Noah Hawley - Before the Fall

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better,” she says, dumping the scissors back into the drawer.

She pours them both a cup of tea. Since they sat, the sun has dropped into view at the top edge of the window frame, and when Eleanor leans in to pour his tea, her head slips into the creamy light, creating an eclipse. He squints up at her.

“You look good,” he tells her.

“Really?” she says.

“You’re still standing. You made tea.”

She thinks about that.

“He needs me,” she says.

Scott watches the boy flip around, absently chewing on the fingers of his left hand.

Eleanor stares into the setting sun for a moment, stirs her tea.

“When my grandfather was born,” he says, “he weighed three pounds. This was in West Texas in the ’twenties. Before ICUs. So for three months he slept in a sock drawer.”

“That’s not true.”

“As far as I know,” he says. “People can survive much more than you think is my point. Even kids.”

“I mean, we talk about it — his parents. He knows they’re — passed — as much as he understands what that means. But I can tell from the way he looks to the door whenever Doug comes home that he’s still waiting.”

Scott thinks about that. To know a thing and not know it at the same time. In some ways, the boy is the lucky one. By the time he is old enough to truly understand what happened, the wound will be old, the pain of it faded with time.

“So you said Doug—” says Scott, “—some problems?”

Eleanor sighs, dips her tea bag absently in the cup.

“Look,” she says, “he’s weak. Doug. He’s just — and I didn’t — I thought it was something else at first — how insecurity, you know, defensiveness, can seem like confidence? But now I think his opinions are louder because he’s not really sure what he believes. Does that make sense?”

“He’s a young man. It’s not a new story. I had some of that myself. Dogma.”

She nods, a ray of hope returning to her eyes.

“But you grew out of it.”

“Grew? No. I burned it all down, drank myself into a stupor, pissed off everyone I knew.”

They think about that for a moment, how sometimes the only way to learn not to play with fire is to go up in flames.

“I’m not saying that’s what he’ll do,” says Scott, “but it’s not realistic to think he’ll just wake up one morning and say, You know what? I’m an asshole. ”

She nods.

“And then there’s the money,” she says quietly.

He waits.

“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s — I get nauseous just thinking about it.”

“You’re talking about the will?”

She nods.

“It’s — a lot,” she says.

“What they left you?”

“Him. It’s — it’s his money. It’s not—”

“He’s four.”

“I know, but I just want to — couldn’t I just keep it all in an account until he’s old enough to—”

“That’s a version,” says Scott. “But what about food or housing? Who’s going to pay for school?”

She doesn’t know.

“I could—” she says, “I mean, maybe I make two meals. A fancy one for him or — I mean, he gets nice clothes.”

“And you get rags?”

She nods. Scott thinks about walking her through all the ways that her idea makes no sense, but he can tell she knows it. That she is working her way toward accepting the trade-off she’s been given for the death of her family.

“Doug sees it differently, I’m guessing.”

“He wants — can you believe? — he thinks— we should definitely keep the town house in the city, but I don’t know, we could probably sell London and just stay in a hotel whenever we visit . Like when did we turn into people who go to London? The man owns half a restaurant he’ll never open because the kitchen’s not done.”

“He could finish it now.”

She grits her teeth.

“No. It’s not for that. We didn’t earn it. It’s not — the money is for JJ.”

Scott watches the boy yawn and rub his eyes.

“I’m guessing Doug doesn’t agree.”

She worries her hands together until the knuckles are white.

“He said we both want the same thing, but then I said, If we both want the same thing, why are you yelling ?”

“Are you — scared — at all?”

She looks at him.

“Did you know that people are saying you had an affair with my sister?”

“Yes,” he says. She narrows her eyes. “I know that. But I didn’t.”

He reads her eyes, her doubt, not knowing who she can trust anymore.

“Someday I’ll tell you what it means to be a recovered alcoholic. Or recovering . But mostly it’s about avoiding — pleasure — about staying focused on the work.”

“And this heiress in the city?”

He shakes his head.

“She gave me a place to hide, because she liked having a secret. I was the thing that money couldn’t buy. Except — I guess that’s not true.”

Scott is about to say something when JJ pads in. Eleanor straightens, wipes her eyes.

“Hey there, boo. Is it over?”

He nods.

“Should we go read some books and get ready for bed?”

The boy nods, then points at Scott.

“You want him to read?” asks Eleanor.

Another nod.

“Sounds good,” says Scott.

* * *

While the boy goes upstairs with Eleanor to get ready for bed, Scott calls the old fisherman he rents his house from. He wants to check in, see how the three-legged dog is doing.

“It’s not too bad, is it?” he asks. “The press?”

“No, sir,” says Eli. “They don’t bother me, plus — turns out they’re scared of the dog. But Mr. Burroughs, I gotta tell you. The men came. They had a warrant.”

“What men?”

“Police. They broke the lock on the barn and took it all.”

Scott has a chill in the base of his spine.

“The paintings?”

“Yes, sir, all of them.”

There’s a long pause as Scott thinks about that. The escalation. What it means. The work is out there now. His life’s accomplishment. What damage will come to it? What will they make him do to get it back? But there’s another feeling deep down, a giddy nerve jangling at the idea that finally the paintings are doing what they’re meant to do. They’re being seen.

“Okay,” he tells the old man. “Don’t worry. We’ll get them back.”

After teeth are brushed and pajamas acquired, and after the boy is in bed, under the covers, Scott sits in a rocking chair and reads from a stack of books. Eleanor hovers in the doorway, not knowing whether to stay or go, unclear of the boundaries of her role — is she allowed to leave them alone? Should she, even if she is?

After three books the boy’s lids are droopy, but he doesn’t want Scott to stop. Eleanor comes over and lies on the bed, nestling in beside the boy. So Scott reads three more, reading on even after the boy is asleep, after Eleanor too has surrendered to it and the late-summer sun is finally down. There is a simplicity to the act, to the moment, a purity that Scott has never experienced. Around him, the house is quiet. He closes the last book, lays it quietly on the floor.

Downstairs, the phone rings. Eleanor stirs, gets out of bed carefully, so as not to wake the boy. Scott hears her pad downstairs, hears the murmur of her voice, the sound of the hang-up, then she wanders back up and stands in the doorway, a strange look on her face, like a woman riding a roller coaster that’s plummeting to earth.

“What?” says Scott.

Eleanor swallows, exhales shakily. It’s as if the door frame is holding her up.

“They found the rest of the bodies.”