The Cake House Page 23

  He returned to packing without answering. It hit me then, that I wouldn’t see him tomorrow. That if I waited for him later that night, he wouldn’t appear next to my bed. This hollow feeling, this rending of limb from limb, must be what Tina had felt that day he broke up with her.

  He shut his suitcase and placed his guitar case next to it.

  “Wait,” I said, desperate to keep him with me for as long as I could. I wanted to give him something, anything that would remind him of me, anything that might change his mind about leaving. My mind raced through everything that I had that I could give him, that could possibly bind him to me, but I came up blank.

  He cocked his head to one side as he looked at me. From his back pocket he took out the picture I had given him for Christmas, the one of the two of us leaning against the fountain’s brick wall. He held it out for me to see; then he put it back in his pocket.

  There was no warmth in his face, no love mixed with his bruises and the bloodied Band-Aid over his eye, which already needed to be changed, but he came close and took me into his arms. I listened to his heart beating, just a little faster than mine. We were off tempo.

  There had been moments when I thought I hated him even as I loved him. But now, as he was leaving, I wished only that I could go back in time and relive every second so that it wouldn’t end.

  “You can keep the records,” he said, touching his lips to my neck.

  “Why?”

  He picked up his suitcase with one hand and his guitar with the other. “Because I don’t want to be here anymore,” he said, and hesitated for only a moment before stepping into the hallway.

  His room was empty except for a few sheets of crumpled notes on his desk, his handwriting near illegible. They were parts of songs he had written, unfinished or abandoned. I folded the pieces of paper, over and over again, into a small square and put it in my pocket. His desk faced the window overlooking the driveway and the street. I didn’t have to wait long for Alex to appear below on the front lawn, followed by his mother. A chauffeur took Alex’s luggage. A moment later the car drove away.

  WHEN CLAUDE PULLED UP TO the curb of the school, I touched the door handle but didn’t open it. Claude was hunched over the steering wheel. In the gray morning light, I thought I saw a second face next to his, like a double exposure in a photograph, superimposed, one on top of the other. Which one was Claude?

  “Rosie?” he asked when it became clear that I wasn’t exiting the car.

  “Can I go with you instead?” I didn’t want to go where I would automatically search for Alex in the hallways and in the courtyard, where his absence would be keenly felt.

  He stared at the other parked cars, looking pained, both of his hands on the steering wheel. “All right,” he said. “Just this once.”

  “Just for today,” I agreed.

  When we reached his office, I sat on his swiveling chair, passing my hands over the files left there and tapping on the keyboard of his computer. I wondered how many hours my father and Claude shared together in this office. Were they friends? Did they know they both liked to take pictures? I didn’t think I would ever know the answers to all my questions.

  “This is where you meet your clients?”

  Claude stood facing me, his back leaning partly against a filing cabinet.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “This is where you talk them into giving you their money.”

  “Rosie,” he said, shaking his head. “What are you trying to get at?”

  I spun myself around and around, and faster and faster, pulling my knees and legs close to keep them from hitting the desk drawers.

  “Stop it. You’ll make yourself sick.”

  “What are you supposed to do with their money?” I asked.

  “I said stop it.”

  Toes on the ground to stop my spinning, I waited for his answer. He passed his hand over his hair again, longer than it should be and grown almost to his ears. I was surprised he hadn’t made me leave his office yet.

  “I invest their money for them. I help people,” he said. “I give them hope, make their dreams come true.”

  In his world, he helped his clients by taking from them. Did he have a patchwork bag of his own, made from the pictures of those he helped? I thought of Mrs. Wilson with her wide, purple-tinted glasses, the grip of her strong hand on my shoulder.

  “But you don’t give their money back. Did my father help people too? Did he have an office here where he met clients too?”

  “Rosie,” he started, then paced a little, but he was like a caged animal and couldn’t go very far. “He didn’t … he helped …” Claude faltered, stopped moving. Our eyes met across the office.

  “He worked for you. I know he did. Don’t lie to me. I know he worked for you.”

