Summer People, page 8
Christmas sensed her parents behind her in the hallway, buzzing and nervous. Immediately claustrophobic in the narrow hall, she took a step back.
“Yeah, sure. Come in.” She moved toward the kitchen and bumped into her parents, who murmured greetings to the cops before following her.
They filed into the kitchen, the cops’ boots and belts creaking. Christmas’s father grabbed a spare chair from the pantry, where it served as a stepstool, and they assembled themselves at the little table while Christmas’s mother bustled around near the sink, preparing coffee that everyone had already politely declined. Once settled, Officer Schaefer said, “We really appreciate what you did last night, Christmas.”
“You handled yourself like a real pro,” Ben added.
“Is there any news on Lemy?” Christmas asked.
Ben shook his head. “He’s still in a coma, unfortunately.”
“Are you any closer to knowing what happened?” Christmas looked from one cop to the other.
Though Ben frowned instead of answering, Officer Schaefer said, “That’s why we’re here. Now, tell us again what happened, with as much detail as you can. Sometimes the things people think aren’t important turn out to be really helpful in the investigation.”
Christmas sighed. “I really don’t think I left anything out last night.”
“Did you hear any vehicles or notice anyone on the road around the lake? Or other boats?”
“I didn’t hear any other boats,” Christmas said. “But it wouldn’t be unusual for a car to be on the road, so it’s not something I would have noticed. Besides, we were talking and looking at the stars.” Christmas thought vaguely about the vape pen and the fact that they were still only seventeen and bit her lip.
“Okay,” Officer Schaefer said. “Now, how well do you know Lemy LaSalle?”
Christmas squirmed a little. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“Isn’t he quite a bit older than you?” Officer Schaefer asked.
“I guess,” Christmas said, shrugging.
“Doesn’t seem to me like you all would have a lot in common,” Ben said.
Christmas made a face. “That’s not true. Lemy and Curly have always been really nice to me. We care about a lot of the same stuff.”
“What kind of stuff is that?” Ben asked.
Christmas shrugged again, a bit sheepish, feeling that specific kind of shame associated, in some families, with “showing off.” She didn’t want Ben and Officer Schaefer to think she thought she was smart and sophisticated. But they’d asked what she and Lemy and Curly had talked about and so she told them: “Environmentalism. Climate change. Things like that. We talk about the algae, about the lake. We love the lake.”
When neither officer responded, Christmas added, awkwardly, “It’s not weird.” She looked at her father for confirmation. He nodded, to suggest that what she had said was fine.
“Just . . . two adult men who hang around with a teenage girl,” Ben began, spreading his hands out as though asking someone to complete the thought.
Christmas was so surprised by the direction the conversation was taking that she was momentarily at a loss for words. Her mother furrowed her brow as she put a mug of coffee in front of each of the officers, who offered curt smiles to thank her.
“You can’t be serious,” Christmas said at last. “Even if it was weird, which it totally isn’t, Ben—”
“Officer Pappas,” her father interrupted. Ben waved a hand to suggest Christmas’s lack of formality was fine.
“My friendship with Lemy and Curly has nothing to do with Lemy getting beaten up.”
“So you do believe that someone intentionally . . .” Officer Schaefer seemed to search for a word. “Deposited Lemy in the lake?” She put her hands around the coffee mug as though to warm them.
“Of course,” Christmas said, heatedly.
“Mrs. Miller,” Officer Schaefer said, swiveling her head, as though she’d just remembered that Christmas’s mother was in the room. “You were at the Velvet Cup last night, weren’t you?”
“Me?” Christmas’s mother said, as though she, too, was surprised by her own presence.
“Did you see Lemy?” Officer Schaefer asked.
Christmas twisted in her seat to look up at her mother, who opened her mouth and then shut it again before saying, “Sure. There was a crowd of people after the meeting.”
“And did you observe anything out of the ordinary? Did you speak to Mr. LaSalle?”
“Who, Lemy?” Christmas’s mother said, absurdly. “No, no I didn’t talk to him.”
