Page 56 of What Boys Learn

Driving the rest of the way to our apartment in silence, I thought about Ewan’s trial.

I’d spent most of that day sitting in the hallway outside the courtroom with a book I pretended to read, ignoring the stares of passersby and a lone security guard positioned in front of a different courtroom door, about fifteen feet down the hall. What was the book?Tiger Eyes?Perks of Being a Wallflower? I couldn’t remember, maybe because I wasn’t paying attention in the first place. I was only staring at the book open on my knees, the polished wood floor beneath my Tretorn tennis shoes, the big oak double doors across from me, and to my right, a little ways down the hall, the drinking fountain and the security guard. The whole time, thinking:My brother shouldn’t be paying for what Grant did.

Anytime my mind wandered to thinking about what, exactly, Ewanhaddone, I yanked it back like a bad dog on a short leash, and told myself: Grant made all this happen. Grant drove too fast. Grant drank too much. Grant wrecked the car. I loved my brother. I needed my brother. I didn’t care that Grant was dead.

“You sure know how to stay good and quiet,” the security guard said.

I didn’t acknowledge him.

Ewan was sent home, pending sentencing. That night, Martha started rage cleaning as she’d done many times before, following arguments with our dad. She’d drink heavily and bang around like a martyr, swabbing the floor, reorganizing cupboards, or emptying the entire refrigerator, sometimes without putting everything back. Coming downstairs to a kitchen counter of warm margarine, questionable mayonnaise, and spoiled lunch meat was nothing new.

This last time, she’d been more worked up than usual. Ewan wouldn’t be with us for long. I didn’t know if Martha was just upset or actually nervous with my brother back in the house. ButIwas nervous. I didn’t think Ewan would let her get away with turning him in. I didn’t think he’d be careful, either. If he went looking for revenge, everyone would know it.

The morning after Ewan came home to us, I woke to the smell of pine-scented floor cleaner, overpowering even from the second-floor hallway. I listened but didn’t hear anyone awake. I went back to my room another hour until I heard my father’s footsteps down the hall, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. And then I heard him howl.

I was told she’d hit her head on the sharp corner of a countertop. Maybe she was still alive at 1A.M. or 3A.M., but by 8A.M., when our dad found Martha, she was cold. Then the ambulance came. And then, once again, the cops.

The cops searched the house, especially Ewan’s room. They left my room alone, including the drawer where I’d put the underwear Ewan brought home the night of the accident. That souvenir had no bearing on Martha’s death, but still, Ewan didn’t need the cops to ask questions about the car accident all over again, or to go looking for some girl who might have a bad story to tell.

They took Ewan in for questioning a second time, and then they let him out again. They interviewed me, too, for the first time—no longer honoring me with the wide, polite berth they’d given me after the car accident. I told them about Martha and her late-night cleaning habits. They said it was odd how much floor cleaner she used, and it seemed to be mixed with something else even more slippery, maybe another kind of detergent. I shrugged and told them I didn’t know anything about that. I didn’t clean a lot. I just stayed out of my stepmother’s way.

They asked,Was your brother mad at her, for turning him in to the police?I told them that my dad and my stepmother both spoke to the police—not just my stepmother. They’d done it the morning after the accident, as soon as they’d discovered blood on Ewan’s unwashed jeans and bits of broken glass in his rolled-up cuffs. They got him to admit he’d been involved in a collision, though he refused to describe it. They marched him off to the cops, thinking they were forcing him to develop a sense of right and wrong. They had no idea a person had died, and even less of an idea that Ewan would go to jail. So yes, he was mad about it. But at the same time, he wasn’t acting berserk.

To the cops I said,Not really. He’s pretty calm most of the time.

Later that year, when Ewan had been sent away and we were down to just the two of us, my father hated being home. For dinner we’d go out to a cheap Greek diner where he would linger with the newspaper, smoking and reading until it was obvious he couldn’t ask for yet another decaf refill. In the car, he’d be silent—no radio, even. One more smoke, the car filling with a foul haze. Sometimes, he’d miss the turn to our street or we’d end up clear across town, where he’d suddenly come to his senses and claim he was heading for a mini-mart to buy more smokes. I never thought it was dementia. I just thought he wanted one more excuse not to go home.

Opening the door to our house, he’d say, “After you.”

Every time I stepped inside, I had that feeling of being on the edge of receiving bad news or some kind of punishment—maybe even a just one. I’d scoot across the dark entryway and dart up the stairs to go to the bathroom and then directly to my bedroom, avoiding any glimpse of the kitchen. I didn’t think my brother had broken out of jail and was crouched next to the cupboards, ready to exact his revenge for being singled out as the family’s only bad seed. I just worried there was something down there that I didn’t want to face.

I felt that way, still.

“Mom?” Benjamin asked in a low, astonished voice, as soon as I unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Did someone break in?”

I started toward the kitchen.

“Wait,” he said, and my heart pinged in response to his concern. “Someone could still be here. Go back outside.”

He ran across the living room, to our only hallway closet, and he pulled out a baseball bat. It was exactly what my father would have done.

Regretfully, I called out, “It’s okay. You don’t need the bat, Benjamin. No one broke in.”

From inside his bedroom, Benjamin howled. I closed my eyes, letting that betrayed sound work its way into my bones. I waited for him to come back and ask why I’d gone through every drawer. Why I emptied his backpack out onto his bedspread, not bothering to cram the detritus back inside. Why I pulled flannel shirts off their hangers, digging into front pockets.

Because I only know half of the story, Benjamin. I don’t want to find another trophy, but I have to look. Something that might have belonged to Sidney. Something else that might have belonged to Izzy. Because it’s what troubled people do, sometimes. They keep things, to remember.

Even now, after everything he’d said in the interrogation room and on the way home—everything he’d admitted to me—it still didn’t add up. He was feeding me some information he knew would upset me, like the confession about the Izzy photo. But he was still keeping me in the dark about the important things. I could sense it, because I’d kept people in the dark, too.

When I got to his bedroom, he was sprawled across the bed, clothes and shoes still on, one corner of the bedspread pulled over his face. He hadn’t even bothered to push aside the backpack contents, which now spilled onto the floor.

“Benjamin,” I said. “I had a reason.”

He didn’t move.

“Benj. You haven’t been telling me the whole truth.”

He rolled over and whipped the bedspread off his face. “I haven’t lied! I haven’t told you everything, but I haven’t lied. There’s a difference!”