fixed on his lap at what I’m guessing is his phone hidden from view. There’s a big, unfortunate sign on the counter next to him that reads No Admittance Without Proper University ID.

  “Hi,” I say when the kid still does not look up.

  “Yeah?”
he asks and not at all in a friendly way.

  Shame, that’s what I feel when his eyes finally flick in my direction. There is no mistaking it. Like maybe we caught him surfing porn. But his shame feels less specific than that. For sure, he wants us to disappear. No, wait. That’s not it. He wants for him to disappear.

  “We’re looking for my brother, Leo Berkowitz. He’s on the crew team.” I worked out the lie right after we left Rachel’s house. And I feel pretty good about it. “There’s been a family emergency. Leo’s phone is off, and I can’t find him. I know he comes here a lot.”

  Family emergency sounds like death or serious injury and is also vague enough to discourage follow-up questions.

  “You got ID?” The kid points toward the sign. He is totally and completely unmoved.

  “Um, I don’t go to school here, so how would I have ID?” I ask slowly, trying to read my way through to this kid. Trying to figure out what might make me more sympathetic, make him more likely to help. But I am coming up empty. Like maybe nothing will. “I only want to run into the weight room and see if Leo is there or if anyone’s seen him. It’ll only take a second. Like I said, it’s a family emergency.”

  But the kid is already shaking his head again. He points to the sign again. “No ID, no inside,” he says, pleased with himself and the certainty of his job.

  “Then could you go in the weight room and see if he’s there? Or if anyone knows where he is?” I ask. This is not my first choice, but I’ll take it. I need to find Leo.

  The kid makes a kind of snorting noise. “No way.”

  Ah, that’s what his shame is about. The students who use the center. The athletes. At some point, he was harassed, made a fool of, casually abused by some big, muscular guys in that weight room. And ever since, he’s kept his head so far down his forehead is attached to the floor. Or something like that. I’ll have to use it, too. It’s all I have.

  “You know they’ll do something way worse to you when they find out that you didn’t let me see Leo,” I say. “I mean, it is a family emergency. And they are his friends, right?”

  The kid looks up wide-eyed, then pissed off. He is in a lose-lose situation now and he knows it. Finally, he shrugs like he doesn’t even care anymore. Even though I can feel that he actually cares more than ever.

  “Fine, but you only.” He points to Jasper, then to the wall some distance away. “He waits over there.”

  I nod to Jasper before heading quickly back toward the glass-walled weight room, afraid the kid might change his mind. I practice what I plan to say to Leo again in my head. I need to find your girlfriend. Something has happened to her sister. And then he’ll have questions, no doubt. I’ll have to tell him the truth, no matter how unbelievable.

  THROUGH THE GLASS window of the insanely huge weight room, I can see more than a dozen people—mostly bulky men, but a few women—making their way through reps on machines and with free weights.

  When I finally step inside, the whole room does not screech to a halt like I’m afraid it will. No one even seems to notice me. I look around for someone who could be Leo, now wishing I’d stuck around Rachel’s long enough to find that computer cord and search up a picture or two of him. It had seemed so much more important to get out. And more important than ever not to use Jasper’s phone.

  “Um, do any of you know where I can find Leo Berkowitz?” I call out.

  No one even glances my way. I wonder if maybe I didn’t actually speak. Until I meet eyes with one guy in the far corner, who shakes his head at his lifting partner. When the partner turns, I see he has on a Harvard crew T-shirt. He is sinewy and tall, his dark hair buzzed so tight that it looks gray. And he just looks like an ass. Not Leo. At least I hope not. He is way too far away to get a read on.

  “Come on.” A girl has appeared next to me. She is broad shouldered and tall, nearly six feet of pure muscle in her yellow shorts and neon-green sports bra. “Let’s go. Out.”

  When I don’t move, she puts a hand on my back and shoves.

  “Hey!” I snap back at her even as I try to keep my voice down. Starting a commotion could get the kid at the desk to come after me. “Don’t touch me.”

  But when our eyes meet, I feel it. Clear as day. She is afraid: for me.

  “You’re not supposed to come here,” she whispers angrily as we step out of the weight room. Or that’s how she sounds. Because what I feel when she finally stops to look at me is fear, not anger. “Didn’t they tell you that?”

  They who? There are infinite possibilities. None of them especially good.

  “I don’t know who you’re—”

  “Stop,” she says, a hand raised in my face. And just like that all of her feelings vanish, and up goes that brick wall. Like Kelsey’s.

  “You’re blocking me,” I say, even though I would have said a second earlier that I would be better off not saying anything.