“What were you doing at the Velvet Cup, Mrs. Miller?”
“What was I doing? I was unwinding.” Christmas’s mother’s eyes darted around the room. “I had a seltzer. It’s not a crime. It’s not a crime to . . . want to get out of the house.”
“No one said it was, ma’am,” Ben said.
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me,” Christmas’s mother snapped. “I don’t even understand what this . . . interrogation is about. A guy got drunk and fell in the lake.”
“Was he visibly impaired when you observed him at the Velvet Cup, Mrs. Miller?” Officer Schaefer asked.
“I didn’t observe him or anything else at the Cup,” Christmas’s mother said.
“But maybe you noticed the general feeling last night,” Officer Schaefer pressed. “Were people wound up? Upset about what happened at the meeting?”
Christmas’s mother shook her head as she took Christmas’s father’s empty mug and brought it to the sink. “The whole thing . . . sounds like a lot of showboating was going on at the meeting.”
“Mr. Cunningham called Lemy the f-word,” Christmas said facing forward, the officer’s attention directed back at her. They waited and she added, cringing, “You know. Fag.”
“We had heard that,” Officer Schaefer said.
Everyone sat silently for a moment. Christmas wondered if this was a cop trick, that they thought if they stayed quiet, someone would dive into the breach to relieve the tension. Well, they didn’t know the Millers. They were masters of allowing awkward silences to stretch on long past what others considered reasonable. Christmas’s father stared at the tabletop and her mother scrubbed the mug more vigorously than necessary. Christmas, too, just waited, although she started to roll her neck and wiggle her jaw to release some of the tension that rested there.
Finally, mercifully, Ben tapped the table. “We’ll let you folks get back to your evening,” he said. To Christmas, he said kindly, “I’m sorry about your friend and I hope he comes out of this okay. You probably saved his life, Chrissy.”
Christmas, overwhelmed, couldn’t make sense of the conversation that had just happened. She nodded absently and stayed seated, forcing her father to rise to the occasion and see them to the door.
Her mother returned to the table to collect the untouched cups of coffee, her lips pursed and forehead creased.
Christmas watched her as she returned to the sink and began to run a dish towel over a clean mug as she stared out the little kitchen window.
“What was that all about?” Christmas asked.
“What was what about?” her mother returned blandly.
“Do you have anything to do with this, Mom?” Christmas whispered fiercely, surprised by her own directness.
Her mother grimaced and turned to face her fully, her eyes injured and filling with tears.
“I’m almost sixty years old, Christmas. Even if, for some mysterious reason, I hated him, do you think I am even capable of beating up Lemy LaSalle and dumping him in the lake?” When Christmas didn’t respond, her mother ran a hand over her forehead. “I can’t believe you’d even ask me. I can’t believe you think so little of me . . .”
“For God’s sake,” Christmas’s father said from the doorway.
Christmas didn’t turn to look at her father. Instead, she continued to regard her mother. Her chambray shirt brought out the blue in her shining eyes. Her stringy gray-blond hair, piled up in a messy bun, framed her pretty face. In the dim kitchen light, she looked lovely, despite her frown, despite the deep wrinkles around her mouth. At the same time, she seemed older than she ever had before, maybe even a bit frail. Christmas wanted to put her arms around her mother, to cry into her neck, to apologize, to comfort and be comforted.
Instead, she turned to leave the room. It hadn’t escaped her that her mother hadn’t answered the question.
16
Christmas couldn’t decide which was worse: being at work with Lexi and being ignored, or being at work and not having Lexi there at all.
Shelley was really mad—and made no effort to discourage Christmas from feeling like it was her fault that Lexi had called in sick—which made Christmas even more upset and uneasy. She hated disappointing people, especially people in charge.
