Warren Givens leaned against the back of the bench, his face jowly and creased. Sylvie oscillated between wanting to hide and wanting to inspect him closer. She tried to imagine this man taking green-haired Christian out to dinner, balking as everyone stared at his son’s cloak, his clown-white skin, his lipstick. She got it, she could tell him. She could recount the times she’d entertained people in the dining room, and although—or maybe because—she always begged Scott to stay in his bedroom, he inevitably rolled past, not saying hello, not being even remotely polite to her guests, looking like such a hoodlum.
It was that he exchanged was for were, despite the fact that they’d sent him to private school and where she knew, definitely, that he’d learned simple grammar and tense, despite the fact that they’d gotten him a tutor for ninth-grade English and tenth-grade geometry and eleventh-grade history, English again, and economics, and in twelfth grade just throwing in the towel and crossing their fingers and toes that he did well enough to squeak by and graduate. It was the fact that he sucked his teeth and walked like a gorilla, all hunched over with his arms swinging low, his eyes flickering here and there, as if looking for—what? An assailant? Someone in a different gang? But was he in a gang? What drugs was he using? There had been marijuana, she knew; she smelled it on his jackets when he used to come in from hanging out with his nameless, faceless, empty-voices-on-the-answering-machine friends. She’d sent James to talk with him about it, but nothing had been achieved. She read books about how marijuana was a gateway drug; the terminology made her think of Scott boarding a train made of hemp leaves, riding it express to a carved-out tunnel full of crack pipes. And yet what could she do? She wasn’t equipped to talk to him. All she knew how to do was to huddle—anxious and obsessive, rifling through the possibilities and what-ifs.
“Are you doing this to make a statement?” Sylvie had asked Scott after a dinner party. “Am I doing what?” Scott retorted. “Acting the way you do,” she tried. She felt so clumsy. Nothing was coming out right. “Acting like what?” he said. “Dressing like, like … that,” she fumbled, pointing to his oversize, untucked T-shirt. “This?” He pointed. “There’s nothing wrong with dressing like this. This is who I am. Sorry I don’t wear loafers and rugby shirts and I don’t shop at Brooks Brothers.” His face pinched with each word, as if the store and attire were curses.
There was a sharp flicking sound across the courtyard, snapping Sylvie from her thoughts. Warren Givens’s fingers trembled as he lit a cigarette. He sat there with it, not smoking, just letting it burn down. He glanced at Sylvie and then looked away. Sylvie’s fingers twitched. Maybe he knew who she was—her picture was in most of the Swithin bulletins. And he had to know about the rumors—surely someone had told him. It wouldn’t be hard to make the connection that her son had coached his son and had possibly caused this. He probably wasn’t like Sylvie, either. He didn’t push things under; he faced things. He was probably so full of rage and blame that he wouldn’t accept her apology; nor would he understand her bumbling explanation for why Scott might have done it.
But was that what she believed—that Scott had done it? She didn’t know.
Then Warren looked straight across the courtyard at Sylvie. “Afternoon.”
Sylvie froze. “Hello,” she mouthed.
The wind made the loose edges of Christian’s photo flap. The candle someone had placed underneath it had long blown out. There were a few stray wildflowers thrown down on the grass. This was Sylvie’s chance to say something, to ask a question. That was why she’d come, wasn’t it? To see what she was working with?
Abruptly Warren twisted at the waist, turning away from her. His cigarette shook in his fingers. His shoulders heaved. A thin wail escaped from his throat.
Sylvie’s hand slowly rose to her mouth. There. That was what she was working with.
He continued to shake. Sylvie pressed her nails into her thighs and stood up. Her heart pounded. It was only twenty or so steps to him.
“Here,” she said, handing him the unopened packet of tissues she always carried.
He turned back, his blue eyes glassy. He examined the package blankly, as if he wasn’t quite sure what it was.
“They’re scented,” Sylvie said, as though this explained everything.
He opened the packet very slowly, and then put a tissue to his nose. His eyes smiled. “Thank you.”
She remained next to him, not wanting to leave just yet.
He breathed in raggedly, his face contorting with embarrassment. “I apologize. I shouldn’t be like this.”
“It’s okay,” she whispered.
A game had started on the basketball court. A cluster of girls stood by the gate, talking in Spanish. All at once, Sylvie felt very visible. She quickly backed away from the bench, barely feeling her legs, not saying good-bye. She didn’t remember the walk back around the corner to her car, and she was halfway to the bypass before she realized she’d left her cup of coffee on the roof. She had made so many turns already; it was most definitely gone. She pictured it careening to the ground, the lid popping off, the remaining liquid splattering all over the road.