After the meeting, Charles went outside to get some air. He took the elevator eleven flights down and walked through the marble lobby, exiting onto Market Street. There was a traffic jam outside the building, the cars wedged at odd angles, honking. Suburban Station loomed across the avenue. Hot dog and pretzel carts lined the sidewalk. Two cleaning women in pink smocks and white athletic shoes paused at the corner, talking animatedly with their hands.
The meeting had been especially difficult to sit through and not just because he found the concept ridiculous; his mind couldn’t stay focused on work. He kept returning to what was happening, what might be happening, what his brother might have done. All he could think of were the worst case scenarios: a secret society of sorts, a band of boys abusing one another for kicks, for power, with Scott at the helm. Not that he had any proof that this was happening—he hadn’t been able to get any details out of his mother, and it was possible that even she didn’t know. It was unclear whether Scott even understood the magnitude of the situation. It only took a few bad decisions to ruin everything. But reputation meant nothing to Scott. Neither did history nor tradition. Or, well, family. Charles recalled how, long ago, he’d been ordered to look after Scott at one of their parents’ Fourth of July parties. Scott, then about six, grabbed a pack of matches teetering on the side of the grill and struck one. He waved it near the old trellises, threatening to set them on fire. “You can’t do that to the house,” Charles hissed, appalled. It was the equivalent of harming an old relative.
Scott struck the match anyway, a cruel smile on his face. The trellises were rotted, their brittle timber just waiting for an excuse to burn. Their father blamed Charles for not watching his brother more carefully, and Charles, frustrated and confused, said, “I tried to stop him, but he didn’t care.” And then, after a moment, “It’s because he’s adopted, right? Because he’s not one of us?”
His father flinched. Even today, at thirty-one years old, Charles could still conjure up his dad’s red, looming face in his mind. “Don’t you ever say that again,” his father growled.
And now, almost certainly because of the conversation he’d had with his mother last night, Charles’s old girlfriend, Bronwyn, was on his mind, too. Various images of her had been flashing through his mind all morning—Bronwyn on the living room couch, outlining the type of cummerbund Charles must wear with his tux so it would match her prom dress. Bronwyn standing on the patio next to the grill, trying to make small talk with Scott when his brother had unwittingly arrived home while Charles was entertaining a group of friends. Diplomatic and eager for everyone to get along, Bronwyn always tried to invite Scott into the conversation. It’s not going to get you anywhere, Charles tried to tell her. He chooses to be an outcast.
And, of course, Charles envisioned Bronwyn in the mud room, standing behind Charles as he held Scott by the throat, all those hideous things spewing from his mouth. He would hear her gasp until the end of his days.
“Charles?”
He raised his head now. “Charles?” the voice said again. Caroline Silver was striding across the courtyard. She worked in the marketing department of Jefferson Hospital, and Charles edited their promotional magazine for donors. The magazine only came out biannually, so Charles hadn’t seen her or talked to her in a while.
He watched as Caroline crossed the square, trying to smile. “I’m here to see Jake,” she explained, shaking his hand. “For a late lunch meeting. Goodness, it’s been a while, huh?”
“It has,” he answered.
And then she cocked her head, her expression shifting. Charles could tell she was reaching back to recall just how long it had been since she’d seen him, remembering what had happened between then and now. And then, as though Charles really did have an inside view of her head, Caroline shifted her weight and covered her eyes. “Oh, Charles. Your father. Oh my goodness. I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Charles said automatically.
“We read about it in the paper. How awful.”
“Yeah.”
“I meant to call. I didn’t know what was appropriate, though.”
“It’s fine. Really.” He smiled at her. “Thank you.”
“What a shame.” She clucked her tongue. “He wasn’t even very old, was he?”
He shook his head. “Healthy every day of his life before it happened.”