It was almost physically painful not to text Lexi, and several times during the day, Christmas would touch the phone in her back pocket then stop herself from pulling it out, checking it, or sending a text to test the waters: “Hey.” Anticipating Shelley’s disapproval stilled Christmas’s hand, but when Shelley was in the kitchen, or when Christmas took a group of kids to the bathroom down the hall and she was out of sight, she’d take out her phone, stare at it, and wonder if she should turn it off and restart it, just in case something was wrong with it, and Lexi’s texts hadn’t been coming through.
The plan to go on a bike ride with Rory, though, was a good distraction, a bright spot on the horizon, and she spent a great deal of time thinking about where she’d take him. She settled on the colorfully but misleadingly titled Old Devil’s Swamp Road, which led to some breathtaking vistas, mountain views, and then, farther along, to an old stone arch bridge, long neglected but still standing, that she and Lexi loved to visit. Allowed to roam freely on their bikes at twelve and thirteen, they would go there to act out elaborate fantasies: the bridge was their fortress, and they were beautiful, tragic—but nevertheless heroic—princesses, forced to fight and scheme their way out of captivity. Christmas felt a pang remembering, in part because both she and Lexi still liked to play pretend after other girls their age had grown out of it, or at least said they had.
Pedaling to Rory’s house, she wished she could talk to Lexi and get some moral support and reassurance. She was so nervous that her fingers tingled and her breath was a little short. It was a good thing she didn’t have Rory’s phone number because even though she’d been really looking forward to seeing him again, she knew she would have totally canceled. It was only because she lived in fear of ever upsetting or offending anyone, even someone who was basically a stranger, that she didn’t simply stand him up. This, she tried to tell herself, was a good thing. She had, in the ensuing twenty-four hours, developed an aching crush. She suspected she was getting ahead of herself. Was she taking this summer person too seriously, spinning out a whole romance when really he was just bored and lonely? Maybe, but she didn’t think so. She’d sensed something—maybe his own nervousness, a little twitching of his lip—that made her think he liked her too. At the same time, it was possible that he wasn’t looking for a girlfriend or anything like that. If he just wanted to be friends, that was cool. Especially since there was currently a vacancy in her friendship roster.
This last thought was like a needle in her heart.
There was the irony, of course, that if Lexi hadn’t been acting so weird, hadn’t blown her off the day before, Christmas would not have gone on an afternoon run and met Rory. And even if she had met him, she still probably still wouldn’t be going on a bike ride with him if she had Lexi to hang out with. She didn’t like this thought and was happy to pull up in front of the blue house where Rory, dressed in jeans (cuffed on one side) and a white T-shirt, his curly hair not yet shoved into the confines of the helmet, stood waiting outside. She almost immediately felt more easy.
She was glad to be wearing something a little less bizarre than last time—her best cutoffs and a well-worn Patagonia tee that Lemy had said he’d liked—and that she’d taken the time to put on some hoop earrings and lip gloss. She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard to look good on their bike ride, but she also wanted to make sure he knew she didn’t always wear fluorescent colors.
Rory smiled and picked up a large backpack.
“Hey,” he said. “What’s up? I didn’t know how long we’d be out; I packed some food.”
“Like a picnic?” Christmas put one foot on the ground and tilted her head.
“Yeah,” he said, clearly a bit embarrassed. “Like a picnic.” He wrinkled his nose.
Christmas laughed. “Who doesn’t like a picnic?”
Rory put the backpack on and mounted his bike. “Awesome,” he said. “Lead the way.”
It had been another overcast, humid day, and Christmas started to sweat as they cycled slowly down Lake Road, which cut close to the shoreline. A startled blue heron crashed out of tall weeds, close enough that they could hear her huge, beating wings. They watched the bird skimming the top of the water, flying away in search of a quieter spot on the lake.
They continued on toward another, flatter road that would carry them away from the lake and then past farmland and into a deep wood. They didn’t talk much at first, but after a while, Rory pulled up beside her.
“So, I think I heard something about you,” he began. “Did you save a guy’s life?”
Christmas glanced at Rory. “I don’t know if I saved his life,” she said. “He’s in a coma.”
