Secret Brother Read online

  “No, Aaron and I hadn’t broken up, because we weren’t officially going steady. No, he didn’t call to apologize. He had nothing to apologize for if we weren’t going steady, right?”

  Nothing I could say would satisfy them, but my seeming not to care enough to sound mournful started them on other topics. I had yet to see Aaron. When the bell rang for us to go to our first class, I anticipated him waiting for Sandra in the hall, as he would for me, but he wasn’t there for her, either. She walked off with Billy as if they were the two who had been together Saturday night, but then again, she was like that with almost any boy in the school.

  I didn’t see Aaron until after the second morning class. It was only the two-minute break, but what I noticed was that he wasn’t paying any more attention to Sandra than he was to me. He didn’t even look my way.

  Later, at lunch, however, he stepped up behind me as I entered the cafeteria with Lila and Audrey and hooked my right arm to pull me aside.

  “I like how cool you’re being,” he said. “Makes you sexier.”

  “I don’t feel sexier, but I guess we all see what we want.”

  “I thought you might call yesterday,” he said, now with what, for him, was an uncharacteristically insecure smile.

  “Did you?” I asked. I did to him what I had seen Myra do many times to a maid or someone working on the estate who had obviously done something wrong. She would hold her gaze like a spotlight on them without speaking or changing her expression. Any excuse or denial would choke up in their throats.

  He kept talking, now nervously. “I thought you said you would be too busy, so I figured you should be the one to call. Because of you, I did all my homework and studied for an English test. You’re having a bad influence on me,” he added, trying to be funny now. “I had a miserable weekend.”

  “I heard how heartbroken you were,” I said.

  He started to laugh but stopped. “A long time ago, I decided no girl was going to turn me into a monk.”

  “You have nothing to worry about, Aaron. That can’t happen to you.”

  Now he did laugh. “Let’s get some lunch,” he said. “Smoke the peace pipe or something. You don’t want everyone to think you’re jealous or really mad at me, do you?”

  “They won’t.”

  I could feel all the eyes on us as we stood there talking.

  “I like a lot about you, Aaron. I really do. I think you can be a decent person when you finally decide who you want to be and what’s really important.”

  “You’re important,” he said quickly.

  Now I smiled. “You’re probably going to be very successful, Aaron, more successful maybe than your father. But you’ll always have a problem with something, I’m afraid.”

  “With what?” he asked, now getting a little annoyed.

  “Mirrors,” I said, then squeezed his arm gently and walked off to join the girls.

  It was odd. I should have been shaking, upset, maybe close to tears, but I felt older, stronger, like someone who had been through a very difficult challenge and now stood straighter. It was as though everything around me was becoming clear and revealing what should be a priority and what shouldn’t, what I should take seriously and what I should shrug off. Most everyone else in my school had the same great advantages that I had. Some would do great things because of that, and some wouldn’t, also because of that. Their lives were too perfect, too soft. The world would become almost intolerable when they were confronted with the many frustrations and difficulties just everyday living could bring.

  I knew that all these thoughts were things that should have been waiting for me later on in life. I shouldn’t have been such an adult, but it wasn’t years that changed you; it was events, losses and struggles, more significant happiness and contentment, and finally, more responsibility, especially for someone besides yourself. Aaron had a long way to go to reach where I was. Maybe he never would. Right now, he lived for instant pleasure and didn’t have the patience that a relationship required. I had been thinking he was more sophisticated than I was, but I was suddenly more mature. There was no doubt in my mind that if he had been closer to what I was now, I would have made love to him many times over. And then if we had parted in the near future and found someone else we could love, we would have been all right with it.

  In moments, I was back in the thick of things, and as hard as it was for my girlfriends to comprehend, I was happy. Actually, they seemed in awe of me because of how I was acting. I felt more bounce in my walk. I was more alert in class, volunteering answers more than I had for the past few weeks, and other boys who had been hesitant were talking to me between classes. Even though ten days ago, I didn’t think it would be possible, I actually looked forward to Thanksgiving and especially to Christmas, because Uncle Bobby was coming.

  The happier, more relaxed atmosphere continued right through the Thanksgiving holiday. Dr. Patrick, however, did not think Count Piro was up to buying presents for anyone, so Grandpa and I went shopping on our own. Since my parents’ deaths, he was dependent on me to buy just the right things for Myra and My Faith and something for his personal secretary, Mrs. Mallen. He decided to buy Uncle Bobby a new watch and wanted my opinion on the possibilities.

  This time, he wanted my opinion about a gift for Dorian, too. He was looking for practical things. I told him a woman doesn’t want a practical thing, she wants a beautiful thing. He laughed, and we went to the jewelry department, where I picked out a pair of earrings and a matching necklace I thought she would appreciate; the rubies would complement her eyes and hair. He didn’t hesitate.

  After that, we bought some toys for Count Piro. It was painful, because I kept imagining that we were buying them for Willie. Before we left the department store, we split up to buy each other a present. He appeared with three boxes, one from the jewelry department and the other two from clothing.

  “I confess,” he said, “I had some advice for this.”

