Chapter 17
WILLIAM
“The master bedroom,” Oscar said, sweeping his arms toward the dimly lit doorway as if he were leading a tour.
The crystal decanter was heavy in William’s hand.
He was impressed that no one had dropped it.
After Vivian took a sip, she would cradle it in her arms like a baby, and he thought of what a good mother she would be, playful and capable, able to stitch a cut, to soothe any fever or ache.
He felt he would cry at the thought of it, so he took another sip of the scotch before entering the bedroom. The decanter was nearly empty.
It was not just the master bedroom—it was Andrew’s parents’ room.
A photograph of Andrew in his cap and gown hung on the wall.
The bed was, surprisingly, unmade, the sheets rippled.
On one of the stately bedside tables, there was the exclamation of an orange pill bottle beside a used tissue.
A lone black sock lay across the carpet.
The vulnerability of it all made him realize that what they were doing was wrong.
A line from Corinthians a lector had recited the other week cut through his thoughts: Nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers will inherit the kingdom of God.
“William,” Oscar said, admiring himself in an oval-shaped mirror. That evening, he’d debuted a heavy gold chain. “Are you finally going to tell us what actually happened with your fair sister?”
Scott’s head jerked to attention. Vivian had wandered into the bathroom. There was the whoosh of opened drawers, the screech of the shower curtain being pulled back. William called her name, wanting to herd them back out onto the lawn, but she did not hear him.
“Maybe we should go back downstairs,” he said.
“Come on,” Oscar continued, drawing out both words.
“I heard that members spend their days screaming at each other. That that’s the therapy part, just telling people how horrible they are,” Scott said. “And they think kids cost too much, that they’re bad investments, so they’re starting to make men get vasectomies.”
Oscar winced, one hand moving protectively toward his privates. “They sound fucking crazy. Manson-level crazy. I just don’t get how Shay was able to leave, you know?”
“My mom said Andrew broke her out,” Scott added.
“No shit. The little sailor?”
William tried to think of what he could say to get them to leave.
The urgency of it began to make him sweat beneath his armpits, and he started to sense people approaching, dark figures scaling the stairs, the figment of the passenger in the golf cart.
His nose twitched at the faint, bitter scent of something burning.
He shouldn’t have had so much to drink. The alcohol was in his pores, seeping up from the root of every hair on his head.
“Yeah,” Scott continued. “Aunt Bridget said he had to do something, and so he showed up with his dad, and they said that if they didn’t let Shay go, they were going to sue them down to the studs.”
“What was she, like, a prisoner?” Oscar asked. He was looking at William.
“No. No, she wasn’t a prisoner. Synanon isn’t like that,” William said. He could just leave them here—run down the stairs and drink water from the kitchen sink, stick his head beneath its cold spray.
“Sounds like she was a prisoner,” Scott said.
“This woman has so many different perfumes, and they all smell like what someone who’s never smelled a flower would think a flower smells like,” Vivian shouted.
“She really wasn’t. She left on her own,” William said, thrusting the decanter forward, his voice louder than he intended.
At least this was what his mother had told him.
That Shay had decided she was done with the program.
That there was no grand escape; she had just quietly packed her belongings one morning and returned to her apartment.
She didn’t have a bad word to say about them, really, his mother had said.
Just that she’d gotten out of it what she needed.
“I don’t know much, but I don’t think places like that let people leave on their own. Maybe they did before, but not with how Synanon is now. I’ve heard they kidnap people who try to get away. Beat them. Did she tell you they just let her leave?” Scott asked.
“No,” William said, staring down at the floorboards. The room was closing in on him, and he could see the fibers of Aunt Eleanor’s carpet, that blackened smear of tar on the sidewalk the morning after the engagement party. There were footsteps coming down the hall. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Oscar asked.
“What are you all yelling about—” Vivian said, though when she emerged from the bathroom, her mouth formed a surprised O.
They all turned to find Mr. Pruitt in the doorway. An angry vein throbbed at his forehead.
“What in God’s name are you all doing up here?”