The Truth According to Us (58 page)

I shook my head.

He stood. “Just a minute.” The way he walked, he might have been on a sidewalk. He slipped through the window again and came back out with his own bedspread. He folded it into a neat pad and put it down for me. “There,” he said.

“Thanks.”

“Think nothing of it.”

I lay back and he did, too, and for a long time we didn't say anything. Then I propped myself up to see if he was asleep, because if he was, I'd keep watch to make sure he didn't roll off the roof. His eyes were closed, so I studied him. He looked kind of raggedy, not so spruce as he usually was. He had a stain on his pants. I wondered did he wash his own clothes. It hurt my heart to picture that. Without opening his eyes, he spoke. “Why'd you do it, Willa?”

“What?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure what he meant.

“You know.” He waved his fingers. “Tare's basement. Looking in those cases.” His eyes opened and he stared at the sky. “Why?”

“I wanted”—I chased after the right words—“I wanted to know about you. I thought that if I knew what you were doing and where you
were, I'd be part of you. Like we'd be working together, even if you didn't know it.” I gulped a little. “When I went down to Mr. Russell's basement, I thought I was going to find whiskey.”

“Jesus,” he breathed.

“I'm a bootlegger, too,” I confessed. I wanted him to know everything. “But I buy my whiskey from Mr. Houdyshell.”

He hitched around to look at me. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I explained about Mrs. Bucklew and Mrs. John and the basket and the Four Roses whiskey. While he was listening, he put his hands up to his face to shade it.

“So we're both outlaws,” I finished.

Father lifted his hand away, and I saw that he was laughing. At me. He shook his head in wonder and said, “Who would have thought it? You, of all people. I would have put my money on Bird.”

I drew myself up. “I am a natural-born sneak. I did it all summer long, and I didn't get caught.”

His smile disappeared. “And you think it's fun?”

That gave me pause. “No,” I said slowly. “I'm just good at it.”

He nodded, and his face was grim. “Yeah, I know. I'm good at it, too. It's a goddamn curse, how good I am at it.”

“Same here,” I said, thinking of my dream. If I'd gone to Minerva's like I was supposed to, I would never have had to dream that awful dream. It was a curse.

“You should probably stop, then,” he said.

“I have,” I said with dignity. “I don't want to know anything anymore.”

“You're something fierce, Willa,” he said with a little smile.

“That's because I'm like you,” I said. “I get it from you.”

“No,” he said quick. “Don't wish for that.” He propped himself up on his elbows and looked out into the trees. “How's Jottie?” he asked quietly.

“I think she misses you,” I said.

“I doubt it.” He let his breath out through his teeth. “She has Sol, the Honest Injun.”

“He's honest,” I agreed. But I was thinking about Mr. McKubin sitting on our porch and how Jottie was when he was there. “I don't think she's going to marry him, though.” I listened to myself say the words and thought, She won't.

He swiveled his head to look at me. “Says who?”

“Says me,” I said slowly, fitting my ideas together. “He likes everybody, Mr. McKubin does, and he's nice, I guess, but that's not what Jottie cares about, just being nice. Any old body can be nice.” I frowned. “And then, when he's around, she's quiet. Not the way she really is. It's like she doesn't want to talk, because he won't understand what she means.” Father's eyes narrowed. “The happiest I saw her since—you know—was when she got that coat.” I smiled to think of it. “She was like me: She didn't know what it was at first, and then she knew. She remembered it. And she closed her eyes and was so
happy
. She was happier with Vause Hamilton's coat than she is with Mr. McKubin.”

“Well, yeah,” Father said, like it was perfectly reasonable that she would love a dead man's coat more than the person she was supposed to marry. “It's Vause.”

“And it's Jottie, too,” I started to say, when suddenly he sat up straight, looking down Academy Street.

There she was. She was walking, alone, past the Caseys' house. I could see her perfectly, her locket shining against the front of her dress, her tan hat on her dark hair, her worn purse hooked over her wrist. Plenty of people would have thought she looked just like anybody, but she wasn't, and all the ones who say that's the truth about most people don't understand what she was.

