Beating Heart (5 page)

“Okay,” Evan says. But he's still worried.

“You don't have to take care of Libby. We'll be fine. After I get this manuscript in the mail, I'll work on some play dates for her.”

But Evan's been thinking. He takes a deep breath and says, “I'm going to get a job and help out.”

“No.” Mom's wearing her put-your-foot-down
look
. “We're all right for now, promise. I want you to be free to enjoy your senior year. And Libby—well, I've got to get this book out first.” The last words are a little strained, and her gaze darts over to her computer screen.

“Are we low on money?” Evan asks.

“No. No. Not yet.”

Evan has noticed that she doesn't seem to be doing much typing lately. Mostly she's been sitting and staring in front of the computer. Now he also notices that the number of gray strands in her dark hair has grown, and that her eyes look tired. “Are you having trouble writing or something?”

Mom doesn't answer for a moment. “It's just that I
want this book to do as well as the first one,” she finally says, as frankly as if Evan
is
an adult. “We got lucky that I happened to write something that was picked up for a couple of talk shows. We got lucky that it was on the best-seller list for a few weeks. But now…this isn't a hobby anymore, it's my career. It's all on the line—I've dropped everything for this; I've put everything we have, as a family, into it. And I've got to keep producing.”

“I think they're hiring night stockers down at the grocery store.”

Mom gives him a pained look.

“I'm talking about me, not you.”

“Oh. No. We're all right. Promise.”

Evan nods, and Mom turns back to her work. He notices the steel box sitting on the shelf next to her desk, among stacks of paper—used and unused—reference books, and boxes of printer supplies. “Have you looked in that box?”

“Yeah.” Mom's frowning at the screen, one hand on the mouse.

“Are you going to use it for ideas to write about?”

“No. I'm working on something already, and it's a little deeper than…” She rolls her chair over, opens the box, and hands Evan a newspaper clipping.

“‘Mr. Robert C. Shannon,'” he reads, “‘son of Mr. and Mrs. Shannon of York, Pennsylvania, is visiting Mr. and Mrs. G. J. Royce.' Man, they didn't have much going on in this town, did they?”

“Apparently not.” Mom rolls her chair back over to the computer. “You can take that upstairs,” she says, with a glance at the box, “and look through it if you want. There's a few old photos. It's an interesting slice of daily life, but I can't use it.”

“Didn't you say your new book is about religion or something?”

“The need for religious tolerance.”

“Right. Okay. I guess I might take it up, then. Do you need it back?”

“No. Just be careful; the papers are fragile.”

Evan carries the box with him to the kitchen, and sets it on the counter while he gets himself the usual glass of milk. After putting the empty glass in the sink, he debates whether to call some friends to see if they're
up yet or to go back to his room and hang out until later in the morning.

He ends up taking the box upstairs, where he turns on the radio to hear the last part of his favorite drive-time show. As he listens, he sits at his desk and opens the box. Inside are papers, as his mother said: letters and newspaper clippings. He digs through to find the pictures she mentioned. Both are old-time studio portraits. One, in a brown cardboard cover that opens like a book, is of a family: the father, with a sweeping mustache, seated; the mother standing behind him; the daughter standing at her father's knee. All are looking directly at the camera.

 

 

T
he other picture is a portrait of a fair-haired girl,
and the first thing that pops into Evan's mind is the sexual dreams he's been having for the past weeks.

She is perhaps about Evan's age. She could be an older version of the girl with the family—her hair is a little darker, but still obviously blond. She is carefully posed, face in the center of the frame, head tilted delicately at an angle, lips curved in a not-quite-smile. One hand is poised so that the arc of her fingertips seems to just barely brush her chin. She is beautiful.

 

 

 

 

E
van lays the photos aside and pulls the box closer.
On top is the newspaper clipping his mother showed him. The date at the top is May 2, 1897:

It sounds impressive, Evan thinks. Like the president or something. You'd think the guy was a CEO, or a bigwig back East, and that's why it was in the paper—except that the clipping seems to be a whole column of who's visiting who. There really
wasn't
much going on back then.

 

 

H
e sets the clipping down and picks up one of the
letters. It's written by a woman and fairly dull, except for a bit toward the end:

Ooh, little Robbie Shannon's been a naughty boy!
thinks Evan.
Sounds like the guy got expelled
. But the rest of the letter gives no clue:

Evan wonders what “crueler methods” might be. He wonders if Cora was the hot chick in the picture, and almost feels a twinge of…something.

Possessiveness?

Ridiculous.

He shuffles through more of the letters, looking for clues, but finds none. In fact, most of the letters are not very interesting; they contain mostly daily trivia and religious platitudes couched in heavy Victorian language.

He leafs through a few more; then, bored, decides to go grab a snack and see if Mom's off the computer so he can get online. He leaves the papers scattered on his desk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

E
van gets busy with other things, and doesn't come
back upstairs till almost bedtime.

When he enters his room, he finds the contents of the metal box neatly inside, the lid shut. He thought he'd left them out on his desk, but doesn't really remember. He thinks about looking at the portrait of the girl again, but doesn't. It's a little creepy, the way he feels drawn to it—that old picture of someone long dead.

Late in the night he falls into a restless doze. He dreams of the girl again, but the flashes are more vivid: the feel of thin, delicate white cloth crumpling in his hands as he shoves her nightgown above her waist; the hot smell of lavender rising up from the sheets; her muffled, rhythmic gasps next to his ear.

They're so intense that he rouses almost to wakefulness, but not quite. Enough to know it's not real, and
to be frustrated. Not enough to touch himself, to finish the job.

When a deeper sleep finally overtakes him, he dreams he's lying there and she's nestled next to him, tucked into the curve of his arm, one finger tracing designs on his bare chest. It's quiet, familiar, even though the hair spilling over his arm isn't brown like Carrie's, it's pale and fine and long, still partly in a braid, a mussed-up braid that's come almost undone.