  “Enough,” said Claude, and he slammed his hand down on the filing cabinet. It banged, a loud metallic clang. “I don’t know what you think happened. I don’t know what lies you have heard. Or—”

  “I see his ghost sometimes,” I interrupted, and Claude fell silent. “My father’s ghost. He appears and he talks. I’ve seen him around you.”

  Claude paled, in fear or confusion, and the anger that was there a moment ago bled away. His eyes were dark, as dark as the shadows in the office. I dropped my gaze and saw the framed pictures on his desk, the one with the smaller, child version of Alex, sullen and unhappy and probably frightened by the large costumed creature behind him.

  “That was taken when he was five, not long after he came to live with me,” said Claude, speaking into the silence.

  “Why did she leave him with you?” I asked.

  “She appeared one day on my doorstep. Said she was going on tour and asked if she could leave him with me for a little while. Four months over the spring; then she’d collect him again. After the four months ended, she called. It would take a little longer. A little longer happened, then a little longer again, until she stopped calling.”

  “Would you have let her take him if she had come back?”

  He started to answer, then stopped. “I don’t know.”

  “You didn’t even fight for him. You just let her take him.” I wanted to yell and felt tears crowding my throat.

  “Rosie,” he said, uncomfortable. “It’s not that simple. He didn’t want to stay.”

  “That’s your fault. You made him want to leave. You made him work for you, the same as my father. It made him hate you.”

  “No,” he said, but his voice was raspy. “We were good together. We were a good team.”

  All those cryptic conversations between Claude and Alex made sense now. The truth that I had struggled to learn—and struggled to ignore—settled against my chest like a ton of bricks: Claude had used his son as a source to find clients for Global Securities.

  “You made him want to leave. I know you did. He must have been waiting for her all this time.”

  Claude bowed his head. I saw my father’s ghost step out from within Claude as if he had been hiding inside him. The ghost stared straight at me. Every other time I had been afraid of the ghost, with his bloody stare and his truth-filled words, but this time he gave me courage.

  “You used my father. And you used Alex. And now they’re both gone.”

  Claude’s chest rose and fell, so I knew he was breathing, but he didn’t move. Then he twitched and swatted at the air, swatted at the ghost.

  Someone knocked on the door to the suite, calling out. It took a moment for Claude to respond to the knocking.

  “Go into the copy room,” he said.

  I did as he asked, but once inside the copy room, I left the door open so that I could peek through the door hinge. It was the gray-haired man with the deep-set raccoon-ringed eyes who had shown up the last time.

  “Come in, Harold,” said Claude, backlit by the light from the window. “I was expecting you.”

  I could see only a sliver of Harold’s profile, coming in and out of view.

  “Sorry I’m
late,” he said.

  Claude stepped back. “No worries. Sit down.”

  He guided Harold into his office, leaving the door open. I could no longer see, so I stepped out of the copy room, inching close enough to watch Harold rub at his gray slacks.

  “I hope this doesn’t come as too much of a shock, but I’ll need to cash out.”

  There followed a long, rigid silence. “Everything all right?”

  Harold’s voice was like sand over gravel. “I just thought better of it—that’s all.” He paused. “Been talking to a few others. You know, there was that car accident. Helena Myers’s girl is in the hospital. She’s been talking, telling everyone you stole their money and won’t give it back.”

  I heard papers shuffled, drawers opening and closing. “What happened to the Myerses is a tragedy—no one’s denying that. They’re distraught, and who can blame them? I’ve tried to help; I’ve done everything I can to help them. They need our compassion right now, so I’m being forgiving. They’ll get their money. No one needs to worry about that. But their decision shouldn’t have any bearing on you. I’ll do as you ask, but you’re my client. It’s my job to stop you from making any decision you’ll regret. Cashing out right now is inadvisable; you’ll incur heavy fines. You haven’t given your investment enough time.”

  “It’s my money; I have a right to my money,” Harold said, sounding accusative.

  “Never said it wasn’t your money.” Claude paused; his tone shifted. “What is this really about?”