Rory was quiet for a moment. “Still. Wow. You did, like, CPR and stuff.”
Christmas didn’t respond.
“What happened?” Rory pressed. “I mean, if you feel like talking about it. That must have been pretty scary.”
“It’s okay,” Christmas said. “You’re right though. It was scary. I wasn’t alone. My friend Lexi was with me. But still. I kinda can’t stop thinking about it. There are like three things that my mind keeps cycling through.” She stopped there, unwilling to tell Rory that he was himself one of those three things. She took a breath and recounted the basic facts of the evening before concluding, “I really hope Lemy’s okay.”
“He’s a friend of yours? The guy you found?”
Christmas nodded. The woods were noticeably cooler. This was one of her favorite roads. The Voigts, a local family, had owned this land for as long as anybody could remember, and they’d posted No Hunting and Private Property signs on trees every acre or so. She always felt grateful that they’d let it stay wild, that they hadn’t chopped down or sold off all the trees for lumber, made a clearing and stuck in a suburban-style house that would sit there like a wound.
“Is your friend—Lexi—is she okay?”
“I honestly don’t know,” Christmas said. She kept her eyes on the road in front of her. “We were actually having a . . .” She searched for the word. “Argument” seemed too serious. “Conversation” was too euphemistic. “I suppose we were having sort of a tense disagreement. And then we heard the splash and, after that, everything happened so fast.” Christmas shook her head. “She’s definitely upset. But we haven’t, like, had a chance to really talk about it yet.”
Rory was quiet for a moment before he said, “Maybe she’s traumatized or something?”
“Maybe,” Christmas said. “I don’t know.” Christmas paused, remembering Lexi’s anger, the ways she said she had something she needed to tell Christmas. She imagined Lexi announcing that she and Martha would be going backpacking in Europe for the rest of the summer, or that Lexi had decided she couldn’t be friends with Christmas anymore because of the trashy people Christmas associated with. Christmas was ashamed to know that, on some level, she had been grateful for the interruption of the splash. She hadn’t wanted to hear what Lexi was going to say.
“I’m not sure why she’s mad at me,” Christmas continued to Rory. “She seems sort of mad at Sweet Lake in general. Lexi is . . . summer people.” She cut a glance at Rory. “That’s what we call people who don’t live here full time.”
He chuckled.
“Her grandparents live on the lake,” Christmas continued. “Lexi’s mom grew up here but moved to Philly as soon as she turned eighteen. She had Lexi pretty soon after that, and she was mostly a single mom. Ever since Lexi was little, her mom would drop her off to stay for the whole summer, so she could work or whatever. Plus, Lexi’s grandparents think she’s God’s gift to humankind.” Christmas smiled, thinking of the Hansens’ understated, but undeniable, adoration of their granddaughter. “Anyway, we’ve always been summer friends. We keep in touch during the year—we used to write letters when we were young. Now we text a lot and I guess we probably talk a couple of times a month. But usually in the summer, we’re together every day. We used to laugh that we had to have these intense hangouts because we have to store up our time together to sustain us for the rest of the year. But this year . . . it’s like she doesn’t even want to be here at all. So, I guess what I’m saying is,” Christmas took a deep breath. “Things were not normal even before we discovered Lemy facedown in the lake.”
Rory paused before responding. “Are you going to try to talk to her?”
Christmas looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “I guess,” she said. “I don’t . . . God, I feel so stupid, but I guess I’m afraid.”
They biked for a while in silence, up a couple of big hills and then recklessly down again, the wind in their faces, the drop in Christmas’s stomach as they raced to the bottom.
She realized, as she cruised along beside Rory that she did feel just a little bit relieved to have shared what had been churning around inside her. She would call Lexi. Or stop by the house. As soon as she got home that night.
They’d figure it out.
17
Ten minutes later, Christmas and Rory arrived at the dirt path that would take them to the stone bridge. They rode single file now, Rory following Christmas in the dappled light. The path grew fainter until it petered out completely; Christmas dismounted and leaned her bike against a tree.
