His sister beamed at him from inside the frame, oblivious to her own power. She looked excited and ready for fun. What would William’s life have been like if she had lived? If he’d grown up with a big sister, in a family that wasn’t silenced by loss?
With his parents dead, this photo was the only proof of Caroline’s existence, and he was the only one who knew she’d lived. William left the apartment with the framed photo. He walked through the zigzag of blocks that took him to the super-duplex. He shook his head, amused, every time he referred to the two houses by the name Izzy had given them years earlier. He’d thought it was ridiculous at the time, but the nickname had stuck. He knocked on the front door of Cecelia’s house, knowing she might be next door or up a ladder somewhere in the city, painting. He hadn’t seen her or Emeline since Sylvie had told them her news.
He was relieved when Cecelia opened the door. She was wearing jeans, and her hair was pulled back with the yellow bandanna she wore while she was working. She looked pale, but she still looked like Cecelia. William realized that he’d been worried, after watching the usually placid Emeline rage and the usually tough Cecelia weep, that the prospect of losing Sylvie might have rendered them unrecognizable. He had never heard Emeline raise her voice, until that day. Of course, Cecelia might be changed completely under her skin—William was—but her familiar face was still a relief. William loved his wife’s younger sisters; this knowledge had crept up on him, with the years. The twins had taken him back after his actions had pulled their family apart. This act of generosity—Cecelia and Emeline had nothing to gain from him, personally—still struck him as extraordinary.
“William,” Cecelia said, with surprise in her voice. “What’s up? Is Sylvie…?”
“She’s fine,” he said. “I’m not here about her.” He held the framed photo out. “I’d like you to paint her. Caroline.” He cleared his throat. His breath was short again; his lungs felt full. “Please,” he said.
Cecelia looked down at the photo. “This is your sister,” she said in a wondering tone, and studied the image. “William, she was beautiful.”
William was afraid that if he stayed still in front of Cecelia, he would cry. He wanted to leave his beautiful sister with her, to be replicated and perhaps painted onto an enormous canvas. That way, she would continue to exist, apart from him. William had done Caroline a disservice for all these years by sequestering her inside himself. He’d somehow feared that if he opened his eyes and heart to her, she would hurt him like she’d hurt their parents. But that had been absurd. The little girl in the picture deserved much better. “Will you do it?” he said.
“Of course.” Cecelia held the frame with both hands, as if afraid she might drop it.
William nodded—he couldn’t speak—and started to walk away.
“Thank you for asking me,” she called after him.
* * *
—
That afternoon was Arash’s weekly clinic. William had skipped a few weeks after hearing Sylvie’s news, but it was time for him to return. From a block away, he could see Kent, Arash, and several kids on the court. Izzy was there too, chatting with a young female player. She tutored several of the kids through their high schools. Arash was spending his retirement assisting young players, both in this clinic and directly with various public high school teams. “If we help one kid…” he’d said when he started the clinic, to convince William and the others to join him. They’d all nodded, understanding that helping a kid could mean many things.
“William!” Arash called out in greeting. Kent waved from mid-court, clearly pleased to see him. Basketballs were being dribbled against the concrete, and William tried to focus on the sound. There were no nets on the park hoops, but William could imagine the swish of the ball with each made basket. Only when he was closer did William realize that more people were there than usual. There were the expected adults, and the kids, of course, already shooting and warming up at the far end of the court. But Washington was there too, and Gus. They both had real-world jobs—that’s what he and Kent called any job outside basketball. Washington was a statistician who worked for the city government, and Gus was a high school English teacher. They had never been to the clinic before.
“Hi, everyone,” William said, in a wary tone.
“We’re so glad you’re here,” Arash said, and the men around him—Kent, Washington, Gus—nodded at the same time as if to show that they really meant it. Izzy ignored William and continued her conversation with the young player. William felt a note of gratitude toward his niece. She had heard about her aunt, of course, but she wouldn’t approach him about it in public.
He went to the bleachers to sit down. He’d known he wouldn’t teach a lesson to the teenagers today. He was here simply as one of the columns that supported the effort. He was the least jovial of the involved adults, so his presence kept the kids well behaved.
Washington and Gus sat down on either side of him. “Good to see you, buddy,” Washington said. “How are the Bulls looking this year?”
“I’m excited to watch Pooh,” Gus said. Pooh was the nickname of the number-one draft pick, Derrick Rose. “He might really be our next Jordan.” This was what Chicagoans had been craving ever since MJ left the Bulls nine years earlier. Every new rookie who entered the franchise had an impossible weight on his shoulders.
William glanced at each of the men. “I assume you’re here because Kent told you about Sylvie.”
Their faces went somber. They didn’t look at him now; they watched the kids wash back and forth across the court. Washington said, “Kent’s smart. He knows that you’ll be nice to us and let us be with you.”
If William had had the energy, he would have smiled at his friend’s craftiness. The reasoning was correct. Kent was so deeply part of William’s life that William didn’t need to be considerate of his feelings. But after William’s other friends had spent twenty-four hours of their lives searching the city for him and saving him, he had always felt he was in their debt. Once he was out of the hospital, he’d insisted on doing them favors. He’d helped Washington move apartments twice, and he spoke to the basketball team at Gus’s high school every season. Two other Northwestern teammates had somehow needed middle-of-the-night appendectomies during a one-year period, and they’d both called William for a ride to the hospital. William was programmed to have nothing but gratitude for the two tall men flanking him.
“You don’t have to say anything, William,” Gus said. “We’re just gonna sit here and watch the kids play. We’ll be here next week too. If you want to say something, you can of course go ahead.”
“God damn it,” William said, and looked around the edges of the park, as if searching for a way out, knowing there wasn’t one.
“That’s right,” Washington said, and patted him on the knee.
Sylvie