  Harold took his time replying.

  “I hear things. The Myerses aren’t the only ones having a hard time getting their money. Mark Lieberman mentioned he’s been waiting over three months. I’m a modest man. The money I have, I had to work hard for it.”

  “I explained to Mr. Lieberman the reason for the delay, and I explained to the Myerses that they will get their money following the normal course of business,” said Claude. Then he laughed, but it was a strange, hollow laugh. “I don’t know what you all think I’m doing here. This isn’t a bank. You can’t swing by and make a withdrawal. I require a commitment. It takes time and patience. When you need the money, the money will be there.”

  “You’re saying I have no right to my own money?” asked Harold.

  “We all have to do what we have to do,” Claude said, and in the window’s reflection I saw the ghost’s head whispering in Claude’s ear. “I think you should leave. I’m not a thief, and I resent the implication.”

  Claude stood.

  “I’ve offended you,” said Harold, following suit.

  “Damn straight I’m offended,” Claude said, putting his hand on Harold’s arm and pushing him toward the door. “I’ll have a check drawn for you. It’ll be available in six to eight weeks, standard policy, with penalties. Remember, it’s your choice.”

  “What if I just take half?” asked Harold.

  “No, you’re either in or you’re out,” said Claude. “It’s time for you to leave. I don’t go halfway. That’s not how I do business. You either take your money and lose out on a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, or you trust in me, and in this company, and make a lot of money.”

  “Okay, fine. Full commitment,” said Harold. “But can I trust you? You’re taking everything I have.”

  Another stretch of silence. Was the ghost pouring poison in Claude’s ear again, urging him to say yes? You have him. You did it. You’re the master. Bravo.

  “Harold, I’m the only one you can trust,” said Claude. Harold must have nodded, because Claude clapped him on the back and held out his hand. Harold shook it. “All right. I knew I could count on you. You won’t regret this. Stay here; I have something for you.”

  Claude pushed the door open and left Harold alone in his office without seeing that I was there, heading for the cabinets behind the reception desk. I continued to watch Harold. He got up from his seat and walked behind Claude’s desk, picking up a file from the stack of paperwork.

  I must have made a noise, some indefinable whisper of shoes against the carpeted floor. Harold turned around.

  “Shouldn’t you be in school?” he asked, his voice turning steely all of a sudden.

  I wished I could take his picture so I could study the lines of his face and how his eyes changed from weak to strong in the space of one breath. Before I could answer, Claude walked in carrying an over-the-shoulder bag. He paused when he saw me, the barest look of discomfort. “Rosie.”

  Harold stepped back, smiling. “Found a mouse,” he said.

  “My stepdaughter,” said Claude, moving between us. “Say hello to Mr. Daniels.”

  Harold offered his hand, and his deep-set eyes glinted in the fluorescent light. “Nice to meet you, Rosie.”

  Claude nodded for me to return to the copy room. In the familiar scent of Xerox paper, I sat before the shredding machine, pushing the button that turned it on, but I could hear Claude as he offered Harold a Global Securities mug and a Global Securities visor to take back to his wife as a present.

  THE NEXT DAY, WHEN I got home from school, I saw the VW Bug parked in the same spot from before, on the opposite side of the street underneath a tree. The sight of it caused a jolt of anxiety, but I knew now that it could only be Joey in the car, not Tina. It was there again the next day, and on Saturday it was there in the morning in the same spot. I wondered if Joey knew that Alex was gone. Maybe no one had told her? Maybe she was expecting him to emerge from the side gate?

  “I’m going out,” I said, touching my mother on her shoulder to make her look at me. She paused in her furious drawing, page after page of charcoal images scattered across the dining table. It took her a moment to focus. She didn’t answer but squeezed my hand.

  It was cool outside with that hint of dewy morning, but the sun shone warm and bright. Joey sat in the driver’s side with both of her hands on the steering wheel. Her top hugged her breasts, plumped them up under her chin, big and round and lush.

