Carmiel Banasky - The Suicide of Claire Bishop

Once, Miles and I tried acid together, at the old army fort, facing the water for hours. He said something really wise — life-changing wise — that we both forgot immediately after. I tried for weeks to get him to repeat it. He took acid again and I was the babysitter that time and had my pen and paper ready. But when we got back to the bluff above the water, all he said was that he knew he’d die here. And since death was the only thing we owned and could control, he said, he was going to have his way with it, was planning a date and time, but he wouldn’t tell me when, and then he pointed straight out in front of him, toward the watery horizon. I had him stay the night with me and he let me hold him until morning.

I place my hand lightly on Miles’s feet. He doesn’t notice.

Ralph goes to the window, almost knocking over a full beer in his path. “Forget it. I didn’t mean anything. I got work in the morning, so.”

“Oh,” I say.

“Don’t worry about it. You gave us your pills, that’s cool of you. Not that it did anything.”

Miles wakes up enough to say, “Cool seeing you, though.”

I pick up some bottles and take them to the kitchen but can’t find the trashcan and don’t want to ask, so I slip out the door with them and throw them into the woods behind the house. I wait to hear the crash of glass, but there’s nothing.

Time is running out. This Thursday could have caused last Thursday. Don’t forget. Four days since we stole the painting. Still haven’t found Nicolette.

Eight thirty-seven in the morning now. My dad was supposed to come at seven. Hours waiting at the dingy window from the couch. Watching the street, watching the linoleum peel up from the floor. I guess I fell asleep at some point but I stayed up most of the night on the Web: the easiest form of time travel. But my mom still has dial-up, so it was slow going. Someone removed the information about the landmine house from Nicolette’s website, which has to be a clue for me, not to mention an easy way to deter the Hasidim from going there.

My mom is outside washing her van. The window looks out on the driveway and I jump at every crush of gravel. An undercover police car rolls by, peering at the house. The cop looks familiar and I duck behind the wall. No sign of my dad’s pickup.

That shape there in the corner, do you see that? Rubbing my eyes doesn’t make it go away. Then a shadow of a man. Dad? I stand up and he goes to the coat rack in the hallway and rifles through pockets like he used to do, looking for his loose-leaf tobacco. He puts on a shadow of a big-brimmed hat like the Hasidim wear. Then he goes behind me to the kitchen where I can’t see him. I hear him peek in the fridge. I hear him crack a beer. I hear him open the oven and stick his head inside. You really shouldn’t do that, Dad. I turn around just in time to see the back door close, the dirty slatted blinds still shaking.

My mom comes in at nine. In the doorway, she stands watching me. “Looks like he’s not coming.” She breathes in deeply. “Sorri, honey.”

“Whatever,” I say.

“I have a message for you, before I forget. From, let me see.” She hunts through a stack of receipts and notes on the kitchen counter. “You left your cell here last night and someone kept calling.”

“You answered my phone? That’s private property.”

“I couldn’t figure out how to turn the ringer off. What was I supposed to do?” she says. “Here it is. A man named Jill. Isn’t that funny? Jill.”

I jump up and stand close, so nothing in her face can get past me. “What did he say? Where is he?”

“He was very nice. We talked for some time. He said it was very important that you meet him tomorrow at 101st Street and Fifth Avenue at six. But doesn’t he know you’re here? He said it was business, or something, a business deal you were in on together. What could be so urgent?”

“What else? What else did he say?”

“I think that’s it. He said not to call that number back, he’d call you soon. And something about your third business partner, let me see. I wrote it down exactly. He talked very fast.”

“What third business partner?”

“Yes, here, he says your third business partner will be there, too, that it all worked out. He sounds older. Who is he? Is he handsome?”

He must mean Claire. There’s no way I’ll let the painting go to her and not Nicolette. Not when I’m so close to figuring it out.

“I can’t believe you kept him on the phone that long,” I say. “What if the police traced the call? What if they’re coming right this second?”

She squints at me for a moment. “I’m sure no one is coming, honey. Maybe it just feels that way.”

“Of course it feels that way when there are people coming.”

“Who is that man? Are you selling drugs for him?” My mom grabs my shoulders and makes me look at her. “Tell me the truth. Right now.”

But how can I tell her the truth? All I can do is show her.

She follows me to the bedroom where I’ve let the painting frivolously lie on the mattress. I gesture to it.

“What is it?” she asks.

But my throat has stopped working.

“Is this why you’re worried about the police?”

I nod.

She stands very close to me. “Did you steal this, West?”

I nod again.

“Why?”

Before I can nod or shake anything she slaps my cheek. It shocks me more than it hurts. Then it hurts. It burns.

“I had to steal it. It was stolen from someone else and I’m giving it back to the rightful owner.”

“I don’t want to hear it. You go back right now and hand it over to the authorities.”

“The authorities are crooks! You’ve broken the law for a good cause. You’re supposed to understand.”

“That’s different. I was young. And I was me. You’ll give it back or I’ll take it to the police here myself.”

This, I decide, is a good moment to grab the painting and storm from the room dramatically, swiping the car keys from the kitchen counter on my way out.

I don’t know where I’m going, driving wherever the van wants to take me. If you’d just tell me who I can trust, Dear Listeners. Why can’t you speak more clearly? It’s as if we’re addressing each other, but in two different conversations. You’re replying to something I’ll say years from now.

Where do I end up but my dad’s old girlfriend’s place and she tells me that he has a new girlfriend and by all means go bug him there, it’s at the end of Jackson Street by the bluff with a great view, you won’t miss his truck.

My dad is hunched over in the side yard, ripping up roots, as I park across the street. Weeding at a house that’s not even his.

I slam the car door. He stands and turns at the sound, squints at me walking toward him.

“West? What are you doing here?” His face is mostly shaded by his sun-bleached ball cap, so he can hide that he’s eyeing me all over for signs of disease. He takes a step back.

“I don’t know,” I say.

“I was real bummed I couldn’t make it this morning. Got caught up here, you know how it is.”

“Yeah.”

He brushes his hands on his pants, leaving swipes of soil, and leans against the siding. “Beth tells me you’re doing all right.” He says my mom’s name like he’s saying another b -word.

“Yeah.”

“Good. And city living? Is that good? You see your sister?”

“Sometimes.” I shield my eyes for something to do, but the sun isn’t in them.

He frowns at me very seriously and says, “You keep the toilet seat down?”

“What?”

“The toilet seat. You have to keep it down in the city. I’ve heard about the rats out there. It’s in the news. Rats coming up from the sewers through the pipes. Not as rare as you think.”