  I knew he meant Dorian. What will happen, I wondered, when Count Piro either is gone or no longer needs her? I couldn’t get up the courage to ask him. Maybe I didn’t want to hear the answer.

  The days between Thanksgiving and Christmas were always busier than usual. Our teachers seemed in a panic to catch up with their curriculums before the big vacation break. We had more homework, more quizzes and papers due. The school always had a Christmas party traditionally organized by the student government. Every class member had to contribute something for the decorations. Rumors had been swirling about Aaron the week before. Apparently, through some friends of his parents, he had met a girl from Charlottesville and was driving there on weekends to see her. As it turned out, he didn’t attend our Christmas party. Although three different senior boys asked me to the party, including the Troy Donahue lookalike, Winston Kettner, I decided to go with Lila and pretend it was like a dance party years ago, when boys had to write their names on a girl’s dance card.

  On the Saturday before our Christmas break, Grandpa surprised me by asking me to take a ride with him immediately after breakfast. When I asked him where we were going, he just said, “We’ll worry about it when we get there.” Of course, I was curious, so I went along and soon realized that he was driving us to the cemetery. We parked and started toward Willie’s grave. I didn’t have to go too far to see why.

  Willie’s monument had been installed.

  I stopped walking, and Grandpa turned to me.

  “I wanted you and me to visit it together first, Clara Sue. I hope you approve of what I had done,” he said.

  I swallowed back the empty but painful feeling that had risen from somewhere inside me, a feeling always there but subdued enough to let me go on with my life. It had to be resurrected now. I nodded, and we approached.

  Grandpa had ordered a black marble headstone shaped like a heart. A cherub was resting at the top of it, with a hand reaching down o
ver the stone as if comforting Willie. The cherub’s face wasn’t sad. It had an angelic smile.

  Willie’s name was inscribed as “William Sanders,” with “Willie” beneath that. The next lines read “Beloved Son, Brother, and Grandson” and then his dates. There was one more line.

  “I got advice from My Faith for the inscription,” Grandpa said.

  It read: “Unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven.”

  “Oh, Grandpa,” I said, tears warming my cheeks. “It’s beautiful.”

  He put his arm around my shoulders, and we stood there silently for a few moments. We left in silence and drove home in silence. Myra and My Faith and even Dorian were aware of where we had gone. We all hugged, and then My Faith insisted that I learn how to make the chocolate swirl angel-food cake my grandfather loved.

  “Myra’s no cook or baker, and I’m gettin’ along in years,” she claimed. “I could use some assistance once in a while.”

  I knew why she was trying to keep me busy. Dorian gave me a knowing look and a smile, too. But I didn’t have much time to fall back into sadness and mourning, anyway. The second surprise of the day arrived just before dinner: Uncle Bobby. He burst in like a breath of fresh air. He was full of excitement. His Broadway opportunity had been solidified. Even Grandpa uncharacteristically listened to his stories about show business and asked good questions at dinner. The conversation between them was going back and forth so fast that I thought I was watching a Ping-Pong game. Count Piro was intrigued by all the chatter and had to be continually reminded to eat.

  The first week of my Christmas holiday was filled with activities and short trips to see Christmas decorations and store windows. Uncle Bobby was working on his choreography, and during the afternoons, he would let Count Piro and me watch him creating new steps and moves. Count Piro looked fascinated with it all, and then, one afternoon, without any prodding, he turned to me and said out of the blue, “Cathy dances, too.” It was as if he and I had been talking about his past for days.

  Uncle Bobby heard him say it, but he just looked at me cautiously. He had spent time with Dorian and Grandpa and was updated on Count Piro’s recuperation, especially how to handle him. Dorian wasn’t in the room at the time.

  “Is Cathy your sister or your mother?” I asked him.

  “Sister,” he said.

  “Where is she now?”

  He looked at me. “With Christopher and Carrie,” he said.

  Uncle Bobby stopped dancing. “Careful,” he whispered.

  “Where are they, Count?”

  He shook his head. His eyes were starting to tear. I looked helplessly at Uncle Bobby. Any moment, the Count could have an episode.

  “Hey,” Uncle Bobby said quickly. “What do you think of this?” He did a twist, a kick, and then a split. Count Piro smiled again. “I can do it backward,” Uncle Bobby told him, and he did so. His smile widened, and his tears receded. I breathed with relief.

  Afterward, I told Dorian everything, and then the three of us met with Grandpa in his office.

  “I’ll get the information to my guy and to the police,” he said. “Maybe we can finally get to the bottom of it all.”

  However, days passed, and nothing new happened. Dr. Patrick had some more sessions with Count Piro, but she didn’t share the results with anyone but Grandpa. When I asked, he merely said, “We’re making progress.”

  We exchanged presents on Christmas morning. Count Piro was there for it all and overjoyed with his gifts. Our Christmas dinner was as wonderful as ever. The following morning, we had our first snow of the year. It was light but enough to create the winter wonderland that Willie had loved. Like Willie, Count Piro was eager to go out and feel the flakes on his face. Dorian bundled him up, and we took him for a short turn down the driveway and back.

  Later that day, Uncle Bobby came to my room to say good-bye.