  When I reached the car, I knocked until Joey lowered the passenger-side window. “Are you waiting for Alex?” I asked. “Because he’s not here.”

  She leaned across the passenger seat, peered up at me. “He said he’d go with me to see Tina.”

  This surprised me, since the last time I had seen Joey and Alex together they had been fighting. I couldn’t believe he had agreed to visit Tina in the hospital. He never would have made it inside the building.

  “He’s gone,” I said. “His mother took him away.”

  “She was here?” Joey’s voice rose to a higher octave. I was fascinated by her eye makeup, which was just as elaborate as it had been the night of the Halloween party. “You mean she really came?”

  Joey wasn’t directing the question at me but seemed to be asking the car, or perhaps she was asking Alex, even though he wasn’t there. I realized that I didn’t know anything about Alex’s relationship with Joey. If it had been romantic or sexual or if they were just friends the way Alex had claimed. I wasn’t certain if I could trust anything Alex had ever said to me.

  “He lied,” Joey said, with a blank expression, blinking at the dashboard. “He told Tina he wouldn’t leave—she made him swear it—but I guess he lied. Fucking asshole. I don’t know why I’m surprised.”

  “He told you about his mom?” I should have been used to the sting of Alex’s betrayal by then, but it hurt to realize that all this time, he had shared this with Joey but not with me.

  “He told us everything.”

  Everything. Her large eyes turned toward me, and their mirror-like reflection echoed back the enormity of everything. Had he told her about Tina’s parents? About working for Claude? Had he told her about us? About the way he came to my bed in the middle of the night? He might have, or maybe she would have taken one look at him and known anyway, whether he’d told her or not. He told her everything. Except that he obviously hadn’t, or she would have known that his promise was a lie.

  “Get in,” said Joey. She tilted her head, mascara
streaking out to the sides.

  “Why?”

  She hesitated a moment. “Come with me to see Tina.”

  “Don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Please,” she begged, quiet and desperate.

  My gut reaction was to say no. She must have sensed that, because she continued to beg, and I got in the car to make her stop. We sat without speaking until she started the engine and we drove away.

  “I thought he and I were friends, but I’m not sure any of us mattered to him,” she said, not looking at me. Sunlight caught the halo of her hair as she spoke. “We were all just a game to him. A way for him to pass the time until he left. Me, Tina, you. He never cared.”

  I shook my head, even though that was what I had been feeling and thinking and worrying over. She couldn’t know what it was like for Alex to live in the Cake House, with the secrets harbored in its walls, and the ever-present stranglehold of his father. Did he have a choice? Could he have said no to Claude? I didn’t think so. Aaron said Alex didn’t have friends, but he had been my friend. He had been Joey’s friend too. In the end, it hadn’t been enough.

  “No,” I said. “It wasn’t a game.” Unless the game was survival, but I didn’t say that part out loud.

  She looked at me with pity, blowing air through her nose in a big huff. “Have it your way,” she said.

  The closer we got to the hospital, the more frazzled Joey got. She drove too fast, taking corners with the tires screeching, then slamming on the brakes suddenly. After she’d parked the car in the visitors’ parking lot at the hospital, I wondered if she would even get out of the car or if she would squeal out of the lot in a blind panic to get away, but she did get out and started walking forward.

  When we got to the main desk on the first floor of the hospital, Joey couldn’t speak, so I asked the receptionist where Tina Myers was. She looked it up in her computer and directed us to the third floor.

  The shades had been opened to let in the sun, putting half of Tina’s hospital room in brilliant sunlight and the other half in shadows, with a steady beep-beep-beep of medical monitors the only sound. A woman sat on the right side of Tina’s bed. She turned, the sunlight hit her face, and I felt the impact of her tired green eyes and her familiar round face. The mall. The scene at the mall. She was the woman who had confronted Claude, who’d yelled at him, who had begged and cried and demanded that he show compassion. But he’d pretended not to know her. That same woman was Tina’s mother. I hadn’t put it together, not until I saw her sitting next to her daughter with the same exact eyes.