Father smiled, watching her.

She passed the Lloyds' house. “Stand up,” I said. “She'll see us then.”

“Nah,” he said, his eyes following her. “I'd better go.”

“No!” I cried, but he rose, moving quickly toward the window. Leaving. “No!” I didn't even think about falling off. I stood up, grabbed his
hand, and pulled him around, and for the first time in my life, I was faster than he was. “Jottie!” I called.

She looked from side to side before she looked up. “Willa! What in God's name do you think—” She stopped. She didn't say anything, just looked and breathed in and out.

Father didn't say anything, either.

“Come on up,” I said finally.

“Hey, Jottie,” Father croaked. He cleared his throat. “Hey.”

She frowned. “I told you not to come here, Felix.”

“Oh, Jottie,
please
,
”
I begged. “Please come up. For just a minute.”

She didn't say anything. After a moment, she went inside.

—

Father sat down—dropped, practically—and we waited. For a while I was worried that she wasn't going to come. But then we heard her at the window. I turned around to watch. Jottie could walk the roof just like Father could—you'd think she did it every day of her life, that's how graceful and calm she was. I made room for her on my bedspread and she sat beside me. She and Father didn't talk and they didn't look at each other, either. They just sat in silence for ages.

“How was the sesquicentennial?” I inquired politely.

“Boring,” said Jottie. “You're talking, I notice.”

I made a face at her and tried another subject. “Did you have some ice cream?”

“No.”

This from Jottie, who was always telling us that polite conversation was the ball bearing of civilization. I began to get scared. What if they didn't speak at all? Father would leave, and she'd never let him come back. Anxiously, I peered out into the leafy emptiness for a topic.

Finally Jottie said, “Hank's got a warrant out on you.”

Father looked at her quickly and nodded, but he didn't speak.

All of a sudden, she shuddered all over, the way a horse does when it's got something on it. “No,” she said, and got to her feet. “I'm sorry, Willa. No. It's too late.” Father turned his head away.

She made to go, but I quick grabbed her skirt in my hand. She'd rip
it if she kept walking. “Jottie. Stop. I can explain.” I couldn't wait for them.

She stopped. “You can explain what?”

“What happened.” I closed my eyes so I could tell her how I saw it in my head. “He didn't expect it,” I began. “He didn't think it would happen the way it did, with the flames burning up the walls so quick.” I looked at Father. He was still facing away, but he was listening. “He never thought that they'd get hurt or that one of them might die. He'd never thought that could happen, but then, all of a sudden, it was happening, and he didn't know what to do.” Jottie lowered herself down, listening. “And later, when he found out Vause was dead, he felt so sick he thought he might die himself, because in just that one little minute, he'd lost everything.” I was still holding her skirt, and I yanked on it.
“Everything
. And he'd done it to himself. It was all his own fault. Just like me. I ruined everything. I wrecked Father's life and my own, too, and, Jottie”—I had her now; she was watching me—“if I could have thought of it quick enough, I would have lied, too. I would have said anything to keep you from sending Father away.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, squeezing my hand. “It's not the same. Not at all—”

“I feel like it is,” I said. “I feel sick every time I think of it. I feel so sick I wish I could disappear.”

“Me too.” Father turned to look at me. “How'd you figure all that out?”

“I thought about it until I could picture it.”

“Yeah, well, you got it right.” He shook his head, so tiredly I could hardly bear it. “And like you said, when I think of it now, I wish I could disappear. Or maybe smash my head in so I don't have to remember it anymore.” He swung around to look at Jottie, with his red eyes, but she ducked away so she wouldn't have to look back. He pulled in a breath. “The last time I saw him alive, the last minute, was when we came through Parnell's door and saw the whole corridor was on fire. I couldn't believe how big it had gotten.” He ran his hand over his face. “It had been almost nothing before. Just a half hour before, it had been nothing.
I yelled that we should go through Arlie's office; it was burning, but we could still get out if we ran fast. Vause didn't answer; he was turning around and around, trying to find a way out, but he looked over, and I could see what he was thinking. He was thinking, I've wasted my life on you, Felix. It was right there on his face, like he'd finally figured it out, like I'd been playing him for a sucker his whole life.” Father stopped for a second, remembering. “He looked at me like I was something he wouldn't touch. I tried to pull him, come on, come on, let's go this way, but, you know, he was stronger than me—he hit my hand away and ran, back toward the stairs, because he didn't believe me anymore. He didn't believe I would have done anything to get him out.” He hunched his shoulders. “I would have done anything, Jottie.”