  “I think all of this is on the verge of some sort of resolution, Clara Sue,” he began. We were all aware of how Dr. Patrick’s sessions with the Count had intensified during the past few days. “I think you’ve done a terrific job of handling the situation. Dad’s been the happiest I’ve seen him in a long time.”

  “Might not only be my doing,” I said, and he smiled.

  “Yes, I know. She’s very nice, and she’s gotten him almost housebroken.”

  I laughed. Then I stopped and took his hand. “Everything’s changed so much, Uncle Bobby. I miss everyone so much, too.”

  “I know. All you can do is keep busy and try to make them proud of who you are and who you will be. Now, listen,” he said, eager to change the topic. “You’ll be coming to New York for sure. My father and I agree on that. Maybe all three of you will be coming.”

  “I’d like that so much.”

  “Me, too.”

  We hugged, and he started out. Then he paused in the doorway. “A good-bye is just the curtain closing for this evening’s performance. It will open again,” he said, and performed a sweeping bow, threw me a kiss, and went off.

  I couldn’t help feeling that he was right.

  The curtain had come down on Act I.

  Now, for Act II.

  Epilogue

  Perhaps the most magical thing in our lives is time. Sometimes it passes quickly; seconds cascade into minutes, minutes into hours, and hours into days, like a flooded stream tearing its way down a mountain and through a valley. It seems impossible to hold it back. Daily routines help. It’s the empty spaces that make hours longer than they are. Waiting for the next thing to do is like waiting for a train or a bus. My Faith liked to say, “A watched pot never boils.” The more you anticipate, the longer it takes.

  Count Piro’s days ironically were fuller than mine, so time passed quickest for him. He went from his homeschooling to his therapy to his meals and playtime. More often now, Dorian took him out, and Grandpa and she took him for rides when I was at school. Grandpa bought him a sled when the snow was heavier, and he enjoyed being pulled around on the property. Jimmy and some of the other employees took a liking to him and pulled him around, too.

  He was filling out, growing stronger, and then, one day in early March, with his therapist’s help, he began to use crutches. He could stand for a while, but moving forward was still a problem. Dr. Friedman was happy with his progress, but he wasn’t confident that he would ever toss away those crutches or not need a wheelchair from time to time. Going up stairs was still a huge problem.

  I began to help him with his homework and still read to him occasionally. The same rules applied to how to handle him and his memories. I understood that Dr. Patrick had made some important inroads, and little bits and pieces about his past began to dribble out to me. But there was nothing yet that would bring his ordeal to a conclusion.

  At least, that was what I believed for the longest time.

  And then I started to notice that Grandpa was in deep thought and spent a lot of time in his office after work. Sometimes I caught him looking at me as if he was about to say something, and when I looked at him, he shook his head and moved off to do something else.

  The night before my seventeenth birthday, he came to my room. Myra, Count Piro, and I had eaten dinner together. Grandpa and Dorian had gone out to dinner. They had been doing that more often, but this time, they had been talking about me. I knew it from how quickly he had come to my room when they returned. He knocked on the door and peered in when I said, “Come in.”

  “Got a few minutes?” he asked.

  “I’ll try to pull away from this math problem,” I replied.

  He smiled, came in, and closed the door softly behind him. I was at my desk. He sat on my bed.

  “What’s up?”

  I was expecting him to tell me that he had decided to ask Dorian Camden to marry him. I had already decided to be happy for him, but as it turned
out, that wasn’t his primary reason for visiting me.

  “I’m going to tell you a story,” he began, “and then I’m going to ask you what you think we should do about it. If you don’t want to answer now, that’s fine. You don’t have to decide immediately. Okay?”

  I closed my book and turned completely around. “Yes, Grandpa.”

  “Once upon a time, there was a family of four, an older brother somewhere between thirteen and fourteen, an older sister twelve or thirteen, and twins about five or six, let’s say. They seemed to be a happy family, but something terrible happened to the father, and not long afterward, they left their home, went on a train somewhere at night, and went to a big house owned by their grandparents. As weird as this sounds, they were shut up in a room and an attic and, from what we can tell, were there like that for years.”

  “Years?”

  “Maybe three or more. Their mother did not live in these rooms with them. She visited them, brought them presents, but never took them out.”

  “How could any mother do that?”

  He nodded. “Yes, how could any mother do that? The older brother and the older sister tried to take care of the twins as best they could, and the twins eventually saw them more as parents.”

  “But they were so young. How could they act like parents?”

  “Maybe they had no choice.”

  “And the grandparents let this go on, too?”

  “It’s confusing, but it seems so.”

  “They weren’t proud of them or happy about them?”

  “I don’t know the reasons, Clara Sue. I know only this much. Whatever was brought for them to eat eventually contained arsenic. Too much over too long a time was consumed for it to be a one-time, accidental thing.”

  I felt a chill. I had to take a breath. “But who would do that to them? Their own mother, their grandmother?”

  “No one else brought them food. I don’t know much more. This has taken months to put together from answers William has given to Dr. Patrick. She had to figure out most of it. Besides the trauma of being poisoned, he was undernourished, as you know, and it is coming from a child’s memory.”