  “You can’t shut up, can you?” She’s irritated. Or I’m assuming irritated. All I can read now is that brick wall. “Just go to Delaney’s.” She rolls her eyes when I stare blankly at her. “The bar where Leo works. And don’t go around asking everyone where he is when you get there. He’s the only barback with a ponytail.” She pulls back and looks me up and down, then shakes her head. “Seriously, you have got to start keeping your mouth shut. It’s bad for everyone.”

  And with that she turns and heads back toward the weight room. I watch through the glass as the guy in the crew T-shirt shouts something at her from across the room. But she just holds up her middle finger in response, which makes his lifting partner laugh.

  WE ASK FIVE people on campus where Delaney’s is and none of them have a clue. Jasper even quickly checks the map on his phone. It only takes a second to realize that Delaney’s isn’t listed.

  “Now what?” Jasper asks, swiping his phone off and slipping it in his back pocket. “Maybe it’s not even a real place?”

  “It’s real,” I say, though I wonder again if my hope is getting in the way of my actual instincts.

  We continue on through campus, asking student after student if they’ve heard of Delaney’s. Even though that is probably the opposite of keeping my mouth shut. Each time they say no. But then the students we’re asking—the ones alone, carrying books even during the summer—are the exact wrong ones.

  It isn’t until we are almost at the gates on the other side of campus that I finally spot a much better alternative: a pack of totally wasted people.

  “Them,” I say to Jasper, pointing. “Come on.”

  And sure enough, when we finally stop them, Delaney’s is exactly where they are coming from.

  “It’s down these teeny-tiny little street,” one girl slurs, pointing toward the sky like the street is above her. Her thick white-blond hair is in two long pigtails that tick back and forth as she sways unsteadily. “And it’s got a ½ on the door. 81½, 52½, 96½, I don’t fucking remember. Do you guys?” Her friends mumble in the negative. “Anyway, that’s it—the number, but no sign. And it’s awesome.” She nods knowingly, then places a finger squarely on the tip of my nose. “But it’s a speakeasy. So you have to look for the half.”

  FINALLY, WE FIND the nondescript door halfway down Concord Alley in a very old, dark building. It’s wider than a single brownstone, but not quite as big as an apartment building. And the girl was right: a tarnished brass 89½ in the center of the door is the only sign. There are windows, but they are dark, maybe covered with curtains. When I go to open the door, I expect it to be locked. For someone inside to ask for a code, for a chain to keep us out. But the door opens easily. There’s a second one inside, also unlocked, and beyond that a curtained vestibule. Pausing there, I can hear a single voice, speaking eerily into silence.

  When I finally push my way through the curtain, there are in fact lots of people there, just all facing the stage at the far end, all quiet. The floor is covered with sawdust, and there are black-and-white photos of musicians hanging on the walls, painted a fading red
. When I stand on my toes, I can make out a man at the microphone. Short and rumpled in a baseball cap and a baggy sweater, he sounds much more confident than you’d expect him to be. And no wonder, with the crowd hanging on his every word. Not that I can make any of them out. Back on my flat feet, my only view is a wall of backs, and his words are all muffled.

  I meet eyes with a husky bald guy with hoop earrings and a black leather vest perched on a stool near the door. Definitely the bouncer. He squints at us, like he is trying to decide if we are worth the bother of pushing to his feet.

  “Let’s go,” Jasper says, noticing him too.

  We weave our way through the bodies, more tightly packed as we get farther back toward the stage, until finally there is a small corner of space near the bar—though kind of unfortunately right in the bouncer’s sight line. Already the next person is onstage, a very tall girl wearing a beatnik paisley skirt and cowboy boots.

  When I glance over my shoulder toward the bar, I can see a bartender hard at work, opening beer bottles and taking crumpled dollar bills. I don’t think he’s Leo. He looks older than college age, maybe even in his thirties. Also, he does not have a ponytail.

  It occurs to me now how risky this is. My search for Leo has become a search for a guy at Delaney’s with a ponytail. The girl in the green jog bra renegotiated my terms. She could be sending me to find anyone, theoretically. But one thing that was for sure not theoretical? Her blocking me exactly the way Kelsey did. That was not something she made up. And right now, that’s enough for me. No, maybe not enough. But it’s all I have.

  Finally, I spot somebody farther down the bar, on the other side of the bartender. He is bent over and pulling glasses out of a rack like a barback and not a bartender might. When he finally stands, sure enough, I can see light brown hair pulled back in a short ponytail. Lit up behind the bar, his face is a series of elegant angles. Leo, definitely.