Page 20 of Exquisite Things

“But if no one ever writes it...” I’m trying to piece the thought together. “Then it will never be real.”

“Of course it will be. Real to us.” Jack stares at his two clothing options again. “I think I’ll go with the navy.” He flings

the other jacket onto the closet floor. These fancy fabrics mean nothing to him. “Perhaps life will bring us together again.

If it does, I do hope we can all be friends. Life is too short for enemies. And remember, go have your fun, but don’t put

any of it in writing. You’ll live to regret it.” With that, he winks and heads to the symphony. He probably doesn’t understand

the first thing about music. Mother and I should be hearing Tchaikovsky. Brendan too. And Shams.

Why does it always seem like the worst people get the best of this world? Then I think that perhaps they become the worst

people because they’re so spoiled by the world.

“Oliver.” Brendan says my name urgently and I turn to him. Jack’s shifty presence lingers in the room. “I want to assure you

of something.”

“What?” I ask.

“I—” He takes a deep breath. Almost inaudibly, he mumbles, “They asked why you visited so often. They knew your name and where

you go to school.”

“Oh God,” I mumble. It’s exactly what I feared most. I’ll be incriminated. I’ll break Mother’s heart. Ruin her life.

He looks at me with desperation in his eyes. “I told them you visited me because you’re my ambitious little cousin and your dream is to be a Harvard boy. I assured them you knew nothing about the rest of it.”

“Brendan... I’m so sorry they’ve done this to you. If I could, I would...”

“You can’t do anything. Just stay away from me until all this settles down. If this ruins you too, I’ll never forgive myself.”

I can’t help but cry. He still fights back his tears. We were both raised the same way. Taught that men don’t shed tears.

But I’m not a man by their standards anyway, so I let myself sob out the sadness.

“I made all the boys swear they wouldn’t say a word about you,” he promises. “You’re safe. But Oliver...?” He finishes

without asking his question.

“What is it?” I sit next to him, staring out at Jack’s clothes, all that hanging luxury when my cousin has been thrown out

like some disposable rag.

“If I were you, I would stop. Find a nice girl before it’s too late. Pretending is better than being dead like Cyril.” Now

he sobs too. Whatever he was holding back comes flowing out in a wave. “I never said goodbye or told him how smart I always

thought he was. I’ll never know who he might have been. I didn’t know. If I knew he would do such a thing, I wouldn’t have

let him out of my sight.”

“You can’t blame yourself,” I say. But I’m replaying the one conversation I had with Cyril. Wondering if perhaps I also missed

the signs. Blaming myself.

He looks at me with his big eyes. “Oliver, you’re not... I just... Sometimes I notice you seem sadder than usual. If

you ever feel so alone—”

“I’m not Cyril,” I say.

“I know.” He cocks his head toward me. “But if you ever need me, I’ll always be a phone call away.”

“Me too. I’ll never stop being your friend.”

“You might have to,” he says. “I’m so sorry, cousin. I really am so—”

“Stop,” I whisper. “I’m the sorry one. I’m just so sorry this happened to you.” I don’t know what else to say, so I say no

more.

At church on Sunday, I cry when the choir sings “Abide with Me” as Mother harmonizes, her voice more radiant than any of theirs.

If she had the time, she could be the choir leader. She could guide these voices into something approaching transcendence.

“ Come, friend of sinners ,” she sings. “ Abide with me. ” I close my eyes and pray that I can abide with her. I’ve never felt closer to God. Never further either. I wonder how that

can be.

When we return from church, I go to my room and see something. Shams has managed to slip a note into the crack of my window:

I know what’s happened at Harvard. If you’re ignoring me to protect me, please don’t. I want to support you. Please walk with

me. He leaves a time and place to meet. I don’t go. He calls every night. I know it’s him because when Mother answers, he hangs

up. He’s waiting for me to pick up, but I never do. She thinks it’s a prank and bemoans ever getting a telephone.

Finally, one night, he speaks to her. She puts her hand over the receiver and addresses me as I read a history book for school.

“Oliver, you won’t believe who it is. The young man we met at the inn.

The tutor!” Into the receiver, she asks, “How did you get our number?” After a moment, she says, “Well, that was nice of the innkeeper to give it to you.” Moments later, “Of course you can pay us a visit. Let me give you the address. How’s dinner tomorrow night?

We rarely have company. I’ll cook something special.

” When she hangs up, her eyes look dreamy.

I know she’s thinking back to our magical time by the ocean.

I wish I could tell her those days are behind us. Our land’s end days have ended.