When Scott was in second grade at Swithin and Charles was in fourth, Scott came home and announced a rumor he’d heard: Great-grandpa Charlie Bates once paid a wealthy black family a lot of money not to go to Swithin. “Is that true?” Scott gasped. “Did he not like black people?”
Scott understood by then that black was part of his identity, too. He stood out from the rest of them, so their parents couldn’t keep his adoption a secret. They’d taught him that his difference was good, special. To Charles, it just felt like another thing Scott had and he didn’t—it seemed like that list of things was getting bigger by the day. And although Scott hadn’t become connected with black culture yet—that would come later—he was certainly curious about black people.
Charles had heard the rumors Scott was referring to, but Sylvie had quickly dispelled them. He stood up and faced his brother, feeling that he needed to set this straight. “You shouldn’t say that,” he said to Scott. He repeated what their mother said to him: “He was a good man. He rebuilt the school.”
“But …” Scott looked confused. “Why would someone say it if it’s not true?”
“It’s not true.” Charles looked at Sylvie for assistance. She sat there, stunned, her fork at her plate. “He’s the reason you’re here,” he said to Scott. “You should be grateful.”
“Enough,” James said, rising to his feet. His face was red again. He pointed to the door, sending Charles to his room.
“James!” their mother pleaded.
“I don’t want him saying things like that,” James boomed, turning to her. He looked at Charles again, who had shrunk against the wall, tears in his eyes. “Just go,” James said.
Charles ran upstairs as fast as he could. His bedroom was configured in such a way that a moment later he could hear his parents whispering through the vents. They must have been in the dining room, putting some distance between themselves and Scott.
“Are you trying to turn him against my family?” Sylvie hissed.
“Am I supposed to lie?” James lobbed back.
“It’s not a lie,” she answered.
“Don’t be naive.”
Then there were harsher, stilted whispers Charles couldn’t discern.
That same night while Scott was taking a bath, Charles stood outside the bathroom doorway, clenching his fists. Why did Scott have to push buttons? Why was Charles always the one getting punished for it? Maybe Scott didn’t deserve the privilege he’d been given, the life they’d rescued him from.
Charles wanted to make his brother understand what he had. Charles fantasized about bursting into the bathroom and telling Scott that their parents had come to a decision: they were sending him back to his real family. He would have to leave tomorrow on a Greyhound bus, alone. That would show him.
Then he’d felt a hand on his shoulder and turned. Sylvie stood above him, a questioning look on her face. “Do you need something in the bathroom, sweetie?” she asked. Charles wavered, wanting to explain to her why he’d defended Charlie Roderick Bates at dinner. The only thing that mattered was defending her honor, their family’s honor.
“I made pudding cake,” she said to him, guiding him downstairs. “You can have an extra-big piece since you didn’t get to eat all your dinner.” And there was nothing else he could do but follow her, swallowing his pain. His frustration continuing to build and build.
Charles found Joanna sitting on the couch, flipping through the channels from one reality show to another. There were still tons of unpacked boxes all around her. “It’s really coming down out there,” he said.
“Is it?” She didn’t look away from the TV. There was a glass of wine balanced between her knees. “I haven’t been out.”
Charles thrust the flowers at her. “Here.”
She looked baffled. “What are these for?”
“I thought you’d like them.”
She blinked fast. The cellophane crinkled as she touched it. “Huh.”
She held the flowers outstretched, as if they were wilting. He sat down next to her and looked at the television. A dark-haired news anchor was announcing that some economists were predicting that housing prices might drop another fifty percent by next fall. “Jesus,” Charles said. “Maybe we should have rented.”
Joanna looked at him, startled. “That doesn’t apply to us.”
“It doesn’t?” He gestured out the back window. “Those houses on Spirit? The longer they sit there unoccupied, the lower our value will go. We won’t have any equity anymore. I won’t get the down payment money back.”
Joanna stood up, walked to the kitchen, and found a vase for the flowers. “Yes, but I mean, it’s not the same.” When he stared back at her, not understanding what she was getting at, she added, “It’s not down-payment money from your salary, is it? It’s from your trust. It’s not like you slaved away for it.”
Charles winced. Something about that hurt. “It’s still my money.”
Joanna tucked her chin into her chest. “Well, I bet Mrs. Cox and Mrs. Batten aren’t worried about their deposits,” she said over the running water.