“Exactly.”
Ben thought of Mr. Cillo alone in his Barcalounger in that house once filled with the fumes of flowery hairspray and astringent and scorched microwave popcorn. The girls’ yells, too, across the house, from any room, calls that always ended in “uh” because their names ended with the same letter. Ben imagined it smelling now of arnica, boiled water, and instant coffee; the only music the drone of the Golf Channel. Something told Ben he should pity the old man whose only two daughters were now dead, though he’d felt no pity toward him when they were alive. First, because he’d turned so many people in town against his dad, but then because he’d kept him and Mira apart. He thought Mr. Cillo should want to end his own life right about now, if he hadn’t considered it already. Surely something potent was still tucked in the back of the medicine cabinet. He’d learned from his wife’s example exactly which cocktail would stop your heart, painless and clean.
Ben realized he was smiling maniacally and looked over at Mr. Falso, who seemed to be reciting something in his head and appreciating how it sounded. Ben wondered if Mr. Cillo was too religious to kill himself, though evidence ran to the contrary. He’d overheard his own father say—with snark, it was unmistakable—Mr. Cillo opened his law office back up two days after the girls fell. It would take an epic event to shake Mr. Cillo’s work ethic; apparently one greater than his only children exiting the earth.
Ben was surprised to see Eddie’s dad’s truck parked at the end of the driveway. He flushed, thinking about the days he made extra cash roofing for Mr. Villela, and that one particular day he’d been sent home early. He glanced over to find Mr. Falso giving him a strange look, and swore to himself no more smiling.
Mr. Falso pulled over a block before Eddie’s house.
“Oh, Eddie’s house is that one.” Ben pointed, wondering why he was telling Mr. Falso something he already knew.
“I’m pulling over here so we can talk,” Mr. Falso said. He removed his sunglasses and tucked them in a compartment above the mirror. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”
Ben sat straighter, notes poking his soft spots.
Mr. Falso pushed the ignition button and buzzed down the windows. Waited. Seemed to be able to wait a long time.
Ben treaded carefully. Mr. Falso was still the object of Francesca’s misery. As grateful as he was for Mira’s notes, he was not enjoying this secret knowledge about her sister. “I guess I wonder sometimes. About the last month of Mira and Francesca’s lives, and what was happening with them. Like, behind closed doors.”
“It’s natural to wonder what you might have done differently to prevent a tragedy,” Mr. Falso said.
Ben shifted uncomfortably. Sitting here in this car steeped in roasted musk wasn’t getting him any closer to Mira. Ben needed to get Mr. Falso to back off. “I’m not wondering about what I could have done. I’m wondering about the stuff we couldn’t see. Things that might have … changed them.”
“Changed them?” Mr. Falso stiffened around the shoulders. “I think I see. Was Mira different in the weeks leading up to the event?”
Mira’s name on Mr. Falso’s lips jolted Ben. “Mira? Well, yeah. She definitely closed me off. Stopped talking to me, I guess”—They both stopped talking. To all the boys. Not just Mira—“and she—they—stopped going out. Leaving the house at all. I mean, it was summer”—No quarry. No boat club. No anything—“they—both of them—stayed in the house. In the few weeks before they did what they did. They didn’t even have AC”—which meant the windows were open—“which meant it was so hot. That’s not natural, right?”
Mr. Falso held up his hand. “I think I get it.”
“You do?”
“It must be difficult to think about Mira in those last days. But you need to stop. It won’t help Mira, and it won’t help you. Mira is with God now.”
“I’m talking about both of them.”
Mr. Falso reached over and clasped Ben’s knee. “Of course. We both loved both of them.” He poked the ignition button and the car purred awake, rolling the block to the Villelas’ tiny cape before they stopped. “Now, you’re a good-looking boy, Ben. I mean, you’re lucky to look the way you do.”
Ben looked away.
“I mean it now!” Mr. Falso punched Ben’s shoulder across the console. “Look, you’re blushing! Aw, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” Ben felt his cheek as Mr. Falso pointed his finger to his own ear. “Hey, look at this ugly mug! Can you imagine these ears on a sixteen-year-old boy?” Ben couldn’t see anything wrong with Mr. Falso’s ears, but he nodded anyway. “If I’d have looked the way you look at sixteen, I would’ve had a lot more girls in my day.”
Ben smiled despite himself.
“What I’m trying to say, Ben, is that you had a crush on a good girl, but there will be other good girls. Lots of them. You’ll see, I promise.” He climbed from the car, unfolding like a giant, as though it was too small to contain him, when really it was Ben’s head that grazed the roof. “Let’s do this.”
Ben gripped the door handle. It was going to be tough to look for Mira’s note. Mr. Falso banged on the hood open-handed, and Ben jumped.
He smiled hard. “You daydreaming about those girls?”
Ben ran his hand through his hair and climbed out of the car. He met Mr. Falso on the flagstone walkway lined with Mrs. Villela’s rosebushes. Only a few flowers bloomed, and of those, only halfway. The rest were tight buds, their leaves curled under and sucked dry by aphids. Abandoned staging rested against the front of the house, exposing red paint underneath the gray that had been half stripped when the job was aborted last spring. Mr. Falso squinted up at the house, pale lines spraying from the edges of his eyes.
“I thought they’d have finished painting by now,” Mr. Falso said.
Ben pressed the buzzer, and they waited seconds, then minutes.
Mr. Falso turned to Ben, rocking on his heels. “You know you can talk to me anytime about Mira.”
Ben swore he emphasized Mira. “Sure, Mr. F. Thanks for coming.”
“You sure you pressed hard enough, big guy?” Mr. Falso leaned over Ben and gave the buzzer a long, hard press. Ben had grown that summer. At five eleven, he could see the top of Mr. Falso’s head where the hair was getting thin. It felt disrespectful, so he turned his gaze to the straw wreath hanging on the outer door, with its pastel foam eggs the sun had faded, their bric-a-brac dangling in places. Mr. Falso opened the outer door with a whine and tried the inner door, which opened easily. Ben followed him into the tiny alcove before the kitchen that served as a mudroom and was hit by a rush of cool air and cat urine. The house vibrated from the AC. From a peg rack hung Connie’s coat, a cheetah-patterned parka with a fur-lined hood. Forever April, Ben thought.