She didn't lift her head.

“There was so much smoke,” he went on, “I couldn't see, and it was so loud I couldn't hear. I was shouting and I couldn't hear it. I ran back the way he'd gone, but I couldn't see him—I couldn't see anything. Then I thought maybe he'd made it down the stairs, so I ran down; they were just about to collapse, and I crashed into the door. That's how I found it. Okay, I thought, he's outside, he's safe, so I went outside and then”—he gave a little groan—“there were people everywhere. I ran, I looked for Vause, all up and down the streets. We hadn't made a plan to meet up, because I thought we'd be together, so I just ran up and down and up and down, looking for him, until I had to hide, you know, at Tare's.” Father rubbed his hands against his knees, back and forth. “I had a few hours where I still thought he'd gotten out, for sure he'd gotten out, and maybe the pair of you were leaving town without me. That's what I hoped for, I swear I did.” He looked up, wanting to see if she believed him.

Jottie still wouldn't look at him. She shook her head.

“I swear that's what I hoped for, Jottie,” Father begged.

But she shook her head again, and her face was like stone. She hated him for what he'd done, and there was nothing I could say, nothing I could do, to change it. I wasn't sure what God would think about Father, but I prayed anyway, with my hands smashed between my legs.

“It was when I climbed in your window the next morning and saw that you'd cut your hair off, that's how I knew he was dead. And I wished to God I was, too. I felt so sick, I wanted to die. It'd happened so fast, Jottie, it was only an hour, maybe an hour and a half, and right up until the last two or three minutes I thought it would be all right, we'd be fine. And then it was too late and I couldn't stop anything; I couldn't undo it and I couldn't change it.” He pressed his hands onto his eyes, hard. “I killed
Vause
.”

She nodded, her lips folded tight.

“I knew you'd believe me,” he said, taking his hands away. “I knew that if I told you the right way, you'd believe that Vause had done it alone. And then you'd stay with me. You wouldn't leave me, and you wouldn't hate me like Vause did, and I wouldn't have lost every single damn thing I cared about.” He swallowed, and it looked like it hurt. “I wasn't—wasn't able to do anything else, Jottie.”

He stopped talking and waited. But Jottie didn't say anything. She stared out into the leaves, not moving, not hardly breathing. I didn't know what she was deciding; I didn't know anything except I would probably be alone forever at the end of it.

“Jottie?” I said, as gentle as I could. She turned her eyes to me. “Jottie, we all three of us wish we could go back in time. We'd give anything to go back and change it. But we can't, Jottie. We can't.”

“How can you forgive him?” she burst out. “How? After what he did?”

I guess she meant Miss Beck and casting me aside and lying. “You're right, Jottie, but what good is it? Rightness is nothing. You can't live on it. You might as well eat ashes.” I glanced at Father, his bloodshot eyes and the stain on his pants. I loved him so. Once more, I tried to explain. “This is all we can do; it's all we're allowed. We can't go back. The only thing time leaves for us to decide”—I picked up Father's hand and held it tight—“is whether or not we're going to hate each other.”

Father gave me a grateful squeeze.

Jottie watched the pair of us for a moment. “Willa, honey,” she said sadly, “wouldn't it be better to give him up?”

I almost smiled. “Like you said, too late for that.”

She almost smiled back. “Listen to you,” she said, shaking her head. “Throwing it right in my teeth.” Her eyes slid over Father, calculating what she could bear. After a moment, she said, “No, you can't live on ashes.”